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31211	----	CAVALRY OF THE CLOUDS [Illustration: "CONTACT" CAPTAIN ALAN BOTT, M. C. OF THE BRITISH ROYAL FLYING CORPS] CAVALRY OF THE CLOUDS BY "CONTACT" (CAPT. ALAN BOTT, M.C.) _With an introduction by_ MAJOR-GENERAL W. S. BRANCKER (Deputy Director-General of Military Aëronautics) [Illustration] GARDEN CITY - NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1918 Copyright, 1917, by Doubleday, Page & Company _All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian_ DEDICATED TO THE FALLEN OF UMPTY SQUADRON, R.F.C. JUNE-DECEMBER 1916 PREFACE Of the part played by machines of war in this war of machinery the wider public has but a vague knowledge. Least of all does it study the specialised functions of army aircraft. Very many people show mild interest in the daily reports of so many German aeroplanes destroyed, so many driven down, so many of ours missing, and enraged interest in the reports of bomb raids on British towns; but of aerial observation, the main _raison d'etre_ of flying at the front, they own to nebulous ideas. As an extreme case of this haziness over matters aeronautic I will quote the lay question, asked often and in all seriousness: "Can an aeroplane stand still in the air?" Another surprising point of view is illustrated by the home-on-leave experience of a pilot belonging to my present squadron. His lunch companion--a charming lady--said she supposed he lived mostly on cold food while in France. "Oh no," replied the pilot, "it's much the same as yours, only plainer and tougher." "Then you do come down for meals," deduced the lady. Only those who have flown on active service can fully relish the comic savour of a surmise that the Flying Corps in France remain in the air all day amid all weathers, presumably picnicking, between flights, off sandwiches, cold chicken, pork pies, and mineral waters. These be far-fetched examples, but they serve to emphasise a general misconception of the conditions under which the flying services carry out their work at the big war. I hope that this my book, written for the most part at odd moments during a few months of training in England, will suggest to civilian readers a rough impression of such conditions. To Flying Officers who honour me by comparing the descriptions with their own experiences, I offer apology for whatever they may regard as "hot air," while submitting in excuse that the narratives are founded on unexaggerated fact, as any one who served with Umpty Squadron through the Battle of the Somme can bear witness. I have expressed a hope that the chapters and letters will suggest a rough impression of work done by R.F.C. pilots and observers in France. A complete impression they could not suggest, any more than the work of a Brigade-Major could be regarded as representative of that of the General Staff. The Flying-Corps-in-the-Field is an organisation great in numbers and varied in functions. Many separate duties are allotted to it, and each separate squadron, according to its type of machine, confines itself to two or three of these tasks. The book, then, deals only with the squadron to which I belonged last year, and it does not pretend to be descriptive of the Flying Corps as a whole. Ours was a crack squadron in its day, and, as General Brancker has mentioned in his Introduction, it held a melancholy record in the number of its losses. Umpty's Squadron's casualties during August, September, and October of 1916 still constitute a record for the casualties of any one flying squadron during any three months since the war began. Once eleven of our machines were posted as "missing" in the space of two days--another circumstance which has fortunately never yet been equalled in R.F.C. history. It was a squadron that possessed excellent pilots, excellent achievements, and the herewith testimonial in a letter found on a captured German airman, with reference to the machine of which we then had the Flying Corps monopoly: "The most-to-be-feared of British machines is the S----." Our duties were long reconnaissance, offensive patrols around German air country, occasional escort for bombing craft, and occasional photography. I have but touched upon other branches of army aeronautics; though often, when we passed different types of machine, I would compare their job to ours and wonder if it were more pleasant. Thousands of feet below us, for example, were the artillery craft, which darted backward and forward across the lines as from their height of vantage they ranged and registered for the guns. On push days these same buses were to be seen lower still, well within range of machine-gun bullets from the ground, as they crawled and nosed over the line of advance and kept intelligent contact between far-ahead attacking infantry and the rear. Above the tangled network of enemy defences roved the line photography machines, which provided the Staff with accurate survey maps of the Boche defences. Parties of bombers headed eastward, their lower wings laden with eggs for delivery at some factory, aerodrome, headquarter, railway junction, or ammunition dump. Dotted everywhere, singly or in formations of two, three, four, or six, were those aristocrats of the air, the single-seater fighting scouts. These were envied for their advantages. They were comparatively fast, they could turn, climb, and stunt better and quicker than any two-seater, and their petrol-tanks held barely enough for two hours, so that their shows were soon completed. All these varied craft had their separate functions, difficulties, and dangers. Two things only were shared by all of us--dodging Archie and striving to strafe the Air Hun. Since those days flying conditions on the Western Front have been much changed by the whirligig of aeronautical development. All things considered, the flying officer is now given improved opportunities. Air fighting has grown more intense, but the machines in use are capable of much better performance. The latest word in single-seater scouts, which I am now flying, can reach 22,000 feet with ease; and it has a maximum climb greater by a third, and a level speed greater by a sixth, than our best scout of last year. The good old one-and-a-half strutter (a fine bus of its period), on which we used to drone our way around the 150-mile reconnaissance, has disappeared from active service. The nerve-edging job of long reconnaissance is now done by more modern two-seaters, high-powered, fast, and reliable, which can put up a fight on equal terms with anything they are likely to meet. The much-discussed B.E., after a three-year innings, has been replaced for the most part by a better-defended and more satisfactory artillery bus. The F.E. and de Haviland pushers have likewise become obsolete. The scouts which we thought invincible last autumn are badly outclassed by later types. For the rest, the Flying Corps in France has grown enormously in size and importance. The amount of work credited to each branch of it has nearly doubled during the past year--reconnaissance, artillery observation, photography, bombing, contact patrol, and, above all, fighting. Air scraps have tended more and more to become battles between large formations. But most significant is the rapid increase in attacks by low-flying aeroplanes on ground personnel and materiel, a branch which is certain to become an important factor in the winning of the war. And this whirlwind growth will continue. The world at large, as distinct from the small world of aeronautics, does not realize that aircraft will soon become predominant as a means of war, any more than it reckons with the subsequent era of universal flight, when designers, freed from the subordination of all factors to war requirements, will give birth to machines safe as motor-cars or ships, and capable of carrying heavy freights for long distances cheaply and quickly. Speaking of an average pilot and a non-expert enthusiast, I do not believe that even our organisers of victory are yet aware of the tremendous part which aircraft can be made to take in the necessary humbling of Germany. Without taking into account the limitless reserve of American aerial potentiality, it is clear that within a year the Allies will have at their disposal many thousands of war aeroplanes. A proper apportionment of such of them as can be spared for offensive purposes could secure illimitable results. If for no other cause it would shorten the war by its effect on civilian nerves. We remember the hysterical outburst of rage occasioned by the losses consequent upon a daylight raid on London of some fifteen machines, though the public had become inured to the million military casualties since 1914. What, then, would be the effect on German war-weariness if giant raids on fortified towns by a hundred or so allied machines were of weekly occurrence? And what would be the effect on our own public if giant raids on British towns were of weekly occurrence? Let us make the most of our aerial chances, and so forestall betrayal by war-weariness, civilian pacifism, self-centred fools, and strange people. From an army point of view the probable outcome of an extensive aerial offensive would be still greater. Well-organised bomb raids on German aerodromes during the night and early morning have several times kept the sky clear of hostile aircraft during the day of an important advance. If this be achieved with our present limited number of bombing machines, much more will be possible when we have double or treble the supply. Imagine the condition of a particular sector of the advanced lines of communication if it were bombed every day by scores of aeroplanes. Scarcely any movement would be possible until bad weather made the attacks non-continuous; and few supply depôts in the chosen area would afterwards remain serviceable. Infantry and artillery dependent upon this district of approach from the rear would thus be deprived of essential supplies. Apart from extensive bombing, an air offensive of at least equal value may happen in the form of machine-gun attacks from above. To-day nothing seems to panic the Boche more than a sudden swoop by a low-flying aeroplane, generous of bullets, as those of us who have tried this game have noticed. No German trench, no emplacement, no battery position, no line of transport is safe from the R.F.C. Vickers and Lewis guns; and retaliation is difficult because of the speed and erratic movement of the attacking aeroplane. Little imagination is necessary to realise the damage, moral and material, which could be inflicted on any selected part of the front if it were constantly scoured by a few dozen of such guerilla raiders. No movement could take place during the daytime, and nobody could remain in the open for longer than a few minutes. The seemingly far-fetched speculations above are commonplace enough in the judgment of aeronautical people of far greater authority and experience than I can claim. But they could only be brought to materialisation by an abnormal supply of modern aeroplanes, especially the chaser craft necessary to keep German machines from interference. Given the workshop effort to provide this supply, French and British pilots can be relied upon to make the most of it. I am convinced that war flying will be organised as a means to victory; but as my opinion is of small expert value I do not propose to discuss how it might be done. This much, however, I will predict. When, in some nine months' time--if the gods permit--a sequel to the present book appears, dealing with this year's personal experiences above the scene of battle, the aerial factor will be well on the way to the position of war predominance to which it is destined. CONTACT. FRANCE, 1917. CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE vii INTRODUCTION xxi CHAPTER I. FLYING TO FRANCE 3 II. THE DAY'S WORK 27 III. A SUMMER JOY-RIDE 49 IV. SPYING OUT THE LAND 71 V. THERE AND BACK 90 VI. A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 117 VII. ENDS AND ODDS 140 VIII. THE DAILY ROUND 170 LETTERS FROM THE SOMME I. LOOKING FOR TROUBLE 195 II. "ONE OF OUR MACHINES IS MISSING" 205 III. A BOMB RAID 213 IV. SPYING BY SNAPSHOT 220 V. THE ARCHIBALD FAMILY 235 VI. BATTLES AND BULLETS 243 VII. BACK IN BLIGHTY 252 INTRODUCTION BY MAJOR-GENERAL W. S. BRANCKER (DEPUTY DIRECTOR-GENERAL OF MILITARY AËRONAUTICS) Every day adds something to the achievements of aviation, brings to light yet another of its possibilities, or discloses more vividly its inexhaustible funds of adventure and romance. This volume, one of the first books about fighting in the air, is written by a fighting airman. The author depicts the daily life of the flying officer in France, simply and with perfect truth; indeed he describes heroic deeds with such moderation and absence of exaggeration that the reader will scarcely realise that these stories are part of the annals of a squadron which for a time held a record in the heaviness of its losses. The importance of the aerial factor in the prosecution of the war grows apace. The Royal Flying Corps, from being an undependable and weakly assistant to the other arms, is now absolutely indispensable, and has attained a position of almost predominant importance. If the war goes on without decisive success being obtained by our armies on the earth, it seems almost inevitable that we must depend on offensive action in the air and from the air to bring us victory. We in London have had some slight personal experience of what a very weak and moderately prosecuted aerial offensive can accomplish. With the progress of the past three years before us, it needs little imagination to visualise the possibilities of such an offensive, even in one year's time; and as each succeeding year adds to the power of rival aerial fleets, the thought of war will become almost impossible. War has been the making of aviation; let us hope that aviation will be the destruction of war. W. S. BRANCKER. _August 1, 1917._ CAVALRY OF THE CLOUDS CAVALRY OF THE CLOUDS CHAPTER I FLYING TO FRANCE All units of the army have known it, the serio-comedy of waiting for embarkation orders. After months of training the twelvetieth battalion, battery, or squadron is almost ready for a plunge into active service. Then comes, from a source which cannot be trailed, a mysterious Date. The orderly-room whispers: "June the fifteenth"; the senior officers' quarters murmur: "France on June the fifteenth"; the mess echoes to the tidings spread by the subaltern-who-knows: "We're for it on June the fifteenth, me lad"; through the men's hutments the word is spread: "It's good-bye to this blinking hole on June the fifteenth"; the Home receives a letter and confides to other homes: "Reginald's lot are going to the war on June the fifteenth"; finally, if we are to believe Mr. William le Queux, the Military Intelligence Department of the German Empire dockets a report: "Das zwölfzigste Battalion (Batterie oder Escadrille) geht am 15 Juni nach Frankreich." June opens with an overhaul of officers and men. Last leave is distributed, the doctor examines everybody by batches, backward warriors are worried until they become expert, the sergeant-major polishes his men on the grindstone of discipline, the C.O. indents for a draft to complete establishment, an inspection is held by an awesome general. Except for the mobilisation stores everything is complete by June 10. But there is still no sign of the wanted stores on the Date, and June 16 finds the unit still in the same blinking hole, wherever that may be. The days drag on, and Date the second is placed on a pedestal. "Many thanks for an extra fortnight in England," says the subaltern-who-knows; "we're not going till June the twenty-seventh." The adjutant, light duty, is replaced by an adjutant, general service. Mobilisation stores begin to trickle into the quartermaster's reservoir. But on June 27 the stores are far from ready, and July 6 is miraged as the next Date. This time it looks like business. The war equipment is completed, except for the identity discs. On July 4 a large detachment departs, after twelve hours' notice, to replace casualties in France. Those remaining in the now incomplete unit grow wearily sarcastic. More last leave is granted. The camp is given over to rumour. An orderly, delivering a message to the C.O. (formerly stationed in India) at the latter's quarters, notes a light cotton tunic and two sun-helmets. Sun-helmets? Ah, somewhere East, of course. The men tell each other forthwith that their destination has been changed to Mesopotamia. A band of strangers report in place of the draft that went to France, and in them the N.C.O.'s plant _esprit de corps_ and the fear of God. The missing identity discs arrive, and a fourth Date is fixed--July 21. And the dwellers in the blinking hole, having been wolfed several times, are sceptical, and treat the latest report as a bad joke. "My dear man," remarks the subaltern-who-knows, "it's only some more hot air. I never believed in the other dates, and I don't believe in this. If there's one day of the three hundred and sixty-five when we shan't go, it's July the twenty-first." And at dawn on July 21 the battalion, battery, or squadron moves unobtrusively to a port of embarkation for France. Whereas in most branches of the army the foundation of this scaffolding of postponement is indistinct except to the second-sighted Staff, in the case of the Flying Corps it is definitely based on that uncertain quantity, the supply of aeroplanes. The organisation of personnel is not a difficult task, for all are highly trained beforehand. The pilots have passed their tests and been decorated with wings, and the mechanics have already learned their separate trades as riggers, fitters, carpenters, sailmakers, and the like. The only training necessary for the pilot is to fly as often as possible on the type of bus he will use in France, and to benefit by the experience of the flight-commanders, who as a rule have spent a hundred or two hours over Archie and the enemy lines. As regards the mechanics, the quality of their skilled work is tempered by the technical sergeant-major, who knows most things about an aeroplane, and the quality of their behaviour by the disciplinary sergeant-major, usually an ex-regular with a lively talent for blasting. The machines comprise a less straight-forward problem. The new service squadron is probably formed to fly a recently adopted type of aeroplane, of which the early production in quantities is hounded by difficulty. The engine and its parts, the various sections of the machine itself, the guns, the synchronising gear, all these are made in separate factories, after standardisation, and must then be co-ordinated before the craft is ready for its test. If the output of any one part fall below what was expected, the whole is kept waiting; and invariably the quantity or quality of output is at first below expectation in some particular. Adding to the delays of supply others due to the more urgent claims of squadrons at the front for machines to replace those lost or damaged, it can easily be seen that a new squadron will have a succession of Dates. Even when the machines are ready, and the transport leaves with stores, ground-officers, and mechanics, the period of postponement is not ended. All being well, the pilots will fly their craft to France on the day after their kit departs with the transport. But the day after produces impossible weather, as do the five or six days that follow. One takes advantage of each of these set-backs to pay a further farewell visit to one's dearest or nearest, according to where the squadron is stationed, until at the last the dearest or nearest says: "Good-bye. I do hope you'll have a safe trip to France to-morrow morning. You'll come and see me again to-morrow evening, won't you?" At last a fine morning breaks the spell of dud weather, and the pilots fly away; but lucky indeed is the squadron that reaches France without delivering over part of its possessions to that aerial highwayman the forced landing. It was at an aerodrome forty minutes distant from London that we patiently waited for flying orders. Less than the average delay was expected, for two flights of the squadron were already on the Somme, and we of the third flight were to join them immediately we received our full complement of war machines. These, in those days, were to be the latest word in fighting two-seaters of the period. Two practice buses had been allotted to us, and on them the pilots were set to perform landings, split-"air" turns, and stunts likely to be useful in a scrap. For the rest, we sorted ourselves out, which pilot was to fly with which observer, and improved the machines' accessories. An inspiration suggested to the flight-commander, who although an ex-Civil Servant was a man of resource, that mirrors of polished steel, as used on the handlebars of motor-cycles, to give warning of roadcraft at the rear, might be valuable in an aeroplane. Forthwith he screwed one to the sloping half-strut of his top center-section. The trial was a great success, and we bought six such mirrors, an investment which was to pay big dividends in many an air flight. Next the flight-commander made up his mind to bridge the chasm of difficult communication between pilot and observer. Formerly, in two-seaters with the pilot's seat in front, a message could only be delivered on a slip of paper or by shutting off the engine, so that one's voice could be heard; the loss of time in each case being ill afforded when Huns were near. An experiment with a wide speaking-tube, similar to those through which a waiter in a Soho restaurant demands _côtelettes milanèses_ from an underground kitchen, had proved that the engine's roar was too loud for distinct transmission by this means. We made a mouthpiece and a sound-box earpiece, and tried them on tubes of every make and thickness; but whenever the engine was at work the words sounded indistinct as words sung in English Opera. One day a speedometer behaved badly, and a mechanic was connecting a new length of the rubber pitot-tubing along which the air is sucked from a wingtip to operate the instrument. Struck with an idea, the pilot fitted mouthpiece and earpiece to a stray piece of the tubing, and took to the air with his observer. The pair conversed easily and pleasantly all the way to 10,000 feet. The problem was solved, and ever afterwards pilot and observer were able to warn and curse each other in mid-air without waste of time. The high-powered two-seaters of to-day are supplied with excellent speaking-tubes before they leave the factories; but we, who were the first to use a successful device of this kind on active service, owed its introduction to a chance idea. One by one our six war machines arrived and were allotted to their respective pilots. Each man treated his bus as if it were an only child. If another pilot were detailed to fly it the owner would watch the performance jealously, and lurid indeed was the subsequent talk if an outsider choked the carburettor, taxied the bus on the switch, or otherwise did something likely to reduce the efficiency of engine or aeroplane. On the whole, however, the period of waiting was dull, so that we welcomed comic relief provided by the affair of the Jabberwocks. The first three machines delivered from the Rafborough depôt disappointed us in one particular. The movable mounting for the observer's gun in the rear cockpit was a weird contraption like a giant catapult. It occupied a great deal of room, was stiff-moving, reduced the speed by about five miles an hour owing to head resistance, refused to be slewed round sideways for sighting at an angle, and constantly collided with the observer's head. We called it the Christmas Tree, the Heath Robinson, the Jabberwock, the Ruddy Limit, and names unprintable. The next three buses were fitted with Scarff mountings, which were as satisfactory as the Jabberwocks were unsatisfactory. Then, late in the evening, one of the new craft was crashed beyond repair. At early dawn a pilot and his observer left their beds, walked through the rain to the aerodrome, and sneaked to the flight shed. They returned two hours later, hungry, dirty, and flushed with suppressed joy. After breakfast we found that the crashed bus had lost a Scarff mounting, and the bus manned by the early risers had found one. The gargoyle shape of a discarded Jabberwock sprawled on the floor. At lunch-time another pilot disappeared with his observer and an air of determination. When the shed was opened for the afternoon's work the Jabberwock had been replaced on the machine of the early risers, and the commandeered Scarff was affixed neatly to the machine of the quick-lunchers. While the two couples slanged each other a third pilot and observer sought out the flight-commander, and explained why they were entitled to the disputed mounting. The pilot, the observer pointed out, was the senior pilot of the three; the observer, the pilot pointed out, was the senior observer. Was it not right, therefore, that they should be given preferential treatment? The flight-commander agreed, and by the time the early-risers and quick-lunchers had settled their quarrel by the spin of a coin, the Scarff had found a fourth and permanent home. The two remaining Jabberwocks became an obsession with their unwilling owners, who hinted darkly at mutiny when told that no more Scarffs could be obtained, the Naval Air Service having contracted for all the new ones in existence. But chance, in the form of a Big Bug's visit of inspection, opened the way for a last effort. In the machine examined by the Big Bug, an exhausted observer was making frantic efforts to swivel an archaic framework from back to front. The Big Bug looked puzzled, but passed on without comment. As he approached the next machine a second observer tried desperately to move a similar monstrosity round its hinges, while the pilot, stop-watch in hand, looked on with evident sorrow. The Big Bug now decided to investigate, and he demanded the reason for the stop-watch and the hard labour. "We've just timed this mounting, sir, to see how quickly it could be moved for firing at a Hun. I find it travels at the rate of 6.5 inches a minute." "Disgraceful," said the Big Bug. "We'll get them replaced by the new type." And get them replaced he did, the R.N.A.S. contract notwithstanding. The four conspirators have since believed themselves to be heaven-born strategists. Followed the average number of delays due to crashed aeroplanes and late stores. At length, however, the transport moved away with our equipment, and we received orders to proceed by air a day later. But next day brought a steady drizzle, which continued for some forty-eight hours, so that instead of proceeding by air the kitless officers bought clean collars. Then came two days of low, clinging mist, and the purchase of shirts. A fine morning on the fifth day forestalled the necessity of new pyjamas. At ten of the clock we were in our machines, saying good-bye to a band of lucky pilots who stayed at home to strafe the Zeppelin and be petted in the picture press and the Piccadilly grillroom. "Contaxer!" called a mechanic, facing the flight-commander's propeller. "Contact!" replied the flight-commander; his engine roared, around flew the propeller, the chocks were pulled clear, and away and up raced the machine. The rest followed and took up their appointed places behind the leader, at a height chosen for the rendezvous. We headed in a south-easterly direction, passing on our left the ragged fringe of London. At this point the formation was not so good as it might have been, probably because we were taking leave of the Thames and other landmarks. But four of the twelve who comprised the party have since seen them, and of these four one was to return by way of a German hospital, a prison camp, a jump from the footboard of a train, a series of lone night-walks that extended over two months, and an escape across the frontier of Neutralia, while two fellow-fugitives were shot dead by Boche sentries. Above the junction of Redhill the leader veered to the left and steered by railway to the coast. Each pilot paid close attention to his place in the group, for this was to be a test of whether our formation flying was up to the standard necessary for work over enemy country. To keep exact formation is far from easy for the novice who has to deal with the vagaries of a rotary engine in a machine sensitive on the controls. The engine develops a sudden increase of revolutions, and the pilot finds himself overhauling the craft in front; he throttles back and finds himself being overhauled by the craft behind; a slight deviation from the course and the craft all around seem to be swinging sideways or upwards. Not till a pilot can fly his bus unconsciously does he keep place without repeated reference to the throttle and instrument-board. Beyond Redhill we met an unwieldy cloudbank and were forced to lose height. The clouds became denser and lower, and the formation continued to descend, so that when the coast came into view we were below 3000 feet. A more serious complication happened near Dovstone, the port which was to be our cross-Channel springboard. There we ran into a mist, thick as a London fog. It covered the Channel like a blanket, and completely enveloped Dovstone and district. To cross under these conditions would have been absurd, for opaque vapour isolated us from the ground and cut the chain of vision which had bound together the six machines. We dropped through the pall of mist and trusted to Providence to save us from collision. Four fortunate buses emerged directly above Dovstone aerodrome, where they landed. The other two, in one of which I was a passenger, came out a hundred feet over the cliffs. We turned inland, and soon found ourselves travelling over a wilderness of roofs and chimneys. A church-tower loomed ahead, so we climbed back into the mist. Next we all but crashed into the hill south of Dovstone. We banked steeply and swerved to the right, just as the slope seemed rushing towards us through the haze. Once more we descended into the clear air. Down below was a large field, and in the middle of it was an aeroplane. Supposing this to be the aerodrome, we landed, only to find ourselves in an uneven meadow, containing, besides the aeroplane already mentioned, one cow, one pond, and some Brass Hats.[1] As the second bus was taxiing over the grass the pilot jerked it round sharply to avoid the pond. His undercarriage gave, the propeller hit the earth and smashed itself, and the machine heeled over and pulled up dead, with one wing leaning on the ground. Marmaduke, our war baby, was the pilot of the maimed machine. He is distinctly young, but he can on occasion declaim impassioned language in a manner that would be creditable to the most liver-ridden major in the Indian Army. The Brass Hats seemed mildly surprised when, after inspecting the damage, Marmaduke danced around the unfortunate bus and cursed systematically persons and things so diverse as the thingumy fool whose machine had misled us into landing, the thingumy pond, the thingumy weather expert who ought to have warned us of the thingumy Channel mist, the Kaiser, his aunt, and his contemptible self. He was no what-you-may-call-it good as a pilot, shouted Marmaduke to the ruminative cow, and he intended to leave the blank R.F.C. for the Blanky Army Service Corps or the blankety Grave-diggers Corps. As a last resort, he would get a job as a double-blank Cabinet Minister, being no blank-blank good for anything else. The Brass Hats gazed and gazed and gazed. A heavy silence followed Marmaduke's outburst, a silence pregnant with possibilities of Staff displeasure, of summary arrest, of--laughter. Laughter won. The Brass Hats belonged to the staff of an Anzadian division in the neighbourhood, and one of them, a young-looking major with pink riding breeches and a prairie accent, said-- "Gentlemen, some beautiful birds, some beautiful swear, and, by Abraham's trousers, some beautiful angel boy." Marmaduke wiped the foam from his mouth and apologised. "Not at all," said the Brass Hat from one of our great Dominions of Empire, "I do it every day myself, before breakfast generally." Meanwhile the news of our arrival had rippled the calm surface of the daily round at Dovstone. Obviously, said the good people to each other, the presence of three aeroplanes in a lonely field, with a guard of Anzadians around the said field, must have some hidden meaning. Perhaps there had been a German air raid under cover of the mist. Perhaps a German machine had been brought down. Within half an hour of our erratic landing a dozen people in Dovstone swore to having seen a German aeroplane touch earth in our field. The pilot had been made prisoner by Anzadians, added the dozen eye-witnesses. Such an event clearly called for investigation by Dovstone's detective intellects. We were honoured by a visit from two special constables, looking rather like the Bing Boys. Their collective eagle eye grasped the situation in less than a second. I happened to be standing in the centre of the group, still clad in flying kit. The Bing Boys decided that I was their prey, and one of them advanced, flourishing a note-book. "Excuse me, sir," said he to a Brass Hat, "I represent the civil authority. Will you please tell me if this"--pointing to me--"is the captive baby-killer?" "Now give us the chorus, old son," said Marmaduke. Explanations followed, and the Bing Boys retired, rather crestfallen. It is embarrassing enough to be mistaken for a German airman. It is more embarrassing to be mistaken for an airman who shot down a German airman when there was no German airman to shoot down. Such was the fate of the four of us--two pilots and two observers--when we left our field to the cow and the conference of Brass Hats, and drove to the Grand Hotel. The taxi-driver, who, from his enthusiastic civility, had clearly never driven a cab in London, would not be convinced. "No, sir," he said, when we arrived at the hotel, "I'm proud to have driven you, and I don't want your money. No, sir, I know you avi-yaters are modest and aren't allowed to say what you've done. Good day, gentlemen, and good luck, gentlemen." It was the same in the Grand Hotel. Porters and waiters asked what had become of "the Hun," and no denial could fully convince them. At a tango tea held in the hotel that afternoon we were pointed out as the intrepid birdmen who had done the deed of the day. Flappers and fluff-girls further embarrassed us with interested glances, and one of them asked for autographs. Marmaduke rose to the occasion. He smiled, produced a gold-tipped fountain-pen, and wrote with a flourish, "John James Christopher Benjamin Brown. Greetings from Dovstone." But Marmaduke the volatile was doomed to suffer a loss of dignity. He had neglected to bring an emergency cap, which an airman on a cross-country flight should never forget. Bareheaded he accompanied us to a hatter's. Here the R.F.C. caps of the "stream-lined" variety had all been sold, so the war baby was obliged to buy a general service hat. The only one that fitted him was shapeless as a Hausfrau, ponderous as a Bishop, unstable as a politician, grotesque as a Birthday Honours' List. It was a nice quiet hat, we assured Marmaduke--just the thing for active service. Did it suit him? Very well indeed, we replied--made him look like Lord Haldane at the age of sixteen. Marmaduke bought it. The monstrosity brought us a deal of attention in the streets, but this Marmaduke put down to his fame as a conqueror of phantom raiders. He began, however, to suspect that something was wrong when a newsboy shouted, "Where jer get that 'at, leftenant?" The question was unoriginal and obvious; but the newsboy showed imagination at his second effort, which was the opening line of an old music-hall chorus: "Sidney's 'olidays er in Septembah!" Marmaduke called at another shop and chose the stiffest hat he could find. By next morning the mist had cleared, and we flew across the Channel, under a curtain of clouds, leaving Marmaduke to fetch a new machine. When you visit the Continent after the war, friend the reader, travel by the Franco-British service of aerial transport, which will come into being with the return of peace. You will find it more comfortable and less tiring; and if you have a weak stomach you will find it less exacting, for none but the very nervous are ill in an aeroplane, if the pilot behaves himself. Also, you will complete the journey in a quarter of the time taken by boat. Within fifteen minutes of our departure from Dovstone we were in French air country. A few ships specked the sea-surface, which reflected a dull grey from the clouds, but otherwise the crossing was monotonous. We passed up the coast-line as far as the bend at Cape Grisnez, and so to Calais. Beyond this town were two sets of canals, one leading south and the other east. Follow the southern group and you will find our immediate destination, the aircraft depôt at Saint Gregoire. Follow the eastern group and they will take you to the Boche aircraft depôt at Lille. Thus were we reminded that tango teas and special constables belonged to the past. The covey landed at Saint Gregoire without mishap, except for a bent axle and a torn tyre. With these replaced, and the supplies of petrol and oil replenished, we flew south during the afternoon to the river-basin of war. Marmaduke arrived five days later, in time to take part in our first patrol over the lines. On this trip his engine was put out of action by a stray fragment from anti-aircraft. After gliding across the trenches, he landed among some dug-outs inhabited by sappers, and made use of much the same vocabulary as when he crashed at Dovstone Marmaduke shot down several Hun machines during the weeks that followed, but on the very day of his posting for a decoration a Blighty bullet gave him a return ticket to England and a mention in the casualty list. When last I heard of him he was at Dovstone aerodrome, teaching his elders how to fly. I can guess what he would do if at the Grand Hotel there some chance-introduced collector of autographs offered her book. He would think of the cow and the Brass Hats, smile, produce his gold-tipped fountain-pen, and write with a flourish, "John James Christopher Benjamin Brown. Greetings from Dovstone." FOOTNOTES: [1] Officers from Headquarters. CHAPTER II. THE DAY'S WORK. For weeks we had talked guardedly of "it" and "them"--of the greatest day of the Push and the latest form of warfare. Details of the twin mysteries had been rightly kept secret by the red-hatted Olympians who really knew, though we of the fighting branches had heard sufficient to stimulate an appetite for rumour and exaggeration. Consequently we possessed our souls in impatience and dabbled in conjecture. Small forts moving on the caterpillar system of traction used for heavy guns were to crawl across No Man's Land, enfilade the enemy front line with quick-firing and machine guns, and hurl bombs on such of the works and emplacements as they did not ram to pieces,--thus a confidential adjutant, who seemed to think he had admitted me into the inner circle of knowledge tenanted only by himself and the G.S.O. people (I., II., and III., besides untabbed nondescripts). Veterans gave tips on war in the open country, or chatted airily about another tour of such places as Le Catelet, Le Cateau, Mons, the Maubeuge district, and Namur. The cautious listened in silence, and distilled only two facts from the dubious mixture of fancy. The first was that we were booked for a big advance one of these fine days; and the second that new armoured cars, caterpillared and powerfully armed, would make their bow to Brother Boche. The balloon of swollen conjecture floated over the back of the Front until it was destroyed by the quick-fire of authentic orders, which necessarily revealed much of the plan and many of the methods. On the afternoon of September 14 all the officers of our aerodrome were summoned to an empty shed. There we found our own particular General, who said more to the point in five minutes than the rumourists had said in five weeks. There was to be a grand attack next morning. The immediate objectives were not distant, but their gain would be of enormous value. Every atom of energy must be concentrated on the task. It was hoped that an element of surprise would be on our side, helped by a new engine of war christened the Tank. The nature of this strange animal, male and female, was then explained. Next came an exposition of the part allotted to the Flying Corps. No German machines could be allowed near enough to the lines for any observation. We must shoot all Hun machines at sight and give them no rest. Our bombers should make life a burden on the enemy lines of communication. Infantry and transport were to be worried, whenever possible, by machine-gun fire from above. Machines would be detailed for contact work with our infantry. Reconnaissance jobs were to be completed at all costs, if there seemed the slightest chance of bringing back useful information. No more bubbles of hot air were blown around the mess table. Only the evening was between us and the day of days. The time before dinner was filled by the testing of machines and the writing of those cheerful, non-committal letters that precede big happenings at the front. Our flight had visitors to dinner, but the shadow of to-morrow was too insistent for the racket customary on a guest night. It was as if the electricity had been withdrawn from the atmosphere and condensed for use when required. The dinner talk was curiously restrained. The usual shop chatter prevailed, leavened by snatches of bantering cynicism from those infants of the world who thought that to be a beau sabreur of the air one must juggle verbally with life, death, and Archie shells. Even these war babies (three of them died very gallantly before we reassembled for breakfast next day) had bottled most of their exuberance. Understanding silences were sandwiched between yarns. A wag searched for the Pagliacci record, and set the gramophone to churn out "Vesti la Giubba." The guests stayed to listen politely to a few revue melodies, and then slipped away. The rest turned in immediately, in view of the jobs at early dawn. "Night, everybody," said one of the flight-commanders. "Meet you at Mossy-Face in the morning!" In the morning some of us saw him spin earthwards over Mossy-Face Wood, surrounded by Hun machines. Long before the dawn of September 15, I awoke to the roar of engines, followed by an overhead drone as a party of bombers circled round until they were ready to start. When this noise had died away, the dull boom of an intense bombardment was able to make itself heard. I rolled over and went to sleep again, for our own show was not due to start until three hours later. The Flying Corps programme on the great day was a marvel of organisation. The jobs fitted into one another, and into the general tactical scheme of the advance, as exactly as the parts of a flawless motor. At no time could enemy craft steal toward the lines to spy out the land. Every sector was covered by defensive patrols which travelled northward and southward, southward and northward, eager to pounce on any black-crossed stranger. Offensive patrols moved and fought over Boche territory until they were relieved by other offensive patrols. The machines on artillery observation were thus worried only by Archie, and the reconnaissance formations were able to do their work with little interruption, except when they passed well outside the patrol areas. Throughout the day those guerillas of the air, the bombing craft, went across and dropped eggs on anything between general headquarters and a railway line. The corps buses kept constant communication between attacking battalions and the rear. A machine first reported the exploit of the immortal Tank that waddled down High Street, Flers, spitting bullets and inspiring sick fear. And there were many free-lance stunts, such as Lewis gun attacks on reserve troops or on trains. The three squadrons attached to our aerodrome had to the day's credit two long reconnaissances, three offensive patrols, and four bomb raids. Six Hun machines were destroyed on these shows, and the bombers did magnificent work at vital points. At 2 A.M. they dropped eggs on the German Somme headquarters. An hour later they deranged the railway station of a large garrison town. For the remaining time before sunset they were not so busy. They merely destroyed an ammunition train, cut two railway lines, damaged an important railhead, and sprayed a bivouac ground. An orderly called me at 4.15 A.M. for the big offensive patrol. The sky was a dark-grey curtain decorated by faintly twinkling stars. I dressed to the thunderous accompaniment of the guns, warmed myself with a cup of hot cocoa, donned flying kit, and hurried to the aerodrome. There we gathered around C., the patrol leader, who gave us final instructions about the method of attack. We tested our guns and climbed into the machines. By now the east had turned to a light grey with pink smudges from the forefinger of sunrise. Punctually at five o'clock the order, "Start up!" passed down the long line of machines. The flight-commander's engine began a loud metallic roar, then softened as it was throttled down. The pilot waved his hand, the chocks were pulled from under the wheels, and the machine moved forward. The throttle was again opened full out as the bus raced into the wind until flying speed had been attained, when it skimmed gently from the ground. We followed, and carried out the rendezvous at 3000 feet. The morning light increased every minute, and the grey of the sky was merging into blue. The faint, hovering ground-mist was not sufficient to screen our landmarks. The country below was a shadowy patchwork of coloured pieces. The woods, fantastic shapes of dark green, stood out strongly from the mosaic of brown and green fields. The pattern was divided and subdivided by the straight, poplar-bordered roads peculiar to France. We passed on to the dirty strip of wilderness which is the actual front. The battered villages and disorderly ruins looked like hieroglyphics traced on wet sand. A sea of smoke rolled over the ground for miles. It was a by-product of one of the most terrific bombardments in the history of trench warfare. Through it hundreds of gun-flashes twinkled, like the lights of a Chinese garden. Having reached a height of 12,000 feet, we crossed the trenches south of Bapaume. As the danger that stray bullets might fall on friends no longer existed, pilots and observers fired a few rounds into space to make sure their guns were behaving properly. Archie began his frightfulness early. He concentrated on the leader's machine, but the still-dim light spoiled his aim, and many of the bursts were dotted between the craft behind. I heard the customary _wouff!_ _wouff!_ _wouff!_ followed in one case by the _hs-s-s-s-s_ of passing fragments. We swerved and dodged to disconcert the gunners. After five minutes of hide-and-seek, we shook off this group of Archie batteries. The flight-commander headed for Mossy-Face Wood, scene of many air battles and bomb raids. An aerodrome just east of the wood was the home of the Fokker star, Boelcke. C. led us to it, for it was his great ambition to account for Germany's best pilot. While we approached, I looked down and saw eight machines with black Maltese crosses on their planes, about three thousand feet below. They had clipped wings of a peculiar whiteness, and they were ranged one above the other, like the rungs of a Venetian blind. A cluster of small scouts swooped down from Heaven-knows-what height and hovered above us; but C. evidently did not see them, for he dived steeply on the Huns underneath, accompanied by the two machines nearest him. The other group of enemies then dived. I looked up and saw a narrow biplane, apparently a Roland, rushing towards our bus. My pilot turned vertically and then side-slipped to disconcert the Boche's aim. The black-crossed craft swept over at a distance of less than a hundred yards. I raised my gun-mounting, sighted, and pressed the trigger. Three shots rattled off--and my Lewis gun ceased fire. Intensely annoyed at being cheated out of such a splendid target, I applied immediate action, pulled back the cocking-handle and pressed the trigger again. Nothing happened. After one more immediate action test, I examined the gun and found that an incoming cartridge and an empty case were jammed together in the breech. To remedy the stoppage, I had to remove spade-grip and body cover. As I did this, I heard an ominous _ta-ta-ta-ta-ta_ from the returning German scout. My pilot cart-wheeled round and made for the Hun, his gun spitting continuously through the propeller. The two machines raced at each other until less than fifty yards separated them. Then the Boche swayed, turned aside, and put his nose down. We dropped after him, with our front machine-gun still speaking. The Roland's glide merged into a dive, and we imitated him. Suddenly a streak of flame came from his petrol tank, and the next second he was rushing earthwards, with two streamers of smoke trailing behind. I was unable to see the end of this vertical dive, for two more single-seaters were upon us. They plugged away while I remedied the stoppage, and several bullets ventilated the fuselage quite close to my cockpit. When my gun was itself again, I changed the drum of ammunition, and hastened to fire at the nearest Hun. He was evidently unprepared, for he turned and moved across our tail. As he did so, I raked his bus from stem to stern. I looked at him hopefully, for the range was very short, and I expected to see him drop towards the ground at several miles a minute. He sailed on serenely. This is an annoying habit of enemy machines when one is sure that, by the rules of the game, they ought to be destroyed. The machine in question was probably hit, however, for it did not return, and I saw it begin a glide as though the pilot meant to land. We switched our attention to the remaining Hun, but this one was not anxious to fight alone. He dived a few hundred feet, with tail well up, looking for all the world like a trout when it drops back into water. Afterwards he flattened out and went east. During the fight we had become separated from the remainder of our party. I searched all round the compass, but could find neither friend nor foe. We returned to the aerodrome where hostile craft were first sighted. There was no sign of C.'s machine or of the others who dived on the first group of Huns. Several German machines were at rest in the aerodrome. Finding ourselves alone, we passed on towards the lines. I twisted my neck in every direction, for over enemy country only a constant look out above, below, and on all sides can save a machine from a surprise attack. After a few minutes, we spotted six craft bearing towards us from a great height. Through field-glasses I was able to see their black crosses, and I fingered my machine-gun expectantly. The strangers dived in two lots of three. I waited until the first three were within 300 yards' range and opened fire. One of them swerved away, but the other two passed right under us. Something sang to the right, and I found that part of a landing-wire was dangling helplessly from its socket. We thanked whatever gods there be that it was not a flying-wire, and turned to meet the next three Huns. We swerved violently, and they pulled out of their dive well away from us. With nose down and engine full out, we raced towards the lines and safety. Three of the attackers were unable to keep up with us and we left them behind. The other three Germans, classed by my pilot as Halberstadts, had a great deal more speed than ours. They did not attack at close quarters immediately, but flew 200 to 300 yards behind, ready to pounce at their own moment. Two of them got between my gun and our tail-plane, so that they were safe from my fire. The third was slightly above our height, and for his benefit I stood up and rattled through a whole ammunition-drum. Here let me say I do not think I hit him, for he was not in difficulties. He dived below us to join his companions, possibly because he did not like being under fire when they were not. To my surprise and joy, he fell slick on one of the other two Hun machines. This latter broke into two pieces, which fell like stones. The machine responsible for my luck side-slipped, spun a little, recovered, and went down to land. The third made off east. In plain print and at a normal time, this episode shows little that is comic. But when it happened I was in a state of high tension, and this, combined with the startling realisation that a Hun pilot had saved me and destroyed his friend, seemed irresistibly comic. I cackled with laughter and was annoyed because my pilot did not see the joke. We reached the lines without further trouble from anything but Archie. The pink streaks of daybreak had now disappeared beneath the whole body of the sunrise, and the sky was of that intense blue which is the secret of France. What was left of the ground-mist shimmered as it congealed in the sunlight. The pall of smoke from the guns had doubled in volume. The Ancre sparkled brightly. We cruised around in a search for others of our party, but found none. A defensive patrol was operating between Albert and the trenches. We joined it for half an hour, at the end of which I heard a "Halloa!" from the speaking-tube. "What's up now?" I asked. "Going to have a look at the war," was the pilot's reply. Before I grasped his meaning he had shut off the engine and we were gliding towards the trenches. At 1200 feet we switched on, flattened out, and looked for movement below. There was no infantry advance at the moment, but below Courcelette what seemed to be two ungainly masses of black slime were slithering over the ground. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. One of them actually crawled among the scrap-heaps that fringed the ruins of the village. Only then did the thought that they might be Tanks suggest itself. Afterwards I discovered that this was so. The machine rocked violently as a projectile hurtled by underneath us. The pilot remembered the broken landing-wire and steered for home. After landing, we compared notes with others who had returned from the expedition. C., we learned, was down at last, after seventeen months of flying on active service, with only one break for any appreciable time. He destroyed one more enemy before the Boches got him. In the dive he got right ahead of the two machines that followed him. As these hurried to his assistance, they saw an enemy plane turn over, show a white, gleaming belly, and drop in zig-zags. C.'s bus was then seen to heel over into a vertical dive and to plunge down, spinning rhythmically on its axis. Probably he was shot dead and fell over on to the joystick, which put the machine to its last dive. The petrol tank of the second machine to arrive among the Huns was plugged by a bullet, and the pilot was forced to land. Weeks later, his observer wrote us a letter from a prison camp in Hanover. The third bus, perforated by scores of bullet-holes, got back to tell the tale. C. was one of the greatest pilots produced by the war. He was utterly fearless, and had more time over the German lines to his credit than any one else in the Flying Corps. It was part of his fatalistic creed that Archie should never be dodged, and he would go calmly ahead when the A.-A. guns were at their best. Somehow, the bursts never found him. He had won both the D.S.O. and the M.C. for deeds in the air. Only the evening before, when asked lightly if he was out for a V.C., he said he would rather get Boelcke than the V.C.; and in the end Boelcke probably got him, for he fell over the famous German pilot's aerodrome, and that day the German wireless announced that Boelcke had shot down two more machines. Peace to the ashes of a fine pilot and a very brave man! Two observers, other than C.'s passenger, had been killed during our patrol. One of them was "Uncle," a captain in the Northumberland Fusiliers. A bullet entered the large artery of his thigh. He bled profusely and lost consciousness in the middle of a fight with two Huns. When he came to, a few minutes later, he grabbed his gun and opened fire on an enemy. After about forty shots the chatter of the gun ceased, and through the speaking-tube a faint voice told the pilot to look round. The pilot did so, and saw a Maltese-cross biplane falling in flames. But Uncle had faded into unconsciousness again, and he never came back. It is more than possible that if he had put a tourniquet round his thigh, instead of continuing the fight, he might have lived. A great death, you say? One of many such. Only the day before I had helped to lift the limp body of Paddy from the floor of an observer's cockpit. He had been shot over the heart. He fainted, recovered his senses for ten minutes, and kept two Huns at bay until he died, by which time the trenches were reached. Imagine yourself under fire in an aeroplane at 10,000 feet. Imagine that only a second ago you were in the country of shadows. Imagine yourself feeling giddy and deadly sick from loss of blood. Imagine what is left of your consciousness to be stabbed insistently by a throbbing pain. Now imagine how you would force yourself in this condition to grasp a machine-gun in your numbed hand, pull back the cocking-handle, take careful aim at a fast machine, allowing for deflection, and fire until you sink into death. Some day I hope to be allowed to visit Valhalla for half an hour, that I may congratulate Paddy and Uncle. We refreshed ourselves with cold baths and hot breakfast. In the mess the fights were reconstructed. Sudden silences were frequent--an unspoken tribute to C. and the other casualties. But at lunch-time we were cheered by the news that the first and second objectives had been reached, that Martinpuich, Courcelette, and Flers had fallen, and that the Tanks had behaved well. After lunch I rested awhile before the long reconnaissance, due to start at three. Six machines were detailed for this job; though a faulty engine kept one of them on the ground. The observers marked the course on their maps, and wrote out lists of railway stations. At 3.30 we set off towards Arras. Archie hit out as soon as we crossed to his side of the front. He was especially dangerous that afternoon, as if determined to avenge the German defeat of the morning. Each bus in turn was encircled by black bursts, and each bus in turn lost height, swerved, or changed its course to defeat the gunner's aim. A piece of H.E. hit our tail-plane, and stayed there until I cut it out for a souvenir when we had returned. The observers were kept busy with note-book and pencil, for the train movement was far greater than the average, and streaks of smoke courted attention on all the railways. Rolling stock was correspondingly small, and the counting of the trucks in the sidings was not difficult. Road and canal transport was plentiful. As evidence of the urgency of all this traffic, I remarked that no effort at concealment was made. On ordinary days, a German train always shut off steam when we approached; and often I saw transport passing along the road one minute, and not passing along the road the next. On September 15 the traffic was too urgent for time to be lost by hide-and-seek. We passed several of our offensive patrols, each of which escorted us while we were on its beat. It was curious that no activity could be noticed on enemy aerodromes. Until we passed Mossy-Face on the last lap of the homeward journey we saw no Hun aircraft. Even there the machines with black crosses flew very low and did not attempt to offer battle. Nothing out of the ordinary happened until we were about to cross the trenches north of Péronne. Archie then scored an inner. One of his chunks swept the left aileron from the leader's machine, which banked vertically, almost rolled over, and began to spin. For two thousand feet the irregular drop continued, and the observer gave up hope. Luckily for him, the pilot was not of the same mind, and managed to check the spin by juggling with his rudder-controls. The bus flew home, left wing well down, with the observer leaning far out to the right to restore equilibrium, while the icy rush of air boxed his ears. We landed, wrote our reports, and took them to headquarters. The day's work had been done, which was all that mattered to any extent, and a very able general told us it was "dom good." But many a day passed before we grew accustomed to the absence of Uncle and Paddy. And so to bed, until we were called for another early morning show. CHAPTER III. A SUMMER JOY-RIDE. It happened late in the afternoon, one August dog-day. No wind leavened the languid air, and hut, hangar, tent, and workshop were oppressive with a heavy heat, so that we wanted to sleep. To taxi across the grass in a chase for flying speed, to soar gently from the hot ground, and, by leaning beyond the wind-screen, to let the slip-stream of displaced air play on one's face--all this was refreshing as a cold plunge after a Turkish bath. I congratulated myself that I was no longer a gunner, strenuous over interminable corrections, or tiredly alert in a close observation post. Our party consisted of four machines, each complete with pilot, observer, and several hundred rounds of ammunition. The job was an offensive patrol--that is to say, we were to hunt trouble around a given area behind the Boche lines. A great deal of the credit for our "mastery of the air"--that glib phrase of the question-asking politician--during the Somme Push of 1916, belongs to those who organised and those who led these fighting expeditions over enemy country. Thanks to them, our aircraft were able to carry out reconnaissance, artillery observation, and photography with a minimum of interruption, while the German planes were so hard pressed to defend their place in the air that they could seldom guide their own guns or collect useful information. To this satisfactory result must be added the irritative effect on enemy morale of the knowledge that whenever the weather was fine our machines hummed overhead, ready to molest and be molested. Offensive patrols are well worth while, but for the comfort of those directly concerned they are rather too exciting. When friends are below during an air duel a pilot is warmly conscious that should he or his machine be crippled he can break away and land, and there's an end of it. But if a pilot be wounded in a scrap far away from home, before he can land he must fly for many miles, under shell fire and probably pursued by enemies. He must conquer the blighting faintness which accompanies loss of blood, keep clear-headed enough to deal instantaneously with adverse emergency, and make an unwilling brain command unwilling hands and feet to control a delicate apparatus. Worst of all, if his engine be put out of action at a spot beyond gliding distance of the lines, there is nothing for it but to descend and tamely surrender. And always he is within reach of that vindictive exponent of frightfulness, Archibald the Ever-Ready. As we climbed to 4000 feet the machines above threw glints of sunlight on the screen of blue infinity. We ranged ourselves and departed. Passing the red roofs and heart-shaped citadel of Doulens and a jagged wood suggestive of a lion rampant, we followed the straight road to Arras. Arrived there, the leader turned south, for we were not yet high enough. As we moved along the brown band of shell-pocked desolation we continued to climb. Patches of smoke from the guns hovered over the ground at intervals. A score of lazy-looking kite balloons hung motionless. By the time we reached Albert our height was 12,000 feet, and we steered eastward over the ground gained in the June-July advance. Beyond the scrap-heap that once was Pozières two enormous mine craters showed up, dented into the razed surface, one on either side of the Albert-Bapaume road. Flying very low a few buses were working on trench reconnaissance. The sunshine rebounded from the top of their wings, and against the discoloured earth they looked like fireflies. A mile or so behind the then front lines were the twin villages of Courcelette and Martinpuich, divided only by the road. Already they were badly battered, though, unlike Pozières, they still deserved the title of village. Le Sars, which sat astride the road, nearer Bapaume, had been set afire by our guns, and was smoking. In those days, before the methodical advance of the British artillery had begun to worry the stronghold overmuch, Bapaume was a hotbed of all the anti-aircraft devilries. We therefore swerved toward the south. Archie was not to be shaken off so easily, and we began a series of erratic deviations as he ringed with black puffs first one machine, then another. The shooting was not particularly good; for although no clouds intervened between the guns and their mark, a powerful sun dazzled the gunners, who must have found difficulty in judging height and direction. From Archie's point of view, the perfect sky is one screened from the sunlight, at 20,000 to 30,000 feet, by a mantle of thin clouds against which aircraft are outlined boldly, like stags on a snow-covered slope. A few minutes in a south-easterly direction brought us to the Bois d'Havrincourt, a large ungainly wood, the shape of which was something between the ace of spades and the ace of clubs. This we knew as Mossy-Face. The region around it was notorious in R.F.C. messes as being the chief centre of the Boche Flying Corps on the British Front. From the south-west corner Archie again scattered burst and bark at our group, but his inaccuracy made dodging hardly necessary. A lull followed, and I twisted my neck all round the compass, for, in the presence of hostile aeroplanes, Archie seldom behaves, except when friendly machines are about. Two thousand feet below three biplanes were approaching the wood from the south. Black crosses showed up plainly on their grey-white wings. We dropped into a dive toward the strangers. Under normal conditions a steep dive imparts a feeling of being hemmed in from every side. One takes a deep breath instinctively, and the novice to flying will grip the fuselage, as if to avoid being crushed. And, indeed, a passenger in a diving aeroplane is hemmed in, by the terrific air-pressure to which the solid surface is subjected. If he attempt to stand up or lean over the side, he will be swept back, after a short struggle, beneath the shelter of wind-screen and fuselage. But when diving on a Hun, I have never experienced this troubled sensation, probably because it has been swamped under the high tension of readiness for the task. All the faculties must be concentrated on opening the attack, since an air duel is often decided in the first few seconds at close quarters. What happens during these few seconds may depend on a trifle, such as the position of the gun-mounting, an untried drum of ammunition, a slight swerve, or firing a second too soon or too late. An airman should regard his body as part of the machine when there is a prospect of a fight, and his brain, which commands the machine, must be instinctive with insight into what the enemy will attempt. As we dived, then, I estimated the angle at which we might cross the Boche trio, watched for a change of direction on their part, slewed round the gun-mounting to the most effective setting for what would probably be my arc of fire, and fingered the movable back-sight. At first the Huns held to their course as though quite unconcerned. Later, they began to lose height. Their downward line of flight became steeper and steeper, and so did ours. Just as our leading bus arrived within range and began to spit bullets through the propeller, a signal rocket streaked from the first Boche biplane, and the trio dived almost vertically, honking the while on Klaxon horns. We were then at about 6000 feet. We were expecting to see the Huns flatten out, when--"_Wouff!_ _wouff!_ _wouff!_ _wouff!_ _wouff!_" said Archie. The German birds were not hawks at all; they were merely tame decoys used to entice us to a pre-arranged spot, at a height well favoured by A.-A. gunners. The ugly puffs encircled us, and it seemed unlikely that an aeroplane could get away without being caught in a patch of hurtling high explosive. Yet nobody was hit. The only redeeming feature of the villain Archibald is that his deeds are less terrible than his noise, and even this is too flat to be truly frightful. Although I was uncomfortable as we raced away, the chorused _wouffs!_ reminded me of an epidemic of coughing I heard in church one winter's Sunday, while a fatuous sermon was read by a dull-voiced vicar. Mingled with the many black bursts were a few green ones, probably gas shells, for Archie had begun to experiment with the gas habit. Very suddenly a line of fiery rectangles shot up and curved towards us when they had reached three-quarters of their maximum height. They rose and fell within thirty yards of our tail. These were "onions," the flaming rockets which the Boche keeps for any hostile aircraft that can be lured to a height between 4000 and 6000 feet. I yelled to V., my pilot, that we should have to dodge. We side-slipped and swerved to the left. A minute later the stream of onions had disappeared, greatly to my relief, for the prospect of a fire in the air inspires in me a mortal funk. Soon we were to pass from the unpleasant possibility to the far more unpleasant reality. Once outside the unhealthy region, we climbed to a less dangerous height. Again we became the target for a few dozen H.E. shells. We broke away and swooped downward. Some little distance ahead, and not far below, was a group of five Albatross two-seaters. V. pointed our machine at them, in the wake of the flight-commander's bus. Next instant the fuselage shivered. I looked along the inside of it and found that a burning shell fragment was lodged on a longeron, half-way between my cockpit and the tail-plane. A little flame zigzagged over the fabric, all but died away, but, being fanned by the wind as we lost height, recovered and licked its way toward the tail. I was too far away to reach the flame with my hands, and the fire extinguisher was by the pilot's seat. I called for it into the speaking-tube. The pilot made no move. Once more I shouted. Again no answer. V.'s earpiece had slipped from under his cap. A thrill of acute fear passed through me as I stood up, forced my arm through the rush of wind, and grabbed V.'s shoulder. "Fuselage burning! Pass the fire extinguisher!" I yelled. My words were drowned in the engine's roar; and the pilot, intent on getting near the Boches, thought I had asked which one we were to attack. "Look out for those two Huns on the left," he called over his shoulder. "Pass the fire extinguisher!" "Get ready to shoot, blast you!" "Fire extinguisher, you ruddy fool!" A backward glance told me that the fire was nearing the tail-plane at the one end and my box of ammunition at the other, and was too serious for treatment by the extinguisher unless I could get it at once. Desperately I tried to force myself through the bracing-struts and cross-wires behind my seat. To my surprise, head and shoulders and one arm got to the other side--a curious circumstance, as afterwards I tried repeatedly to repeat this contortionist trick on the ground, but failed every time. There I stuck, for it was impossible to wriggle farther. However, I could now reach part of the fire, and at it I beat with gloved hands. Within half a minute most of the fire was crushed to death. But a thin streak of flame, outside the radius of my arm, still flickered towards the tail. I tore off one of my gauntlets and swung it furiously on to the burning strip. The flame lessened, rose again when I raised the glove, but died out altogether after I had hit it twice more. The load of fear left me, and I discovered an intense discomfort, wedged in as I was between the two crossed bracing-struts. Five minutes passed before I was able, with many a heave and gasp, to withdraw back to my seat. By now we were at close grips with the enemy, and our machine and another converged on a Hun. V. was firing industriously. As we turned, he glared at me, and knowing nothing of the fire, shouted: "Why the hell haven't you fired yet?" I caught sight of a Boche bus below us, aimed at it, and emptied a drum in short bursts. It swept away, but not before two of the German observer's bullets had plugged our petrol tank from underneath. The pressure went, and with it the petrol supply. The needle on the rev.-counter quivered to the left as the revolutions dropped, and the engine missed on first one, then two cylinders. V. turned us round, and, with nose down, headed the machine for the trenches. Just then the engine ceased work altogether, and we began to glide down. All this happened so quickly that I had scarcely realised our plight. Next I began to calculate our chances of reaching the lines before we would have to land. Our height was 9000 feet, and we were just over nine and a half miles from friendly territory. Reckoning the gliding possibilities of our type of bus as a mile to a thousand feet, the odds seemed unfavourable. On the other hand, a useful wind had arisen from the east, and V., a very skilful pilot, would certainly cover all the distance that could be covered. I located our exact position and searched the map for the nearest spot in the lines. The village of Bouchavesnes was a fraction south of due west, and I remembered that the French had stormed it two days previously. From the shape of the line before this advance, there was evidently a small salient, with Bouchavesnes in the middle of the curve. I scribbled this observation on a scrap of paper, which I handed to V. with the compass direction. V. checked my statements on the map, nodded over his shoulder, and set a course for Bouchavesnes. Could we do it? I prayed to the gods and trusted to the pilot. Through my mind there flitted impossible plans to be tried if we landed in Boche territory. After setting fire to the machine we would attempt to hide, and then, at night-time, creep along a communication trench to the enemy front line, jump across it in a gap between the sentries, and chance getting by the barbed wire and across No Man's Land. Or we would steal to the Somme, float down-stream, and somehow or other pass the entanglements placed across the river by the enemy. _Wouff!_ _wouff!_ Archie was complicating the odds. Further broodings were checked by the sudden appearance of a German scout. Taking advantage of our plight, its pilot dived steeply from a point slightly behind us. We could not afford to lose any distance by dodging, so V. did the only thing possible--he kept straight on. I raised my gun, aimed at the wicked-looking nose of the attacking craft, and met it with a barrage of bullets. These must have worried the Boche, for he swerved aside when a hundred and fifty yards distant, and did not flatten out until he was beneath the tail of our machine. Afterwards he climbed away from us, turned, and dived once more. For a second time we escaped, owing either to some lucky shots from my gun or to the lack of judgment by the Hun pilot. The scout pulled up and passed ahead of us. It rose and manoeuvred as if to dive from the front and bar the way. Meanwhile, four specks, approaching from the west, had grown larger and larger, until they were revealed as of the F.E. type--the British "pusher" two-seater. The Boche saw them, and hesitated as they bore down on him. Finding himself in the position of a lion attacked by hunters when about to pounce on a tethered goat, he decided not to destroy, for in so doing he would have laid himself open to destruction. When I last saw him he was racing north-east. There was now no obstacle to the long glide. As we went lower, the torn ground showed up plainly. From 2000 feet I could almost count the shell-holes. Two battery positions came into view, and near one of them I saw tracks and could distinguish movements by a few tiny dots. It became evident that, barring accident, we should reach the French zone. When slightly behind the trenches a confused chatter from below told us that machine-guns were trained on the machine. By way of retaliation, I leaned over and shot at what looked like an emplacement. Then came the Boche front line, ragged and unkempt. I fired along an open trench. Although far from fearless as a rule, I was not in the least afraid during the eventful glide. My state of intense "wind up" while the fuselage was burning had apparently exhausted my stock of nervousness. I seemed detached from all idea of danger, and the desolated German trench area might have been a side-show at a fair. We swept by No Man's Land at a height of 600 feet, crossed the French first- and second-line trenches, and, after passing a small ridge, prepared to settle on an uneven plateau covered by high bracken. To avoid landing down wind and down-hill, the pilot banked to the right before he flattened out. The bus pancaked gently to earth, ran over the bracken, and stopped two yards from a group of shell-holes. Not a wire was broken. The propeller had been scored by the bracken, but the landing was responsible for no other damage. Taking into consideration the broken ground, the short space at our disposal, and the fact that we landed cross-wind, V. had exhibited wonderful skill. We climbed out, relieved but cantankerous. V., still ignorant of the fire, wanted to know why my gun was silent during our first fight; and I wanted to know why he hadn't shut off the engine and listened when I shouted for the fire extinguisher. Some French gunners ran to meet us. The sight that met them must have seemed novel, even to a poilu of two and a half years' understanding. Supposing that the aeroplane had crashed, they came to see if we were dead or injured. What they found was one almost complete aeroplane and two leather-coated figures, who cursed each other heartily as they stood side by side, and performed a certain natural function which is publicly represented in Brussels by a famous little statue. "Quels types!" said the first Frenchman to arrive. An examination of the bus revealed a fair crop of bullet holes through the wings and elevator. A large gap in one side of the fuselage, over a longeron that was charred to powder in parts, bore witness to the fire. Petrol was dripping from the spot where the tank had been perforated. On taking a tin of chocolate from his pocket, V. found it ripped and gaping. He searched the pocket and discovered a bright bullet at the bottom. We traced the adventures of that bullet; it had grazed a strut, cut right through the petrol union, and expended itself on the chocolate tin. Soon our attention was attracted to several French machines that were passing through a barrage of Archie bursts. The bombardment of an aeroplane arouses only the sporting instinct of the average soldier. His interest, though keen, is directed towards the quality of the shooting and the distance of the shells for their target; his attitude when watching a pigeon-shoot would be much the same. But an airman has experience of what the aeroplane crews must be going through, and his thought is all for them. He knows that dull, loud cough of an Archie shell, the hiss of a flying fragment, the wicked black puffs that creep towards their mark and follow it, no matter where the pilot may swerve. Should a friendly machine tumble to earth after that rare occurrence, a direct hit, all the sensations of an uncontrolled nose-dive are suggested to his senses. He hears the shriek of the up-rushing air, feels the helpless terror. It hurts him to know that he is powerless to save a friend from certain death. He cannot even withdraw his eyes from the falling craft. I was glad we had not viewed the disaster while we were in the air, for nothing is more unnerving than to see another machine crumbled up by a direct hit when Archie is firing at yourself. "Me," said a French gunner by my side, "I prefer the artillery." With which sentiment I have often agreed when dodging Archie, though at every other time I prefer the Flying Corps work to all other kinds of fighting. V. disappeared to phone the Squadron Commander, and I was left with the crippled bus and the crowd of Frenchmen. The poilus questioned me on subjects ranging from the customary length of a British officer's moustache to the possible length of the war. Yes, we had been hit in a fight with Boche aeroplanes. Yes, there had also been a slight fire on board. Yes, I had great fear at the time. Yes, I would accept a cigarette with pleasure. No, it was untrue that England contained four million civilian _embusqués_ of military age. No, the report that officers of the British Flying Corps received fifty francs a day was inaccurate, unfortunately. But no, my good-for-nothing opinion was that we should not finish the Boche within a year; and so on. "How is it," said one man in faded uniform, "that the British always manage to keep themselves correct and shaven?" "La barbe!" interrupted another; "the Tommies don't keep clean on the Somme. Even the lilies of the état-majeur can't." And he began to quote: "Si ma fi-fi-fiancée me voyait, Elle m' dirait en me donnant cinq sous: 'Va t' faire raser!' mais moi, j' répondrais Que moi j'ai toujours les mêmes deux joues." V. was away for an hour and a half and when he did return it was to announce that he had been unable to phone because the line was blocked under pressure of important operations. Deciding to report in person, we declined an offer of hospitality from the French officers, but gratefully accepted a guard for the machine, and the loan of a car. A young lieutenant accompanied us as far as Amiens. There we stopped for supper, and were joined by some civilian friends of our French companion. The _filet de sole au vin blanc_ engendered a feeling of deep content. Now that it was over, I felt pleased with the day's excitement and the contrast it afforded. Three hours beforehand it seemed likely that the evening would see us prisoners. Yet here we were, supping in a comfortable hotel with three charming ladies and the widow Clicquot. Arrived at the aerodrome, we visited the hut inhabited by the Squadron Commander, who wore pyjamas and a smile of welcome. We were just in time, he said, to rescue our names from the list of missing. Our tale impressed him so much that, after making arrangements for the stranded bus to be brought back by a repair party, he remarked: "You can both have a rest to-morrow." "Welcome home, you rotten night-bird," said my tent companion, and mentioned in a hurt tone that our flight was booked for the 5 A.M. reconnaissance. But my last thought before sinking into sleep was of the blessed words: "You can have a rest to-morrow." CHAPTER IV. SPYING OUT THE LAND. For thirty hours the flight had "stood by" for a long reconnaissance. We were dragged from bed at 4.30 of dawn, only to return gratefully beneath the blankets three-quarters of an hour later, when a slight but steady rain washed away all chance of an immediate job. The drizzle continued until after sundown, and our only occupations throughout the day were to wade from mess to aerodrome, aerodrome to mess, and to overhaul in detail machines, maps, guns, and consciences. Next morning again we dressed in the half-light, and again went back to bed in the daylight. This time the show had been postponed because of low clouds and a thick ground-mist that hung over the reeking earth. It was a depressing dawn--clammy, moist, and sticky. But by early afternoon the mist had congealed, and the sheet of clouds was torn to rags by a strong south-west wind. The four craft detailed for the reconnaissance were therefore lined outside their shed, while their crews waited for flying orders. I was to be in the leading bus, for when C.'s death left vacant the command of A Flight, the good work of my pilot had brought him a flight-commandership, a three-pipped tunic, and a sense of responsibility which, to my relief, checked his tendency to over-recklessness. He now came from the squadron office with news of a changed course. "To get the wind behind us," he explained, "we shall cross well to the south of Péronne. Next, we go to Boislens. After that we pass by Nimporte, over the Forêt de Charbon to Siègecourt; then up to Le Recul and back by Princebourg, St. Guillaume, and Toutprès. "As regards the observers, don't forget to use your field-glasses on the rolling stock; don't forget the precise direction of trains and motor transport; don't forget the railways and roads on every side; don't forget the canals; and for the Lord's and everybody else's sake, don't be surprised by Hun aircraft. As regards the pilots--keep in close formation when possible; don't straggle and don't climb above the proper height." The pilots ran their engines once more, and the observers exchanged information about items such as Hun aerodromes and the number of railway stations at each large town. An air reconnaissance is essentially the observer's show; its main object being to supply the "I" people at headquarters with private bulletins from the back of the German front. The collection of reconnaissance reports is work of a highly skilled nature, or ought to be. Spying out the land is much more than a search of railways, roads, and the terrain generally. The experienced observer must know the German area over which he works rather better than he knows Salisbury Plain. The approximate position of railway junctions and stations, aerodromes, factories, and depôts should be familiar to him, so that he can without difficulty spot any new feature. Also he must be something of a sleuth, particularly when using smoke as a clue. In the early morning a thin layer of smoke above a wood may mean a bivouac. If it be but a few miles behind the lines, it can evidence heavy artillery. A narrow stream of smoke near a railway will make an observer scan the line closely for a stationary train, as the Boche engine-drivers usually try to avoid detection by shutting off steam. The Hun has many other dodges to avoid publicity. When Allied aircraft appear, motor and horse transport remain immobile at the roadside or under trees. Artillery and infantry are packed under cover; though, for that matter, the enemy very rarely move troops in the daytime, preferring the night or early morning, when there are no troublesome eyes in the air. To foil these attempts at concealment is the business of the observers who gather information for Army Headquarters and G. H.Q. For observers on corps work the detective problems are somewhat different. This department deals with hidden saps and battery positions, and draws and photographs conclusions from clues such as a muzzle-blast, fresh tracks, or an artificial cluster of trees. All reconnaissance observers must carry out a simultaneous search of the earth for movement and the sky for foes, and in addition keep their guns ready for instant use. And should anything happen to their machines, and a forced landing seem likely, they must sit tight and carry on so long as there is the slightest hope of a safe return. A nos moutons. I made a long list in my note-book of the places where something useful was likely to be observed, and tried my gun by firing a few shots into the ground. We hung around, impatient at the long delay. "Get into your machines," called the Squadron Commander at last, when a telephone message had reported that the weather conditions toward the east were no longer unfavourable. We took to the air and set off. V. led his covey beyond Albert and well south of the Somme before he turned to the left. Then, with the strong wind behind us, we raced north-east and crossed the strip of trenches. The pilot of the emergency machine, which had come thus far to join the party if one of the other four dropped out, waved his hand in farewell and left for home. Archie barked at us immediately, but he caused small trouble, as most of his attention was already claimed by a party of French machines half a mile ahead. Anyhow we should have shaken him off quickly, for at this stage of the journey, with a forty-mile wind reinforcing our usual air speed of about ninety-five miles an hour, our ground speed was sufficient to avoid lingering in any region made unhealthy by A.-A. guns. The water-marked ribbon of trenches seemed altogether puny and absurd during the few seconds when it was within sight. The winding Somme was dull and dirty as the desolation of its surrounding basin. Some four thousand feet above the ground a few clouds moved restlessly at the bidding of the wind. Passing a few small woods, we arrived without interruption over the railway junction of Boislens. With arms free of the machine to avoid unnecessary vibration, the observers trained their glasses on the station and estimated the amount of rolling stock. A close search of the railway arteries only revealed one train. I grabbed pencil and note-book and wrote: "Boislens, 3.5 P.M. 6 R.S., 1 train going S.W." Just west of our old friend Mossy-Face were two rows of flagrantly new trenches. As this is one of the points where the enemy made a stand after their 1917 spring retreat, it can be assumed that even as far back as last October they were preparing new lines of defence, Hindenburg or otherwise. Not far west of these defence works were two troublesome aerodromes at Bertincourt and Velu, both of which places have since been captured. A hunt for an aerodrome followed. V., who knew the neighbourhood well, having passed above it some two-score times, was quick to spot a group of hitherto unnoted sheds north of Boislens, towards Mossy-Face. He circled over them to let me plot the pin-point position on the map and sketch the aerodrome and its surroundings. The Hun pilots, with thoughts of a possible bomb-raid, began to take their machines into the air for safety. "Got 'em all?" Thus V., shouting through the rubber speaking-tube, one end of which was fixed inside my flying-cap, so that it always rested against my ear. "Correct. Get on with the good work." The good work led us over a region for ever associated with British arms. Some of the towns brought bitter memories of that anxious August three years back. Thus Nimporte, which saw a desperate but successful stand on one flank of the contemptible little army to gain time for the main body; Ventregris, scene of a cavalry charge that was a glorious tragedy; Làbas, where a battery of horse-gunners made for itself an imperishable name; Siègecourt, where the British might have retired into a trap but didn't; and Le Recul itself, whence they slipped away just in time. In the station at Nimporte a train was waiting to move off, and two more were on their way to the military base of Plusprès. Both attempted to hide their heads by shutting off steam immediately the drone of our engines made itself heard; but we had spotted them from afar, and already they were noted for the information of Brass Hats. The next item of interest was activity at a factory outside a little town. Black trails of smoke stretched away from the chimneys; and surely, as we approached a minute ago, a short column of lorries was passing along a road towards the factory. Yet when we reached the spot there was no sign of road transport. Nevertheless, I was certain I had seen some motor vehicles, and I entered the fact in my note-book. Likewise I took care to locate the factory site on my map, in case it deserved the honour of a bomb attack later. Our bus led the way across the huge unwieldy Forêt de Charbon, patterned in rectangular fashion by intersecting roads, and we arrived at Siègecourt. This is at once a fortress and an industrial town. There are several railway stations around it, and these added greatly to the observers' collection of trains and trucks. The Huns below, with unpleasant memories of former visits from British aircraft, probably expected to be bombed. They threw up at us a large quantity of high-explosive shells, but the shots were all wide and we remained unworried. To judge by the quality of the A.-A. shooting each time I called there, it seemed likely that half-trained A.-A. gunners were allowed to cut their active service teeth on us at Siègecourt. Having squeezed Siègecourt of all movement, we headed for Le Recul. Here the intricate patchwork of railway kept the observers busy, and six more trains were bagged. Then, as this was the farthest point east to be touched, we turned to the left and travelled homeward. It was soon afterwards that our engine went dud. Instead of a rhythmic and continuous hum there was at regular intervals a break, caused by one of the cylinders missing explosion at each turn of the rotary engine. The rev.-counter showed that the number of revolutions per minute had fallen off appreciably. Decreased revs. meant less speed, and our only chance to keep with the others was to lose height continuously. We were then nearly fifty miles from the lines. I noticed the gap in the engine's drone as soon as it began. An airman is accustomed to the full roar of his engine, and it never distracts his attention, any more than the noise of a waterfall distracts those who live near it. But if the roar becomes non-continuous and irregular he is acutely conscious of the sound. When the machine began to lose height I knew there was a chronic miss. V. looked round and smiled reassuringly, though he himself was far from reassured. He tried an alteration in the carburettor mixture, but this did not remedy matters. Next, thinking that the engine might have been slightly choked, he cut off the petrol supply for a moment and put down the nose of the machine. The engine stopped, but picked up when the petrol was once more allowed to run. During the interval I thought the engine had ceased work altogether, and was about to stuff things into my pocket in readiness for a landing on hostile ground. We continued in a westerly direction, with the one cylinder still cutting out. To make matters worse, the strong wind that had been our friend on the outward journey was now an enemy, for it was drifting us to the north, so that we were obliged to steer almost dead into it to follow the set course. As we passed along the straight canal from Le Recul to Princebourg many barges were in evidence. Those at the side of the canal were taken to be moored up, and those in the middle to be moving, though the slowness of their speed made it impossible to decide on their direction, for from a height of ten thousand feet they seemed to be stationary. About a dozen Hun machines were rising from aerodromes at Passementerie, away to the left, but if they were after us the attempt to reach our height in time was futile. Between Le Recul and Princebourg we dropped fifteen hundred feet below the three rear machines, which hovered above us. Though I was far from feeling at home, it was necessary to sweep the surrounding country for transport of all kinds. This was done almost automatically, since I found myself unable to give a whole-hearted attention to the job, while the infernal motif of the engine's rag-time drone dominated everything and invited speculation on how much lower we were than the others, and whether we were likely to reach a friendly landing-ground. And all the while a troublesome verse chose very inopportunely to race across the background of my mind, in time with the engine, each cut-out being the end of a line. Once or twice I caught myself murmuring-- "In that poor but honest 'ome, Where 'er sorrowin' parints live, They drink the shampyne wine she sends, But never, never can fergive." Slightly to the east of Princebourg, a new complication appeared in the shape of a small German machine. Seeing that our bus was in difficulties, it awaited an opportunity to pounce, and remained at a height slightly greater than ours, but some distance behind the bus that acted as rearguard to the party. Its speed must have been about ten miles an hour more than our own, for though the Hun pilot had probably throttled down, he was obliged to make his craft snake its way in short curves, so that it should not come within dangerous range of our guns. At times he varied this method by lifting the machine almost to stalling point, letting her down again, and repeating the process. Once I saw some motor transport on a road. I leaned over the side to estimate their number, but gave up the task of doing so with accuracy under the double strain of watching the Hun scout and listening to the jerky voice of the engine. As we continued to drop, the German evidently decided to finish us. He climbed a little and then rushed ahead. I fired at him in rapid bursts, but he kept to his course. He did not come near enough for a dive, however, as the rest of the party, two thousand feet above, had watched his movements, and as soon as he began to move nearer two of them fell towards him. Seeing that his game was spoiled the Boche went down steeply, and only flattened out when he was low enough to be safe from attack. Near St Guillaume an anti-aircraft battery opened fire. The Hun pilot then thought it better to leave Archie to deal with us, and he annoyed us no more. Some of the shell-bursts were quite near, but we could not afford to lose height in distance-dodging, with our machine in a dubious condition twenty-five miles on the wrong side of the trenches. Toutprès, to the south-west, was to have been included in the list of towns covered, but under the adverse circumstances V. decided not to battle against the wind more than was necessary to get us home. He therefore veered to the right, and steered due west. The south-west wind cut across and drifted us, so that our actual course was north-west. Our ground speed was now a good deal greater than if we had travelled directly west, and there was no extra distance to be covered, because of a large eastward bend in the lines as they wound north. We skirted the ragged Forêt de Quand-Même, and passed St Guillaume on our left. The behaviour of the engine went from bad to worse, and the vibration became more and more intense. Once again I thought it would peter out before we were within gliding distance of British territory, and I therefore made ready to burn the machine--the last duty of an airman let in for the catastrophe of a landing among enemies. But the engine kept alive, obstinately and unevenly. V. held down the nose of the machine still farther, so as to gain the lines in the quickest possible time. Soon we were treated to a display by the family ghost of the clan Archibald, otherwise an immense pillar of grey-white smoky substance that appeared very suddenly to windward of us. It stretched up vertically from the ground to a height about level with ours, which was then only five and a half thousand feet. We watched it curiously as it stood in an unbending rigidity similar to that of a giant waxwork, cold, unnatural, stupidly implacable, half unbelievable, and wholly ridiculous. At the top it sprayed round, like a stick of asparagus. For two or three months similar apparitions had been exhibited to us at rare intervals, nearly always in the same neighbourhood. At first sight the pillars of smoke seemed not to disperse, but after an interval they apparently faded away as mysteriously as they had appeared. What was meant to be their particular branch of frightfulness I cannot say. One rumour was that they were an experiment in aerial gassing, and another that they were of some phosphorous compound. All I know is that they entertained us from time to time, with no apparent damage. Archie quickly distracted our attention from the phantom pillar. We had been drifted to just south of Lille, possibly the hottest spot on the whole western front as regards anti-aircraft fire. Seeing one machine four to five thousand feet below its companions, the gunners very naturally concentrated on it. A spasmodic chorus of barking coughs drowned the almost equally spasmodic roar of the engine. V. dodged steeply and then raced, full out, for the lines. A sight of the dirty brown jig-saw of trenches heartened us greatly. A few minutes later we were within gliding distance of the British front. When we realised that even if the engine lost all life we could reach safety, nothing else seemed to matter, not even the storm of shell-bursts. Suddenly the machine quivered, swung to the left, and nearly put itself in a flat spin. A large splinter of H.E. had sliced away part of the rudder. V. banked to prevent an uncontrolled side-slip, righted the bus as far as possible, and dived for the lines. These we passed at a great pace, but we did not shake off Archie until well on the right side, for at our low altitude the high-angle guns had a large radius of action that could include us. However, the menacing coughs finally ceased to annoy, and our immediate troubles were over. The strain snapped, the air was an exhilarating tonic, the sun was warmly comforting, and everything seemed attractive, even the desolated jumble of waste ground below us. I opened a packet of chocolate and shared it with V., who was trying hard to fly evenly with an uneven rudder. I sang to him down the speaking-tube, but his nerves had stood enough for the day, and he wriggled the machine from one side to the other until I became silent. Contrariwise to the last, our engine recovered slightly now that its recovery was not so important, and it behaved well until it seized up for better or worse when we had landed. From the aerodrome the pilots proceeded to tea and a bath, while we, the unfortunate observers, copied our notes into a detailed report, elaborated the sketches of the new aerodromes, and drove in our unkempt state to Headquarters, there to discuss the reconnaissance with spotlessly neat staff officers. At the end of the report one must give the height at which the job was done, and say whether the conditions were favourable or otherwise for observation. I thought of the absence of thick clouds or mist that might have made the work difficult. Then I thought of the cylinder that missed and the chunk of rudder that was missing, but decided that these little inconveniences were unofficial. And the legend I felt in duty bound to write was: "Height 5,000-10,000 ft. Observation easy." CHAPTER V. THERE AND BACK. An inhuman philosopher or a strong, silent poseur might affect to treat with indifference his leave from the Front. Personally I have never met a philosopher inhuman enough or a poseur strongly silent enough to repress evidence of wild satisfaction, after several months of war at close quarters, on being given a railway warrant entitling him to ten days of England, home, and no duty. But if you are a normal soldier who dislikes fighting and detests discomfort, the date of your near-future holiday from the dreary scene of war will be one of the few problems that really matter. Let us imagine a slump in great pushes at your sector of the line, since only during the interval of attack is the leave-list unpigeonholed. The weeks pass and your turn creeps close, while you pray that the lull may last until the day when, with a heavy haversack and a light heart, you set off to become a transient in Arcadia. The desire for a taste of freedom is sharpened by delay; but finally, after disappointment and postponement, the day arrives and you depart. Exchanging a "So long" with less fortunate members of the mess, you realise a vast difference in respective destinies. To-morrow the others will be dodging crumps, archies, or official chits "for your information, please"; to-morrow, with luck, you will be dodging taxis in London. During the journey you begin to cast out the oppressive feeling that a world and a half separates you from the pleasantly undisciplined life you once led. The tense influence of those twin bores of active service, routine and risk, gradually loosens hold, and your state of mind is tuned to a pitch half-way between the note of battle and that of a bank-holiday. Yet a slight sense of remoteness lingers as you enter London. At first view the Charing Cross loiterers seem more foreign than the peasants of Picardy, the Strand and Piccadilly less familiar than the Albert-Pozières road. Not till a day or two later, when the remnants of strained pre-occupation with the big things of war have been charmed away by old haunts and old friends, do you feel wholly at home amid your rediscovered fellow-citizens, the Man in the Street, the Pacifist, the air-raid-funk Hysteric, the Lady Flag-Seller, the War Profiteer, the dear-boy Fluff Girl, the Prohibitionist, the England-for-the-Irish politician, the Conscientious Objector, the hotel-government bureaucrat, and other bulwarks of our united Empire. For the rest, you will want to cram into ten short days the average experiences of ten long weeks. If, like most of us, you are young and foolish, you will skim the bubbling froth of life and seek crowded diversion in the lighter follies, the passing shows, and l'amour qui rit. And you will probably return to the big things of war tired but mightily refreshed, and almost ready to welcome a further spell of routine and risk. The one unsatisfactory aspect of leave from France, apart from its rarity, is the travelling. This, in a region congested by the more important traffic of war, is slow and burdensome to the impatient holiday-maker. Occasionally the Flying Corps officer is able to substitute an excursion by air for the land and water journey, if on one of the dates that sandwich his leave a bus of the type already flown by him must be chauffeured across the Channel. Such an opportunity is welcome, for besides avoiding discomfort, a joy-ride of this description often saves time enough to provide an extra day in England. On the last occasion when I was let loose from the front on ticket-of-leave, I added twenty-four hours to my Blighty period by a chance meeting with a friendly ferry-pilot and a resultant trip as passenger in an aeroplane from a home depôt. Having covered the same route by train and boat a few days previously, a comparison between the two methods of travel left me an enthusiast for aerial transport in the golden age of after-the-war. The leave train at Arrière was time-tabled for midnight, but as, under a war-time edict, French cafés and places where they lounge are closed at 10 P.M., it was at this hour that muddied officers and Tommies from every part of the Somme basin began to crowd the station. Though confronted with a long period of waiting, in a packed entrance-hall that was only half-lit and contained five seats to be scrambled for by several hundred men, every one, projected beyond the immediate discomfort to the good time coming, seemed content. The atmosphere of jolly expectancy was comparable to that of Waterloo Station on the morning of Derby Day. Scores of little groups gathered to talk the latest shop-talk from the trenches. A few of us who were acquainted with the corpulent and affable R.T.O.--it is part of an R.T.O.'s stock-in-trade to be corpulent and affable--sought out his private den, and exchanged yarns while commandeering his whisky. Stuff Redoubt had been stormed a few days previously, and a Canadian captain, who had been among the first to enter the Hun stronghold, told of the assault. A sapper discussed some recent achievements of mining parties. A tired gunner subaltern spoke viciously of a stupendous bombardment that allowed little rest, less sleep, and no change of clothes. Time was overcome easily in thus looking at war along the varying angles of the infantryman, the gunner, the engineer, the machine-gun performer, and the flying officer, all fresh from their work. The train, true to the custom of leave trains, was very late. When it did arrive, the good-natured jostling for seats again reminded one of the London to Epsom traffic of Derby Day. Somehow the crowd was squeezed into carriage accommodation barely sufficient for two-thirds of its number, and we left Arrière. Two French and ten British officers obtained a minimum of space in my compartment. We sorted out our legs, arms, and luggage, and tried to rest. In my case sleep was ousted by thoughts of what was ahead. Ten days' freedom in England! The stout major on my left snored. The head of the hard-breathing Frenchman to the right slipped on to my shoulder. An unkempt subaltern opposite wriggled and turned in a vain attempt to find ease. I was damnably cramped, but above all impatient for the morrow. A passing train shrieked. Cold whiffs from the half-open window cut the close atmosphere. Slowly, and with frequent halts for the passage of war freights more urgent than ourselves, our train chugged northward. One hour, two hours, three hours of stuffy dimness and acute discomfort. Finally I sank into a troubled doze. When we were called outside Boulogne, I found my hand poised on the stout major's bald head, as if in benediction. The soldier on leave, eager to be done with the preliminary journey, chafes at inevitable delay in Boulogne. Yet this largest of channel ports, in its present state, can show the casual passer-by much that is interesting. It has become almost a new town during the past three years. Formerly a headquarters of pleasure, a fishing centre and a principal port of call for Anglo-Continental travel, it has been transformed into an important military base. It is now wholly of the war; the armies absorb everything that it transfers from sea to railway, from human fuel for war's blast-furnace to the fish caught outside the harbour. The multitude of visitors from across the Channel is larger than ever; but instead of Paris, the Mediterranean, and the East, they are bound for less attractive destinations--the muddy battle-area and Kingdom Come. The spirit of the place is altogether changed. From time immemorial Boulogne has included an English alloy in its French composition, but prior to the war it shared with other coastal resorts of France an outlook of smiling carelessness. Superficially it now seems more British than French, and, partly by reason of this, it impresses one as being severely business-like. The great number of khaki travellers is rivalled by a huge colony of khaki Base workers. Except for a few matelots, French fishermen, and the wharfside cafés, there is nothing to distinguish the quays from those of a British port. The blue-bloused porters who formerly met one with volubility and the expectation of a fabulous tip have given place to khakied orderlies, the polite customs officials to old-soldier myrmidons of the worried embarkation officer. Store dumps with English markings are packed symmetrically on the cobbled stones. The transport lorries are all British, some of them still branded with the names of well-known London firms. Newly-built supply depôts, canteens, and military institutes fringe the town proper or rise behind the sand-ridges. One-time hotels and casinos along the sea-front between Boulogne and Wimereux have become hospitals, to which, by day and by night, the smooth-running motor ambulances bring broken soldiers. Other of the larger hotels, like the Folkestone and the Meurice, are now patronised almost exclusively by British officers. The military note dominates everything. A walk through the main streets leaves an impression of mixed uniforms--bedraggled uniforms from trench and dug-out, neat rainbow-tabbed uniforms worn by officers attached to the Base, graceful nursing uniforms, haphazard convalescent uniforms, discoloured blue uniforms of French permissionaires. Everybody is bilingual, speaking, if not both English and French, either one or other of these languages and the formless Angliche patois invented by Tommy and his hosts of the occupied zone. And everybody, soldier and civilian, treats as a matter of course the strange metamorphosis of what was formerly a haven for the gentle tourist. The boat, due to steam off at eleven, left at noon,--a creditable performance as leave-boats go. On this occasion there was good reason for the delay, as we ceded the right of way to a hospital ship and waited while a procession of ambulance cars drove along the quay and unloaded their stretcher cases. The Red Cross vessel churned slowly out of the harbour, and we followed at a respectful distance. Passengers on a Channel leave-boat are quieter than might be expected. With the country of war behind them they have attained the third degree of content, and so novel is this state after months of living on edge that the short crossing does not allow sufficient time for them to be moved to exuberance. One promenades the crowded deck happily, taking care not to tread on the staff spurs, and talks of fighting as if it were a thing of the half-forgotten past. But there is no demonstration. In a well-known illustrated weekly a recent frontispiece, supposedly drawn "from material supplied," depicts a band of beaming Tommies, with weird water-bottles, haversacks, mess-tins, and whatnots dangling from their sheepskin coats, throwing caps and cheers high into the air as they greet the cliffs of England. As the subject of an Academy picture, or an illustration for "The Hero's Homecoming, or How a Bigamist Made Good," the sketch would be excellent. But, except for the beaming faces, it is fanciful. A shadowy view of the English coast-line draws a crowd to the starboard side of the boat, whence one gazes long and joyfully at the dainty cliffs. Yet there is no outward sign of excitement; the deep satisfaction felt by all is of too intimate a nature to call for cheering and cap-throwing. The starboard deck remains crowded as the shore looms larger, and until, on entry into Dovstone harbour, one prepares for disembarkation. The Front seemed very remote from the train that carried us from Dovstone to London. How could one think of the wilderness with the bright hop-fields of Kent chasing past the windows? Then came the mass-meeting of brick houses that skirt London, and finally the tunnel which is the approach to the terminus. As the wheels rumbled through the darkness of it they suggested some lines of stray verse beginning-- "Twenty to eleven by all the clocks of Piccadilly; Buy your love a lily-bloom, buy your love a rose." It had been raining, and the faint yet unmistakable tang sniffed from wet London streets made one feel at home more than anything else. We dispersed, each to make his interval of heaven according to taste, means, and circumstances. That same evening I was fortunate in being helped to forget the realities of war by two experiences. A much-mustached A.P.M. threatened me with divers penalties for the wearing of a soft hat; and I was present at a merry gathering of theatrical luminaries, enormously interested in themselves, but enormously bored by the war, which usurped so much newspaper space that belonged by rights to the lighter drama. Curtain and interval of ten days, at the end of which I was offered a place as passenger in a machine destined for my own squadron. The bus was to be taken to an aircraft depôt in France from Rafborough Aerodrome. Rafborough is a small town galvanised into importance by its association with flying. Years ago, in the far-away days when aviation itself was matter for wonder, the pioneers who concerned themselves with the possibilities of war flying made their headquarters at Rafborough. An experimental factory, rich in theory, was established, and near it was laid out an aerodrome for the more practical work. Thousands of machines have since been tested on the rough-grassed aerodrome, while the neighbouring Royal Aircraft Factory has continued to produce designs, ideas, aeroplanes, engines, and aircraft accessories. Formerly most types of new machines were put through their official paces at Rafborough, and most types, including some captures from the Huns, were to be seen in its sheds. Probably Rafborough has harboured a larger variety of aircraft and aircraft experts than any other place in the world. My friend the ferry-pilot having announced that the carriage waited, I strapped our baggage, some new gramophone records, and myself into the observer's office. I also took--tell this not in Gath, for the transport of dogs by aeroplane has been forbidden--a terrier pup sent to a fellow-officer by his family. At first the puppy was on a cord attached to some bracing-wires; but as he showed fright when the machine took off from the ground, I kept him on my lap for a time. Here he remained subdued and apparently uninterested. Later, becoming inured to the engine's drone and the slight vibration, he roused himself and wanted to explore the narrowing passage toward the tail-end of the fuselage. The little chap was, however, distinctly pleased to be on land again at Saint Gregoire, where he kept well away from the machine, as if uncertain whether the strange giant of an animal were friendly or a dog-eater. It was a morning lovely enough to be that of the world's birthday. Not a cloud flecked the sky, the flawless blue of which was made tenuous by sunlight. The sun brightened the kaleidoscopic earthscape below us, so that rivers and canals looked like quicksilver threads, and even the railway lines glistened. The summer countryside, as viewed from an aeroplane, is to my mind the finest scene in the world--an unexampled scene, of which poets will sing in the coming days of universal flight. The varying browns and greens of the field-pattern merge into one another delicately; the woods, splashes of bottle-green, relieve the patchwork of hedge from too ordered a scheme; rivers and roads criss-cross in riotous manner over the vast tapestry; pleasant villages and farm buildings snuggle in the valleys or straggle on the slopes. The wide and changing perspective is full of a harmony unspoiled by the jarring notes evident on solid ground. Ugliness and dirt are camouflaged by the clean top of everything. Grimy towns and jerry-built suburbs seem almost attractive when seen in mass from a height. Slums, the dead uniformity of long rows of houses, sordid back-gardens, bourgeois public statues--all these eyesores are mercifully hidden by the roofed surface. The very factory chimneys have a certain air of impressiveness, in common with church towers and the higher buildings. Once, on flying over the pottery town of Coalport--the most uninviting place I have ever visited--I found that the altered perspective made it look delightful. A westward course, with the fringe of London away on our left, brought us to the coast-line all too soon. Passing Dovstone, the bus continued across the Channel. A few ships, tiny and slow-moving when observed from a machine at 8000 feet and travelling 100 miles an hour, spotted the sea. A cluster of what were probably destroyers threw out trails of dark smoke. From above mid-Channel we could see plainly the two coasts--that of England knotted into small creeks and capes, that of France bent into large curves, except for the sharp corner at Grisnez. Behind was Blighty, with its greatness and its--sawdust. Ahead was the province of battle, with its good-fellowship and its--mud. I lifted the puppy to show him his new country, but he merely exhibited boredom and a dislike of the sudden rush of air. From Cape Grisnez we steered north-east towards Calais, so as to have a clearly defined course to the aircraft depôt of Saint Gregoire. After a cross-Channel flight one notes a marked difference between the French and English earthscapes. The French towns and villages seem to sprawl less than those of England, and the countryside in general is more compact and regular. The roads are straight and tree-bordered, so that they form almost as good a guide to an airman as the railways. In England the roads twist and twirl through each other like the threads of a spider's web, and failing rail or river or prominent landmarks, one usually steers by compass rather than trust to roads. At Calais we turned to the right and followed a network of canals south-westward to Saint Gregoire, where was an aircraft depôt similar to the one at Rafborough. New machines call at Saint Gregoire before passing to the service of aerodromes, and in its workshops machines damaged but repairable are made fit for further service. It is also a higher training centre for airmen. Before they join a squadron pilots fresh from their instruction in England gain experience on service machines belonging to the "pool" at Saint Gregoire. Having been told by telephone from my squadron that one of our pilots had been detailed to take the recently arrived bus to the Somme, I awaited his arrival and passed the time to good purpose in watching the aerobatics and sham fights of the pool pupils. Every now and then another plane from England would arrive high over the aerodrome, spiral down and land into the wind. The ferry-pilot who had brought me left for Rafborough almost immediately on a much-flown "quirk." The machine he had delivered at Saint Gregoire was handed over to a pilot from Umpty Squadron when the latter reported, and we took to the air soon after lunch. The puppy travelled by road over the last lap of his long journey, in the company of a lorry driver. The bus headed east while climbing, for we had decided to follow the British lines as far as the Somme, a course which would be prolific in interesting sights, and which would make us eligible for that rare gift of the gods, an air-fight over friendly territory. The coloured panorama below gave place gradually to a wilderness--ugly brown and pock-marked. The roads became bare and dented, the fields were mottled by shell-holes, the woods looked like scraggy patches of burnt furze. It was a district of great deeds and glorious deaths--the desolation surrounding the Fronts of yesterday and to-day. North of Ypres we turned to the right and hovered awhile over this city of ghosts. Seen from above, the shell of the ancient city suggests a grim reflection on the mutability of beauty. I sought a comparison, and could think of nothing but the skeleton of a once charming woman. The ruins stood out in a magnificent disorder that was starkly impressive. Walls without roof, buildings with two sides, churches without tower, were everywhere prominent, as though proud to survive the orgy of destruction. The shattered Cathedral retained much of its former grandeur. Only the old Cloth Hall, half-razed and without arch or belfry, seemed to cry for vengeance on the vandalism that wrecked it. The gaping skeleton was grey-white, as if sprinkled by the powder of decay. And one fancies that at night-time the ghosts of 1915 mingle with the ghosts of Philip of Spain's era of conquest and the ghosts of great days in other centuries, as they search the ruins for relics of the city they knew. Left of us was the salient, studded with broken villages that became household names during the two epic Battles of Ypres. The brown soil was dirty, shell-ploughed, and altogether unlovely. Those strange markings, which from our height looked like the tortuous pathways of a serpent, were the trenches, old and new, front-line, support, and communication. Small saps projected from the long lines at every angle. So complicated was the jumble that the sinister region of No Man's Land, with its shell-holes, dead bodies, and barbed wire, was scarcely distinguishable. A brown strip enclosed the trenches and wound northward and southward. Its surface had been torn and battered by innumerable shells. On its fringe, among the copses and crests, were the guns, though these were evidenced only by an occasional flash. Behind, in front, and around them were those links in the chain of war, the oft-cut telephone wires. The desolation seemed utterly bare, though one knew that over and under it, hidden from eyes in the air, swarmed the slaves of the gun, the rifle, and the bomb. Following the belt of wilderness southward, we were obliged to veer to the right at St. Eloi, so as to round a sharp bend. Below the bend, and on the wrong side of it, was the Messines Ridge, the recent capture of which has straightened the line as far as Hooge, and flattened the Ypres salient out of existence as a salient. Next came the torn and desolate outline of Plug Street Wood, and with it reminiscences of a splendid struggle against odds when shell-shortage hampered our 1915 armies. Armentières appeared still worthy to be called a town. It was battered, but much less so than Ypres, possibly because it was a hotbed of German espionage until last year. The triangular denseness of Lille loomed up from the flat soil on our left. As we passed down the line the brown band narrowed until it seemed a strip of discoloured water-marked ribbon sewn over the mosaic of open country. The trench-lines were monotonous in their sameness. The shell-spotted area bulged at places, as for example Festubert, Neuve Chapelle (of bitter memory), Givenchy, Hulluch, and Loos. Lens, well behind the German trenches in those days, showed few marks of bombardment. The ribbon of ugliness widened again between Souchez and the yet uncaptured Vimy Ridge, but afterwards contracted as far as Arras, that ragged sentinel of the war frontier. At Arras we entered our own particular province, which, after months of flying over it, I knew better than my native county. Gun-flashes became numerous, kite balloons hung motionless, and we met restless aeroplane formations engaged on defensive patrols. With these latter on guard our chance of a scrap with roving enemy craft would have been remote; though for that matter neither we nor they saw a single black-crossed machine throughout the afternoon. From Gommecourt to the Somme was an area of concentrated destruction. The wilderness swelled outwards, becoming twelve miles wide at parts. Tens of thousands of shells had pocked the dirty soil, scores of mine explosions had cratered it. Only the pen of a Zola could describe adequately the zone's intense desolation, as seen from the air. Those ruins, suggestive of abandoned scrap-heaps, were formerly villages. They had been made familiar to the world through matter-of-fact reports of attack and counter-attack, capture and recapture. Each had a tale to tell of systematic bombardment, of crumbling walls, of wild hand-to-hand fighting, of sudden evacuation and occupation. Now they were nothing but useless piles of brick and glorious names--Thiepval, Pozières, La Boiselle, Guillemont, Flers, Hardecourt, Guinchy, Combles, Bouchavesnes, and a dozen others. Of all the crumbled roads the most striking was the long, straight one joining Albert and Bapaume. It looked fairly regular for the most part, except where the trenches cut it. Beyond the scrap-heap that once was Pozières two enormous quarries dipped into the earth on either side of the road. Until the Messines explosion they were the largest mine craters on the western front. Farther along the road was the scene of the first tank raids, where on September 16 the metal monsters waddled across to the gaping enemy and ate up his pet machine-gun emplacements before he had time to recover from his surprise. At the road's end was the forlorn stronghold of Bapaume. One by one the lines of defence before it had been stormed, and it was obvious that the town must fall, though its capture was delayed until months later by a fierce defence at the Butte de Warlencourt and elsewhere. The advance towards Bapaume was of special interest to R.F.C. squadrons on the Somme, for the town had been a troublesome centre of anti-aircraft devilries. Our field-guns now being too close for Herr Archie, he had moved to more comfortable headquarters. Some eight miles east of Bapaume the Bois d'Havrincourt stood out noticeably. Around old Mossy-Face, as the wood was known in R.F.C. messes, were clustered many Boche aerodromes. Innumerable duels had been fought in the air-country between Mossy-Face and the lines. Every fine day the dwellers in the trenches before Bapaume saw machines swerving round each other in determined effort to destroy. This region was the hunting-ground of many dead notabilities of the air, including the Fokker stars Boelcke and Immelmann, besides British pilots as brilliant but less advertised. Below the Pozières-Bapaume road were five small woods, grouped like the Great Bear constellation of stars. Their roots were feeding on hundreds of dead bodies, after each of the five--Trones, Mametz, Foureaux, Delville, and Bouleaux--had seen wild encounters with bomb and bayonet beneath its dead trees. Almost in the same position relative to the cluster of woods as is the North Star to the Great Bear, was a scrap-heap larger than most, amid a few walls yet upright. This was all that remained of the fortress of Combles. For two years the enemy strengthened it by every means known to military science, after which the British and French rushed in from opposite sides and met in the main street. A few minutes down the line brought our machine to the sparkling Somme, the white town of Péronne, and the then junction of the British and French lines. We turned north-west and made for home. Passing over some lazy sausage balloons, we reached Albert. Freed at last from the intermittent shelling from which it suffered for so long, the town was picking up the threads of activity. The sidings were full of trucks, and a procession of some twenty lorries moved slowly up the road to Bouzincourt. As reminder of anxious days, we noted a few skeleton roofs, and the giant Virgin Mary in tarnished gilt, who, after withstanding bombardments sufficient to have wrecked a cathedral, leaned over at right angles to her pedestal, suspended in apparently miraculous fashion by the three remaining girders. We flew once more over a countryside of multi-coloured crops and fantastic woods, and so to the aerodrome. * * * * * Snatches of familiar flying-talk, unheard during the past ten days of leave, floated from the tea-table as I entered the mess: "Folded up as he pulled out of the dive--weak factor of safety--side-slipped away from Archie--vertical gust--choked on the fine adjustment--made rings round the Hun--went down in flames near Douai." The machine that "went down in flames near Douai" was piloted by the man whose puppy I had brought from England. CHAPTER VI. A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE. Clouds, say the text-books of meteorology, are collections of partly condensed water vapour or of fine ice crystals. Clouds, mentioned in terms of the newspaper and the club, are dingy masses of nebulousness under which the dubious politician, company promoter, or other merchant of hot air is hidden from open attack and exposure. Clouds, to the flying officer on active service, are either useful friends or unstrafeable enemies. The hostile clouds are very high and of the ice-crystal variety. They form a light background, against which aeroplanes are boldly silhouetted, to the great advantage of anti-aircraft gunners. The friendly or water-vapour clouds are to be found several thousands of feet lower. If a pilot be above them they help him to dodge writs for trespass, which Archibald the bailiff seeks to hand him. When numerous enough to make attempts at observation ineffective, they perform an even greater service for him--that of arranging for a day's holiday. And at times the R.F.C. pilot, like the man with a murky past, is constrained to have clouds for a covering against attack; as you shall see if you will accompany me on the trip about to be described. * * * * * The period is the latter half of September, 1916, a time of great doings on the Somme front. After a few weeks of comparative inaction--if methodical consolidation and intense artillery preparation can be called inaction--the British are once more denting the Boche line. Flers, Martinpuich, Courcelette, and Eaucourt l'Abbaye have fallen within the past week, and the tanks have made their first ungainly bow before the curtain of war, with the superlatives of the war correspondent in close attendance. Leave from France has been cancelled indefinitely. Our orders are to carry through all the reconnaissance work allotted to us, even though weather conditions place such duties near the border-line of possible accomplishment. That is why we now propose to leave the aerodrome, despite a great lake of cloud that only allows the sky to be seen through rare gaps, and a sixty-mile wind that will fight us on the outward journey. Under these circumstances we shall probably find no friendly craft east of the trenches, and, as a consequence, whatever Hun machines are in the air will be free to deal with our party. However, since six machines are detailed for the job, I console myself with the old tag about safety in numbers. We rise to a height of 3000 feet, and rendezvous there. From the flight-commander's bus I look back to see how the formation is shaping, and discover that we number but five, one machine having failed to start by reason of a dud engine. We circle the aerodrome, waiting for a sixth bus, but nobody is sent to join us. The "Carry on" signal shows up from the ground, and we head eastward. After climbing another fifteen hundred feet, we enter the clouds. It is now impossible to see more than a yard or two through the intangible wisps of grey-white vapour that seem to float around us, so that our formation loses its symmetry, and we become scattered. Arrived in the clear atmosphere above the clouds my pilot throttles down until the rear machines have appeared and re-formed. We then continue in the direction of the trenches, with deep blue infinity above and the unwieldy cloud-banks below. Familiar landmarks show up from time to time through holes in the white screen. Against the violent wind, far stronger than we found it near the ground, we make laboured progress. Evidently, two of the formation are in difficulties, for they drop farther and farther behind. Soon one gives in and turns back, the pilot being unable to maintain pressure for his petrol supply. I shout the news through the speaking-tube, and hear, in reply from the flight-commander, a muffled comment, which might be "Well!" but it is more likely to be something else. Three minutes later the second bus in trouble turns tail. Its engine has been missing on one cylinder since the start, and is not in a fit state for a trip over enemy country. Again I call to the leader, and again hear a word ending in "ell." The two remaining machines close up, and we continue. Very suddenly one of them drops out, with a rocker-arm gone. Its nose goes down, and it glides into the clouds. Yet again I call the flight-commander's attention to our dwindling numbers, and this time I cannot mistake the single-syllabled reply. It is a full-throated "Hell!" For my part I compare the party to the ten little nigger boys, and wonder when the only survivor, apart from our own machine, will leave. I look towards it anxiously. The wings on one side are much lighter than those on the other, and I therefore recognise it as the Tripehound's bus. There is ground for misgiving, for on several occasions during the past ten minutes it has seemed to fly in an erratic manner. The cause of this, as we find out on our return, is that for five minutes the Tripehound has been leaning over the side, with the joystick held between his knees while attempting to fasten a small door in the cowling round the engine, left open by a careless mechanic. It is important to shut the opening, as otherwise the wind may rush inside and tear off the cowling. Just as a short band of the trench line south of Arras can be seen through a gap, the Tripehound, having found that he cannot possibly reach far enough to close the protruding door, signals that he must go home. I do not feel altogether sorry to see our last companion leave, as we have often been told not to cross the lines on a reconnaissance flight with less than three machines; and with the wind and the low clouds, which now form an opaque window, perforated here and there by small holes, a long observation journey over Bocheland by a single aeroplane does not seem worth while. But the flight-commander, remembering the recent order about completing a reconnaissance at all costs, thinks differently and decides to go on. To get our bearings he holds down the nose of the machine until we have descended beneath the clouds, and into full view of the open country. We find ourselves a mile or two beyond Arras. As soon as the bus appears it is bracketed in front, behind, and on both sides by black shell-bursts. We swerve aside, but more shells quickly follow. The shooting is particularly good, for the Archie people have the exact range of the low clouds slightly above us. Three times we hear the hiss of flying fragments of high explosive, and the lower left plane is unevenly punctured. We lose height for a second to gather speed, and then, to my relief, the pilot zooms up to a cloud. Although the gunners can no longer see their target, they loose off a few more rounds and trust to luck that a stray shell may find us. These bursts are mostly far wide of the mark, although two of them make ugly black blotches against the whiteness of the vapour through which we are rising. Once more we emerge into the open space between sky and cloud. The flight-commander takes the mouthpiece of his telephone tube and shouts to me that he intends completing the round above the clouds. To let me search for railway and other traffic he will descend into view of the ground at the most important points. He now sets a compass course for Toutprès, the first large town of the reconnaissance, while I search all around for possible enemies. At present the sky is clear, but at any minute enemy police craft may appear from the unbroken blue or rise through the clouds. The slowness of our ground speed, due to the fierce wind, allows me plenty of time to admire the strangely beautiful surroundings. Above is the inverted bowl of blue, bright for the most part, but duller towards the horizon-rim. The sun pours down a vivid light, which spreads quicksilver iridescence over the cloud-tops. Below is the cloud-scape, fantastic and far-stretching. The shadow of our machine is surrounded by a halo of sunshine as it darts along the irregular white surface. The clouds dip, climb, twist, and flatten into every conceivable shape. Thrown together as they never could be on solid earth are outlines of the wildest and tamest features of a world unspoiled by battlefield, brick towns, ruins, or other ulcers on the face of nature. Jagged mountains, forests, dainty hills, waterfalls, heavy seas, plateaux, precipices, quiet lakes, rolling plains, caverns, chasms, and dead deserts merge into one another, all in a uniform white, as though wrapped in cotton wool and laid out for inspection in haphazard continuity. And yet, for all its mad irregularity, the cloud-scape from above is perfectly harmonious and never tiring. One wants to land on the clean surface and explore the jungled continent. Sometimes, when passing a high projection, the impulse comes to lean over and grab a handful of the fleecy covering. After being shut off from the ground for a quarter of an hour, we are able to look down through a large chasm. Two parallel canals cut across it, and these we take to be part of the canal junction below Toutprès. This agrees with our estimate of speed, wind, and time, according to which we should be near the town. The pilot takes the machine through the clouds, and we descend a few hundred feet below them. To disconcert Archie we travel in zigzags, while I search for items of interest. A train is moving south, and another is entering Toutprès from the east. A few barges are dotted among the various canals. Bordering a wood to the west is an aerodrome. About a dozen aeroplanes are in line on the ground, but the air above it is empty of Boche craft. Evidently the Huns below had not expected a visit from hostile machines on such a day, for Archie allows several minutes to pass before introducing himself. A black puff then appears on our level some distance ahead. We change direction, but the gunners find our new position and send bursts all round the bus. The single _wouff_ of the first shot has become a jerky chorus that swells or dwindles according to the number of shells and their nearness. I signal to the flight-commander that I have finished with Toutprès, whereupon we climb into the clouds and comparative safety. We rise above the white intangibility and steer north-east, in the direction of Passementerie. I continue to look for possible aggressors. The necessity for a careful look-out is shown when a group of black specks appears away to the south, some fifteen hundred feet above us. In this area and under to-day's weather conditions, the odds are a hundred to one that they will prove to be Boches. We lose height until our bus is on the fringe of the clouds and ready to escape out of sight. Apparently the newcomers do not spot us in the first place, for they are flying transverse to our line of flight. A few minutes later they make the discovery, turn in our direction, and begin a concerted dive. All this while I have kept my field-glasses trained on them, and as one machine turns I can see the Maltese crosses painted on the wings. The question of the strangers' nationality being answered, we slip into a cloud to avoid attack. The flight-commander thinks it advisable to remain hidden by keeping inside the clouds. He must therefore steer entirely by compass, without sun or landmark to guide him. As we leave the clear air a left movement of the rudder, without corresponding bank, swings the machine to the north, so that its nose points away from the desired course. The pilot puts on a fraction of right rudder to counteract the deviation. We veer eastward, but rather too much, if the swaying needle of the compass is to be believed. A little left rudder again puts the needle into an anti-clockwise motion. With his attention concentrated on our direction, the pilot, impatient at waiting for the needle to become steady, unconsciously kicks the rudder-controls, first to one side, then to the other. The needle begins to swing around, and the compass is thus rendered useless for the time being. For the next minute or two, until it is safe to leave the clouds, the pilot must now keep the machine straight by instinct, and trust to his sense of direction. A similar mishap often happens when flying through cloud. Pilots have been known to declare that all compasses are liable to swing of their own accord when in clouds, though the real explanation is probably that they themselves have disturbed the needle unduly by a continuous pressure on each side of the rudder-bar in turn, thus causing an oscillation of the rudder and a consequent zigzagged line of flight. The trouble is more serious than it would seem to the layman, as when the compass is out of action, and no other guides are available, one tends to drift round in a large circle, like a man lost in the jungle. Should the craft be driven by a rotary engine, the torque, or outward wash from the propeller, may make a machine edge more and more to the left, unless the pilot is careful to allow for this tendency. Such a drift to the left has taken us well to the north of a straight line between Toutprès and Passementerie, as we discover on leaving the clouds for a second or two, so as to correct the error with the aid of landmarks. But the compass has again settled down to good behaviour, and we are able to get a true course before we climb back to the sheltering whiteness. A flight inside the clouds is far from pleasant. We are hemmed in by a drifting formlessness that looks like thin steam, but, unlike steam, imparts a sensation of coldness and clamminess. The eye cannot penetrate farther than about a yard beyond the wing tips. Nothing is to be seen but the aeroplane, nothing is to be heard but the droning hum of the engine, which seems louder than ever amid the isolation. I am bored, cold, and uncomfortable. Time drags along lamely; five minutes masquerade as half an hour, and only by repeated glances at the watch do I convince myself that we cannot yet have reached the next objective. I study the map for no particular reason except that it is something to do. Then I decide that the Lewis gun ought to be fired as a test whether the working parts are still in good order. I hold the spade-grip, swing round the circular mounting until the gun points to the side, and loose five rounds into the unpleasant vapour. The flight-commander, startled at the sudden clatter, turns round. Finding that the fire was mine and not an enemy's, he shakes his fist as a protest against the sudden disturbance. Even this action is welcome, as being evidence of companionship. When the pilot, judging that Passementerie should be below, takes the machine under the clouds, I feel an immense relief, even though the exit is certain to make us a target for Archie. We emerge slightly to the west of the town. There is little to be observed; the railways are bare of trains, and the station contains only an average number of trucks. Four black-crossed aeroplanes are flying over their aerodrome at a height of some two thousand feet. Three of them begin to climb, perhaps in an attempt to intercept us. However, our bus has plenty of time to disappear, and this we do quickly--so quickly that the A.-A. batteries have only worried us to the extent of half a dozen shells, all wide of the mark. We rise right through the white screen into full view of the sun. Apparently the sky is clear of intruders, so we turn for three-quarters of a circle and head for Plusprès, the third point of call. The wind now being behind the machine in a diagonal direction, our speed in relation to the ground is twice the speed of the outward half of the journey. The sun is pleasantly warming, and I look towards it gratefully. A few small marks, which may or may not be sun-spots, flicker across its face. To get an easier view I draw my goggles, the smoke-tinted glasses of which allow me to look at the glare without blinking. In a few seconds I am able to recognise the spots as distant aeroplanes moving in our direction. Probably they are the formation that we encountered on the way to Passementerie. Their object in keeping between us and the sun is to remain unobserved with the help of the blinding stream of light, which throws a haze around them. I call the pilot's attention to the scouts, and yet again we fade into the clouds. This time, with the sixty-mile wind as our friend, there is no need to remain hidden for long. Quite soon we shall have to descend to look at Plusprès, the most dangerous point on the round. When we take another look at earth I find that the pilot has been exact in timing our arrival at the important Boche base--too exact, indeed, for we find ourselves directly over the centre of the town. Only somebody who has been Archied from Plusprès can realise what it means to fly right over the stronghold at four thousand feet. The advanced lines of communication that stretch westward to the Arras-Péronne front all hinge on Plusprès, and for this reason it often shows activity of interest to the aeroplane observer and his masters. The Germans are therefore highly annoyed when British aircraft arrive on a tour of inspection. To voice their indignation they have concentrated many anti-aircraft guns around the town. What is worse, the Archie fire at Plusprès is more accurate than at any other point away from the actual front, as witness the close bracket formed by the sighting shots that greet our solitary bus. From a hasty glance at the station and railway lines, while we slip away to another level, I gather that many trains and much rolling stock are to be bagged. The work will have to be done under serious difficulties in the shape of beastly black bursts and the repeated changes of direction necessary to dodge them. We bank sharply, side-slip, lose height, regain it, and perform other erratic evolutions likely to spoil the gunners' aim; but the area is so closely sprinkled by shells that, to whatever point the machine swerves, we always hear the menacing report of bursting H.E. It is no easy matter to observe accurately while in my present condition of "wind up," created by the coughing of Archie. I lean over to count the stationary trucks in the sidings. "_Wouff_, _wouff_, _wouff_," interrupts Archie from a spot deafeningly near; and I withdraw into "the office," otherwise the observer's cockpit. Follows a short lull, during which I make another attempt to count the abnormal amount of rolling stock. "_Wouff--Hs--sss!_" shrieks another shell, as it throws a large H.E. splinter past our tail. Again I put my head in the office. I write down an approximate estimate of the number of trucks, and no longer attempt to sort them out, so many to a potential train. A hunt over the railway system reveals no fewer than twelve trains. These I pencil-point on my map, as far as I am able to locate them. A massed collection of vehicles remain stationary in what must be either a large square or the market-place. I attempt to count them, but am stopped by a report louder than any of the preceding ones. Next instant I find myself pressed tightly against the seat. The whole of the machine is lifted about a hundred feet by the compression from a shell that has exploded a few yards beneath our undercarriage. I begin to wonder whether all our troubles have been swept away by a direct hit; but an examination of the machine shows no damage beyond a couple of rents in the fabric of the fuselage. That finishes my observation work for the moment. Not with a court-martial as the only alternative could I carry on the job until we have left Archie's inferno of frightfulness. The flight-commander is of the same mind, and we nose into the clouds, pursued to the last by the insistent smoke-puffs. When the bus is once again flying between sky and cloud, we begin to feel more at home. No other craft come within range of vision, so that without interruption we reach Aucoin, the fourth railway junction to be spied upon. The rolling stock there is scarcely enough for two train-loads, and no active trains can be spotted. We hover above the town for a minute, and then leave for Boislens. The machine now points westward and homeward, and thus has the full benefit of the wind, which accelerates our ground speed to about a hundred and fifty miles an hour. The gods take it into their heads to be kind, for we are not obliged to descend through the clouds over Boislens, as the region can be seen plainly through a gap large enough to let me count the R.S. and note that a train, with steam up, stands in the station. As Boislens is the last town mentioned by the H.Q. people who mapped out the reconnaissance, the job is all but completed. Yet twelve miles still separate us from the nearest bend of the trench line, and a twelve-mile area contains plenty of room for a fight. Since the open atmosphere shows no warning of an attack, I look closely toward the sun--for a fast scout will often try to surprise a two-seater by approaching between its quarry and the sun. At first I am conscious of nothing but a strong glare; but when my goggled eyes become accustomed to the brightness, I see, or imagine I see, an indistinct oblong object surrounded by haze. I turn away for a second to avoid the oppressive light. On seeking the sun again I find the faint oblong more pronounced. For one instant it deviates from the straight line between our bus and the sun, and I then recognise it as an aeroplane. I also discover that a second machine is hovering two thousand feet above the first. The chief hobby of the flight-commander is to seek a scrap. Immediately I make known to him the presence of hostile craft he tests his gun in readiness for a fight. Knowing by experience that if he starts manoeuvring round a Hun he will not break away while there is the slightest chance of a victory, I remind him, by means of a note-book leaf, that since our job is a reconnaissance, the R.F.C. law is to return quickly with our more or less valuable information, and to abstain from such luxuries as unnecessary fights, unless a chance can be seized over British ground. Although he does not seem too pleased at the reminder he puts down the nose of the machine, so as to cross the lines in the shortest possible time. The first Hun scout continues the dive to within three hundred yards, at which range I fire a few short bursts, by way of an announcement to the Boche that we are ready for him and protected from the rear. He flattens out and sits behind our tail at a respectful distance, until the second scout has joined him. The two separate and prepare to swoop down one from each side. But we are now passing the trenches, and just as one of our attackers begins to dive, a formation of de Havilands (British pusher scouts) arrives to investigate. The second Boche plants himself between us and the newcomers, while his companion continues to near until he is a hundred and fifty yards from us. At this range I rattle through the rest of the ammunition drum, and the Hun swerves aside. We now recognise the machine as an Albatross scout or "German spad," a most successful type that only entered the lists a fortnight beforehand. Finding that they have to reckon with five de Havilands, the two Huns turn sharply and race eastward, their superior speed saving them from pursuit. We pass through the clouds for the last time on the trip, and fly home very soberly, while I piece together my hurried notes. The Squadron Commander meets us in the aerodrome with congratulations and a desire for information. "Seen anything?" he asks. "Fourteen trains and some M.T.," I reply. "And a few thousand clouds," adds the flight-commander. By the time I have returned from the delivery of my report at G.H.Q., the wing office has sent orders that we are to receive a mild censure for carrying out a reconnaissance with only one machine. The Squadron Commander grins as he delivers the reproof, so that we do not feel altogether crushed. "Don't do it again," he concludes. As we have not the least desire to do it again, the order is likely to be obeyed. CHAPTER VII. ENDS AND ODDS. As a highly irresponsible prophet I am convinced that towards the end of the war hostilities in the air will become as decisive as hostilities on land or sea. An obvious corollary is that the how and when of peace's coming must be greatly influenced by the respective progress, during the next two years, of the belligerents' flying services. This view is far less fantastic than the whirlwind development of war-flying witnessed by all of us since 1914. Indeed, to anybody with a little imagination and some knowledge of what is in preparation among the designers and inventors of various countries, that statement would seem more self-evident than extreme. Even the average spectator of aeronautical advance in the past three years must see that if anything like the same rate of growth be maintained, by the end of 1918 aircraft numbered in tens of thousands and with extraordinary capacities for speed, climb, and attack will make life a burden to ground troops, compromise lines of communication, cause repeated havoc to factories and strongholds, and promote loss of balance among whatever civilian populations come within range of their activity. To emphasise the startling nature of aeronautical expansion--past, present, and future--let us trace briefly the progress of the British Flying Corps from pre-war conditions to their present state of high efficiency. When the Haldane-Asquith brotherhood were caught napping, the Flying Corps possessed a seventy odd (very odd) aeroplanes, engined by the unreliable Gnome and the low-powered Renault. Fortunately it also possessed some very able officers, and these succeeded at the outset in making good use of doubtful material. One result of the necessary reconstruction was that a large section of the original corps seceded to the Navy and the remainder came under direct control of the Army. The Royal Naval Air Service began to specialise in bomb raids, while the Royal Flying Corps (Military Wing) sent whatever machines it could lay hands on to join the old contemptibles in France. Both services proceeded to increase in size and importance at break-neck speed. The rapid expansion of the R.N.A.S. allowed for a heavy surplus of men and machines beyond the supply necessary for the purely naval branch of the service. From this force a number of squadrons went to the Dardanelles, Africa, the Tigris, and other subsidiary theatres of war; and an important base was established at Dunkirk, whence countless air attacks were made on all military centres in Belgium. Many more R.N.A.S. squadrons, well provided with trained pilots and good machines, patrolled the East Coast while waiting for an opportunity of active service. This came early in 1917, when, under the wise supervision of the Air Board, the section of the Naval Air Service not concerned with naval matters was brought into close touch with the Royal Flying Corps, after it had pursued a lone trail for two years. The Flying Corps units on the Western Front and elsewhere are now splendidly backed by help from the sister service. For the present purpose, therefore, the military efforts of the R.N.A.S. can be included with those of the R.F.C., after a tribute has been paid to the bombing offensives for which the Naval Air Service has always been famous, from early exploits with distant objectives such as Cuxhaven and Friedrichshafen to this year's successful attacks on German munition works, in conjunction with the French, and the countless trips from Dunkirk that are making the Zeebrugge-Ostend-Bruges sector such an unhappy home-from-home for U-boats, destroyers, and raiding aircraft. Meanwhile the seaplane branch, about which little is heard, has reached a high level of efficiency. When the screen of secrecy is withdrawn from the North Sea, we shall hear very excellent stories of what the seaplanes have accomplished lately in the way of scouting, chasing the Zeppelin, and hunting the U-boat. But from the nature of its purpose, the R.F.C. has borne the major part of our aerial burden during the war. In doing so, it has grown from a tiny band of enthusiasts and experimentalists to a great service which can challenge comparison with any other branch of the Army. The history of this attainment is intensely interesting. The few dozen airmen who accompanied the contemptible little army on the retreat from Mons had no precedents from other campaigns to guide them, and the somewhat vague dictum that their function was to gather information had to be interpreted by pioneer methods. These were satisfactory under the then conditions of warfare, inasmuch as valuable information certainly was gathered during the retreat, when a blind move would have meant disaster,--how valuable only the chiefs of the hard-pressed force can say. This involved more than the average difficulties, for as the battle swayed back towards Paris new landing-grounds had to be sought, and temporary aerodromes improvised every few days. The small collection of serviceable aeroplanes again justified themselves at the decisive stand in the Marne and Ourcq basin, where immediate reports of enemy concentrations were essential to victory. Again, after the Hun had been swept across the Aisne and was stretching north-eastward tentacles to clutch as much of the coast as was consonant with an unbroken line, the aerial spying out of the succeeding phases of retirement was of great service. Indeed, tentative though it was, the work of the British, French, and German machines before the advent of trench warfare proved how greatly air reconnaissance would alter the whole perspective of an open country campaign. After the long barrier of trenches deadlocked the chances of extended movement and opened the dreary months of more or less stationary warfare, the R.F.C. organisation in France had time and space for self-development. Aerodromes were selected and erected, the older and less satisfactory types of machine were replaced by the stable B.E2.C., the active service squadrons were reconstructed and multiplied. To the observation of what happened behind the actual front was added the mapping of the enemy's intricate trench-mosaic. For a month or two this was accomplished by the methodical sketches of a few observers. It was an exceedingly difficult task to trace every trench and sap and to pattern the network from a height of about 2000 feet, but the infantry found small ground for dissatisfaction as regards the accuracy or completeness of the observers' drawings. Then came the introduction of aerial photography on a large scale, and with it a complete bird's-eye plan of all enemy defence works, pieced together from a series of overhead snapshots that reproduced the complete trench-line, even to such details as barbed wire. By the infallible revelations of the camera, untricked by camouflage, concealed gun positions were spotted for the benefit of our artillery, and highly useful information about likely objectives was provided for the bombing craft. The frequent bombing of German supply centres in Belgium and North France came into being with the development of aerial photography. Owing to the difficulty of correct aim, before the advent of modern bomb-sights, all the early raids were carried out from a low altitude, sometimes from only a few hundred feet. For every purpose, moreover, low altitudes were the rule in the earlier months of the war, as most of the machines would not climb above 4000-7000 feet. Much of the observation was performed at something between 1000 and 2000 feet, so that aircraft often returned with a hundred or so bullet-holes in them. Meanwhile the important work of artillery spotting was being developed. New systems of co-operation between artillery and aeroplanes were devised, tested, and improved. At first lamps or Very's lights were used to signal code-corrections, but these were soon replaced by wireless transmission from the observation machine. Targets which could not be ranged on through ground observation posts became targets no longer, after one shoot ranged from the air. As the number of available aircraft increased, so did the amount of observation for the guns, until finally the entire front opposite the British was registered for bombardment and divided into sections covered by specified artillery machines. Aerial fighting, now so essential and scientific a branch of modern war, was rudimentary in 1914. Pilots and observers of the original Flying Corps carried revolvers, and many observers also equipped themselves with rifles, but the aeroplanes were not fitted with machine-guns. Such scraps as there were consisted of one machine manoeuvring round an opponent at close quarters for the chance of a well-aimed shot. Under these circumstances to "bring down" or "drive down out of control" an enemy was extremely difficult, though a very gallant officer, since killed in action, once killed two German pilots within five minutes with his revolver. Soon the possibilities of aerial machine-guns were quickly recognised. The R.F.C. adopted the Lewis, which from the points of view of lightness and handiness was well suited for aircraft, and the German airmen countered with a modified Hotchkiss and other types. But the stable observation machines, while excellent for reconnaissance and artillery spotting, allowed their crews only a small arc of fire, and not until the German single-seater scouts and our Bristol scout, then a comparatively fast machine, appeared on the western front in the spring of 1915 did the destruction of aeroplanes become an everyday occurrence. With the introduction of scouts for escort and protective duties came formation flying and concerted attack. Fighting craft continued to increase in speed and numbers. As the struggle became more and more intense, so did the scene of it move higher and higher, prodded by an ever-growing capacity for climb and the ever-growing menace of the anti-aircraft guns. The average air battle of to-day begins at an altitude between 12,000 and 20,000 feet. The conflict for mechanical superiority has had its ebb and flow, and consequently of its proportional casualties; but the British have never once been turned from their programme of observation. There have been critical times, as for example when the Fokker scourge of late 1915 and early 1916 laid low so many of the observation craft. But the Fokkers were satisfactorily dealt with by the de Haviland and the F.E.8. pusher scouts and the F.E. "battleplane," as the newspapers of the period delighted to call it. Next the pendulum swung towards the British, who kept the whip hand during the summer and autumn of last year. Even when the Boche again made a bid for ascendancy with the Halberstadt, the Roland, the improved L.V.G., and the modern Albatross scout, the Flying Corps organisation kept the situation well in hand, though the supply of faster machines was complicated by the claims of the R.N.A.S. squadrons in England. Throughout the Somme Push we were able to maintain that aerial superiority without which a great offensive cannot succeed. This was partly the result of good organisation and partly of the fighting capabilities of the men who piloted the Sopwith, the Nieuport, the de Haviland, the F.E., and other 1916 planes which were continually at grips with the Hun. The German airmen, with their "travelling circuses" of twelve to fifteen fast scouts, once more had an innings in the spring of the current year, and the older types of British machine were hard put to it to carry through their regular work. Then came the great day when scores of our new machines, husbanded for the occasion, engaged the enemy hell-for-leather at his own place in the air. An untiring offensive was continued by our patrols, and the temporary supremacy passed into British hands, where it very definitely remains, and where, if the shadows of coming events and the silhouettes of coming machines materialise, it is likely to remain. Judged on a basis of losses, the unceasing struggle between aeroplane and aeroplane would seem to have been fairly equal, though it must be remembered that three-quarters of the fighting has had for its _milieu_ the atmosphere above enemy territory. Judged on a basis of the maintenance of adequate observation, which is the primary object of aerial attack and defence, the British have won consistently. At no time has the R.F.C. been obliged to modify its duties of reconnaissance, artillery spotting, photography, or co-operation with advancing infantry, which was introduced successfully last summer. On the contrary, each of these functions, together with bombing and "ground stunts" from low altitudes, has swollen to an abnormal extent. An idea of the vastness of our aerial effort on the British front in France can be gathered from the R.F.C. work performed on a typical "big push" day. Throughout the night preceding an advance, several parties, laden with heavy bombs, steer by compass to Hun headquarters or other objectives, and return no longer laden with bombs. The first streak of daylight is the herald of an exodus from west to east of many score fighting craft. These cross the lines, hover among the Archie bursts, and drive back or down all black-crossed strangers within sight. Some of them go farther afield and attack the Boche above his own aerodromes. Such enemy craft as manage to take the air without meeting trouble from the advanced offensive patrols are tackled by the scouts near the lines. The few that travel still farther eastward with the intention of swooping on our observation machines, or of themselves gathering information, receive a hearty welcome from our defensive patrols. The British two-seaters are thus free to direct the artillery, link the attacking infantry with headquarters, and spy out the land. As soon as the early morning light allows, a host of planes will be darting backward and forward over the trench-line as they guide the terrific bombardment preliminary to an attack. Other machines are searching for new emplacements and signs of preparation behind the enemy trenches. Several formations carry out tactical reconnaissances around an area stretching from the lines to a radius twenty miles east of them, and further parties perform strategic reconnaissance by covering the railways, roads, and canals that link the actual front with bases thirty to ninety miles behind it. When, at a scheduled time, the infantry emerge over the top behind a curtain of shells, the contact patrol buses follow their doings, inform the gunners of any necessary modifications in the barrage, or of some troublesome nest of machine-guns, note the positions held by the attackers, collect signals from the battalion headquarters, and by means of message bags dropped over brigade headquarters report progress to the staff. If, later, a further advance be made, the low-flying contact machines again play their part of mothering the infantry. Machines fitted with cameras photograph every inch of the defences improvised by the enemy, and, as insurance against being caught unprepared by a counter-attack, an immediate warning of whatever movement is in evidence on the lines of communication will be supplied by the reconnaissance observers. Under the direction of artillery squadrons the guns pound the new Boche front line and range on troublesome batteries. The bombing craft are responsible for onslaughts on railways, supply depôts, garrison towns, headquarters, aerodromes, and chance targets. Other guerilla work is done by craft which, from a height of anything under a thousand feet, machine-gun whatever worthwhile objects they spot. A column of troops on the march, transport, ammunition waggons, a train, a stray motor-car--all these are greeted joyfully by the pilots who specialise in ground stunts. And at every hour of daylight the scouts and fighting two-seaters protect the remainder of the R.F.C. by engaging all Huns who take to the air. Doubtless, when sunset has brought the roving birds back to their nest, there will be a few "missing"; but this, part of the day's work, is a small enough sacrifice for the general achievement--the staff supplied with quick and accurate information, a hundred or two Boche batteries silenced, important works destroyed, enemy communications impeded, a dozen or so black-crossed aeroplanes brought down, valuable photographs and reports obtained, and the ground-Hun of every species harried. The German Flying Corps cannot claim to perform anything like the same amount of aerial observation as its British counterpart. It is mainly occupied in fighting air battles and hampering the foreign machines that spy on their army. To say that the German machines are barred altogether from reconnaissance and artillery direction would be exaggeration, but not wild exaggeration. Seldom can an enemy plane call and correct artillery fire for longer than half an hour. From time to time a fast machine makes a reconnaissance tour at a great height, and from time to time others dart across the lines for photography, or to search for gun positions. An appreciable proportion of these do not return. Four-fifths of the Hun bomb raids behind our front take place at night-time, when comparative freedom from attack is balanced by impossibility of accurate aim. Apart from these spasmodic activities, the German pilots concern themselves entirely with attempts to prevent allied observation. They have never yet succeeded, even during the periods of their nearest approach to the so-called "mastery of the air," and probably they never will succeed. The advantages attendant upon a maintenance of thorough observation, while whittling down the enemy's to a minimum, cannot be overestimated. To determine how much credit for the brilliant achievement I have tried to outline belongs to the skill and adaptability of British airmen, and how much to successful organisation, would be difficult and rather unnecessary. But it is obvious that those who guided the R.F.C. from neglected beginnings to the status of a great air service had a tremendous task. Only the technical mind can realise all that it has involved in the production of trained personnel, aeroplanes, engines, aircraft depôts, aerodromes, wireless equipment, photographic workshops and accessories, bombs, and a thousand and one other necessaries. Many thousand pilots have been trained in all the branches of war flying. The number of squadrons now in France would surprise the layman if one were allowed to make it public; while other squadrons have done excellent work in Macedonia, Egypt, Mesopotamia, East Africa, and elsewhere. Mention must also be made of the Home Defence groups, but for which wholesale Zeppelin raids on the country would be of common occurrence. How to make best use of the vast personnel in France is the business of the staff, who link the fighting members of the corps with the Intelligence Department and the rest of the Army in the field. To them has fallen the introduction and development of the various functions of war aircraft, besides the planning of bomb raids and concerted aerial offensives. On the equipment side there is an enormous wastage to be dealt with, and consequently a constant cross-Channel interchange of machines. The amount of necessary replacement is made specially heavy by the short life of effective craft. A type of machine is good for a few months of active service, just holds its own for a few more, and then becomes obsolete except as a training bus. To surpass or even keep pace with the Boche Flying Corps on the mechanical side, it has been necessary for the supply department to do a brisk trade in new ideas and designs, experiment, improvement, and scrapping. Although free-lance attacks by airmen on whatever takes their fancy down below are now common enough, they were unknown little over a year ago. Their early history is bound up with the introduction of contact patrols, or co-operation with advancing infantry. Previous to the Somme Push of 1916, communication during an attack between infantry on the one hand and the guns and various headquarters on the other was a difficult problem. A battalion would go over the top and disappear into the enemy lines. It might have urgent need of reinforcements or of a concentrated fire on some dangerous spot. Yet to make known its wants quickly was by no means easy, for the telephone wires were usually cut, carrier-pigeons went astray, and runners were liable to be shot. When the British introduced the "creeping barrage" of artillery pounding, which moved a little ahead of the infantry and curtained them from machine-gun and rifle fire, the need for rapid communication was greater than ever. Exultant attackers would rush forward in advance of the programmed speed and be mown by their own barrage. Credit for the trial use of the aeroplane to link artillery with infantry belongs to the British, though the French at Verdun first brought the method to practical success. We then developed the idea on the Somme with notable results. Stable machines, equipped with wireless transmitters and Klaxon horns, flew at a low height over detailed sectors, observed all developments, signalled back guidance for the barrage, and by means of message bags supplied headquarters with valuable information. Besides its main purpose of mothering the infantry, the new system of contact patrols was found to be useful in dealing with enemy movements directly behind the front line. If the bud of a counter-attack appeared, aeroplanes would call upon the guns to nip it before it had time to blossom. Last September we of the fighting and reconnaissance squadrons began to hear interesting yarns from the corps squadrons that specialised in contact patrols. An observer saved two battalions from extinction by calling up reinforcements in the nick of time. When two tanks slithered around the ruins of Courcelette two hours before the razed village was stormed, the men in the trenches would have known nothing of this unexpected advance-guard but for a contact machine. The pilot and observer of another bus saw two tanks converging eastward at either end of a troublesome Boche trench. A German officer, peering round a corner, drew back quickly when he found one of the new steel beasts advancing. He hurried to an observation post round a bend in the lines. Arrived there, he got the shock of his life when he found a second metal monster waddling towards him. Alarmed and unnerved, he probably ordered a retirement, for the trench was evacuated immediately. The observer in a watching aeroplane then delivered a much-condensed synopsis of the comedy to battalion headquarters, and the trench was peacefully occupied. Inevitably the nearness of the enemy to machines hovering over a given area bred in the airmen concerned a desire to swoop down and panic the Boche. Movement in a hostile trench was irresistible, and many a pilot shot off his engine, glided across the lines, and let his observer spray with bullets the home of the Hun. The introduction of such tactics was not planned beforehand and carried out to order. It was the outcome of a new set of circumstances and almost unconscious enterprise. More than any other aspect of war flying, it is, I believe, this imminence of the unusual that makes the average war pilot swear greatly by his job, while other soldiers temper their good work with grousing. His actions are influenced by the knowledge that somewhere, behind a ridge of clouds, in the nothingness of space, on the patchwork ground, the True Romance has hidden a new experience, which can only be found by the venturer with alert vision, a quick brain, and a fine instinct for opportunity. The free-lance ground stunt, then, had its origin in the initiative of a few pilots who recognised a chance, took it, and thus opened yet another branch in the huge departmental store of aerial tactics. The exploits of these pioneers were sealed with the stamp of official approval, and airmen on contact patrol have since been encouraged to relieve boredom by joyous pounces on Brother Boche. The star turn last year was performed by a British machine that captured a trench. The pilot guided it above the said trench for some hundred yards, while the observer emptied drum after drum of ammunition at the crouching Germans. A headlong scramble was followed by the appearance of an irregular line of white billowings. The enemy were waving handkerchiefs and strips of material in token of surrender! Whereupon our infantry were signalled to take possession, which they did. Don't shrug your shoulders, friend the reader, and say: "Quite a good story, but tall, very tall." The facts were related in the R.F.C. section of 'Comic Cuts,' otherwise G.H.Q. summary of work. Fighting squadrons soon caught the craze for ground stunts and carried it well beyond the lines. One machine chased a train for miles a few hundred feet above, derailed it, and spat bullets at the lame coaches until driven off by enemy craft. Another made what was evidently an inspection of troops by some Boche Olympian look like the riotous disorder of a Futurist painting. A pilot with some bombs to spare spiralled down over a train, dropped the first bomb on the engine, and the second, third, fourth, and fifth on the soldiers who scurried from the carriages. When a detachment of cavalry really did break through for once in a while, it was startled to find an aerial vanguard. A frolicsome biplane darted ahead, pointed out positions worthy of attack, and created a diversion with Lewis gun fire. At the end of a three-hour offensive patrol my pilot would often descend our bus to less than a thousand feet, cross No Man's Land again, and zigzag over the enemy trenches, where we disposed of surplus ammunition to good purpose. On cloudy days, with the pretext of testing a new machine or a gun, he would fly just above the clouds, until we were east of the lines, then turn round and dive suddenly through the cloud-screen in the direction of the Boche positions, firing his front gun as we dropped. The turn of my rear gun came afterwards when the pilot flattened out and steered northward along the wrong border of No Man's Land. Once, when flying very low, we looked into a wide trench and saw a group of tiny figures make confused attempts to take cover, tumbling over each other the while in ludicrous confusion. I remember a notable first trip across the lines made by a pilot who had just arrived from England. He had been sent up to have a look at the battle line, with an old-hand observer and instructions not to cross the trenches. However, he went too far east, and found himself ringed by Archie bursts. These did not have their customary effect on a novice of inspiring mortal funk, for the new pilot became furiously angry and flew Berserk. He dived towards Bapaume, dropped unscathed through the barrage of anti-aircraft shelling for which this stronghold was at the time notorious, fired a hundred rounds into the town square from a height of 800 feet, and raced back over the Bapaume-Pozières road pursued by flaming "onion" rockets. The observer recovered from his surprise in time to loose off a drum of ammunition at Bapaume, and three more along the straight road to the front line, paying special attention to the village of Le Sars. It was above this village that I once was guilty of communicating with the enemy. During a three-hours' offensive patrol around the triangle--Bapaume-Mossy-Face Wood-Epehy--we had not seen a single Hun machine. Low clouds held Archie in check, and there was therefore small necessity to swerve from a straight course. Becoming bored, I looked at the pleasant-seeming countryside below, and reflected how ill its appearance harmonised with its merits as a dwelling-place, judged on the best possible evidence--the half-hysterical diaries found on enemy prisoners, the bitter outpourings anent the misery of intense bombardment and slaughter, the ominous title "The Grave" given to the region by Germans who had fought there. An echo of light-hearted incursions into German literature when I was a student at a Boche college suggested that the opening lines of Schiller's "Sehnsucht" were peculiarly apposite to the state of mind of the Huns who dwelt by the Somme. Wishing to share my discovery, I wrote the verse in large block capitals, ready to be dropped at a convenient spot. I took the liberty of transposing three pronouns from the first person to the second, so as to apostrophise our Boche brethren. The patrol finished, my pilot spiralled down to within a 300-yard range of the ground and flew along the road past Martinpuich, while I pumped lead at anything that might be a communication trench. We sprinkled Le Sars with bullets, and there I threw overboard the quotation from a great German poet, folded inside an empty Very's cartridge to which I had attached canvas streamers. If it was picked up, I trust the following lines were not regarded merely as wordy frightfulness: "Ach! aus dieses Thales Gründen Die der kalte Nebel drückt, Könnt' ihr doch den Ausgang finden, Ach! wie fühlt' ihr euch beglüekt!" Of all the tabloid tales published last year in R.P.C. 'Comic Cuts,' the most comic was that of a mist, a British bus, and a Boche General. The mist was troublesome; the bus, homeward bound after a reconnaissance, was flying low to keep a clear vision of the earth; the general was seated in his dignified car, after the manner of generals. The British pilot dived on the car, the British observer fired on the car, the Boche chauffeur stopped the car, the Boche general jumped from the car. Chauffeur and general rushed through a field into a wood; pilot and observer went home and laughed. Thus far the facts are taken from the official report. An appropriate supplement was the rumour, which deserved to be true but possibly wasn't, that the observer turned in the direction of the vanished general and plagiarised George Robey with a shout into the unhearing air: "Cheeriho old thing, here's a go, my hat, priceless!" So much for past accomplishment. The future of war flying, like all futures, is problematical; but having regard to our present unquestionable superiority in the air, and to the blend of sane imagination and practical ability now noticeable as an asset of the flying services directorate, one can hazard the statement that in the extended aerial war which is coming the R.F.C. and R.N.A.S. will nearly satisfy the most exacting of critics. The tendency is toward a rapid development of aircraft even more startling than that of the past. Some of the modern scout machines have a level speed of 130-150 miles an hour, and can climb more than 1000 feet a minute until an abnormal height is reached. It is certain that within a year later machines will travel 160, 180, and 200 miles an hour level. Quantity as well as quality is on the up-grade, so that the power to strike hard and far will increase enormously, helped by heavier armament, highly destructive bombs, and more accurate bomb-sights. And, above all, we shall see a great extension of ground attacks by air cavalry. The production of a machine specially adapted for this purpose, armoured underneath, perhaps, and carrying guns that fire downward through the fuselage, is worth the careful attention of aeroplane designers. It is probable that with the reappearance of extended military movement on the western front, as must happen sooner or later, continuous guerilla tactics by hundreds of low-flying aeroplanes may well turn an orderly retirement into a disorderly rout. When and if a push of pushes really breaks the German line, I fully expect that we of the air service will lead the armies of pursuit and make ourselves a pluperfect nuisance to the armies of retreat. Temporary second lieutenants may yet be given the chance to drive a Boche general or two into the woods, or even--who can limit the freaks of Providence?--plug down shots at the Limelight Kaiser himself, as he tours behind the front in his favourite _rôle_ of Bombastes Furioso. CHAPTER VIII. THE DAILY ROUND. During a bout of active service one happens upon experiences that, though they make no immediate impression, become more prominent than the most dramatic events, when the period is past and can be viewed in retrospect. Sub-consciousness, wiser than the surface brain, penetrates to the inner sanctuary of true values, photographs something typical of war's many aspects, places the negative in the dark room of memory, and fades into inertia until again called upon to act as arbiter of significance for everyday instinct. Not till long later, when released from the tension of danger and abnormal endeavour, is one's mind free to develop the negative and produce a clear photograph. The sensitive freshness of the print then obtained is likely to last a lifetime. I leave a detailed explanation of this process to the comic people who claim acquaintance with the psychology of the immortal soul; for my part, I am content to remain a collector of such mental photographs. A few examples of the sub-conscious impressions gathered during my last year's term at the Front are the curious smile of a dead observer as we lifted his body from a bullet-plugged machine; the shrieking of the wires whenever we dived on Hun aircraft; a tree trunk falling on a howitzer; a line of narrow-nosed buses, with heavy bombs fitted under the lower planes, ready to leave for their objective; the ghostliness of Ypres as we hovered seven thousand feet above its ruins; a certain riotous evening when eight of the party of fourteen ate their last dinner on earth; a severe reprimand delivered to me by a meticulous colonel, after I returned from a long reconnaissance that included four air flights, for the crime of not having fastened my collar before arrival on the aerodrome at 5 A.M.; a broken Boche aeroplane falling in two segments at a height of ten thousand feet; the breathless moments at a Base hospital when the surgeon-in-charge examined new casualties to decide which of them were to be sent across the Channel; and clearest of all, the brown-faced infantry marching back to the trenches from our village. A muddy, unkempt battalion would arrive in search of rest and recuperation. It distributed itself among houses, cottages, and barns, while the Frenchwomen looked sweet or sour according to their diverse tempers, and whether they kept estaminets, sold farm produce, had husbands _làbas_, or merely feared for their poultry and the cleanliness of their homes. Next day the exhausted men would reappear as beaux sabreurs with bright buttons, clean if discoloured tunics, and a jaunty, untired walk. The drum and fife band practised in the tiny square before an enthusiastic audience of gamins. Late every afternoon the aerodrome was certain to be crowded by inquisitive Tommies, whose peculiar joy it was to watch a homing party land and examine the machines for bullet marks. The officers made overtures on the subject of joy-rides, or discussed transfers to the Flying Corps. Interchange of mess courtesies took place, attended by a brisk business in yarns and a mutual appreciation of the work done by R.F.C. and infantry. Then, one fine day, the drum and fife rhythm of "A Long, Long Trail" would draw us to the roadside, while our friends marched away to Mouquet Farm, or Beaumont Hamel, or Hohenzollern Redoubt, or some other point of the changing front that the Hun was about to lose. And as they left, the men were mostly silent; though they looked debonair enough with their swinging quickstep and easy carriage, and their frying-pan hats set at all sorts of rakish angles. Their officers would nod, glance enviously at the apple-trees and tents in our pleasant little orchard, and pass on to the front of the Front, and all that this implied in the way of mud, vermin, sudden death, suspense, and damnable discomfort. And returning to the orchard we offered selfish thanks to Providence in that we were not as the millions who hold and take trenches. The flying officer in France has, indeed, matter for self-congratulation when compared with the infantry officer, as any one who has served in both capacities will bear witness. Flying over enemy country is admittedly a strain, but each separate job only lasts from two to four hours. The infantryman in the front line is trailed by risk for the greater part of twenty-four hours daily. His work done, the airman returns to fixed quarters, good messing, a bath, plenty of leisure, and a real bed. The infantry officer lives mostly on army rations, and as often as not he sleeps in his muddy clothes, amid the noise of war, after a long shift crammed with uncongenial duties. As regards actual fighting the airman again has the advantage. For those with a suitable temperament there is tense joy in an air scrap; there is none in trudging along a mile of narrow communication trench, and then, arrived at one's unlovely destination, being perpetually ennuied by crumps and other devilries. And in the game of poker played with life, death, and the will to destroy, the airman has but to reckon with two marked cards--the Ace of Clubs, representing Boche aircraft, and the Knave Archibald; whereas, when the infantryman stakes his existence, he must remember that each sleeve of the old cheat Death contains half a dozen cards. All this by way of prelude to a protest against the exaggerative ecstasies indulged in by many civilians when discussing the air services. The British pilots are competent and daring, but they would be the last to claim an undue share of war's glory. Many of them deserve the highest praise; but then so do many in all other fighting branches of Army and Navy. An example of what I mean is the reference to R.F.C. officers, during a Parliamentary debate, as "the super-heroes of the war,"--a term which, for ungainly absurdity, would be hard to beat. To those who perpetrate such far-fetched phrases I would humbly say: "Good gentlemen, we are proud to have won your approval, but for the Lord's sake don't make us ridiculous in the eyes of other soldiers." Yet another asset of the airman is that his work provides plenty of scope for the individual, who in most sections of the Army is held on the leash of system and co-operation. The war pilot, though subject to the exigencies of formation flying, can attack and manoeuvre as he pleases. Most of the star performers are individualists who concentrate on whatever methods of destroying an enemy best suit them. Albert Ball, probably the most brilliant air fighter of the war, was the individualist _in excelsis_. His deeds were the outcome partly of pluck--certainly not of luck--but mostly of thought, insight, experiment, and constant practice. His knowledge of how to use sun, wind, and clouds, coupled with an instinct for the "blind side" of whatever Hun machine he had in view, made him a master in the art of approaching unobserved. Arrived at close quarters, he usually took up his favourite position under the German's tail before opening fire. His experience then taught him to anticipate any move that an unprepared enemy might make, and his quick wits how to take advantage of it. Last autumn, whenever the weather kept scout machines from their patrols but was not too bad for joy-flying, he would fly near the aerodrome and practise his pet manoeuvres for hours at a time. In the early days of Ball's dazzling exploits his patrol leader once complained, after an uneventful trip, that he left the formation immediately it crossed the lines, and stayed away until the return journey. Ball's explanation was that throughout the show he remained less than two hundred feet below the leader's machine, "practising concealment." The outstanding pilots of my old squadron were all individualists in attack, and it was one of my hobbies to contrast their tactics. C., with his blind fatalism and utter disregard of risk, would dive a machine among any number of Huns, so that he usually opened a fight with an advantage of startling audacity. S., another very successful leader, worked more in co-operation with the machines behind him, and took care to give his observer every chance for effective fire. His close watch on the remainder of the formation saved many a machine in difficulties from disaster. V., my pilot and flight-commander, was given to a quick dive at the enemy, a swerve aside, a recul pour mieux sauter, a vertical turn or two, and another dash to close grips from an unexpected direction, while I guarded the tail-end. But writing reminiscences of Umpty Squadron's early days is a melancholy business. When it was first formed all the pilots were picked men, for the machines were the best British two-seaters then in existence, and their work throughout the autumn push was to be more dangerous than that of any squadron along the British front. The price we paid was that nine weeks from our arrival on the Somme only nine of the original thirty-six pilots and observers remained. Twelve officers flew to France with the flight to which I belonged. Six weeks after their first job over the lines I was one of the only two survivors. Three of the twenty-five who dropped out returned to England with wounds or other disabilities; the rest, closely followed by twenty of those who replaced them, went to Valhalla, which is half-way to heaven; or to Karlsruhe, which is between hell and Freiburg-im-Brisgau. And the reward? One day, in a letter written by a captured Boche airman, was found the sentence: "The most-to-be-feared of British machines is the S----." The umptieth squadron then had the only machines of this type in France. During the short period of their stay with us, the crowd of boys thus rudely snatched away were the gayest company imaginable; and, indeed, they were boys in everything but achievement. As a patriarch of twenty-four I had two more years to my discredit than the next oldest among the twelve members of our flight-mess. The youngest was seventeen and a half. Our Squadron Commander, one of the finest men I have met in or out of the army, became a lieutenant-colonel at twenty-five. Even he was not spared, being killed in a flying accident some months later. Though we were all such good friends, the high percentage of machines "missing" from our hangars made us take the abnormal casualties almost as a matter of course at the time. One said a few words in praise of the latest to go, and passed on to the next job. Not till the survivors returned home did they have time, away from the stress of war, to feel keen sorrow for the brave and jolly company. For some strange reason, my own hurt at the loss was toned down by a mental farewell to each of the fallen, in words borrowed from the song sung by an old-time maker of ballads when youth left him: "Adieu, la très gente compagne." The crowded months of the umptieth squadron from June to November were worth while for the pilots who survived. The only two of our then flight-commanders still on the active list are now commanding squadrons, while all the subaltern pilots have become flight-commanders. The observers, members of a tribe akin to Kipling's Sergeant Whatsisname, are as they were in the matter of rank, needless to say. For my part, on reaching Blighty by the grace of God and an injured knee, I decided that if my unworthy neck were doomed to be broken, I would rather break it myself than let some one else have the responsibility. It is as a pilot, therefore, that I am about to serve another sentence overseas. A renewal of Archie's acquaintance is hardly an inviting prospect, but with a vivid recollection of great days with the old umptieth squadron, I shall not be altogether sorry to leave the hierarchy of home instructordom for the good-fellowship of active service. In a few months' time, after a further period of aerial outings, I hope to fill some more pages of Blackwood,[2] subject always to the sanction of their editor, the bon Dieu, and the mauvais diable who will act as censor. Meanwhile, I will try to sketch the daily round of the squadron in which I am proud to have been an observer. * * * * * "Quarter to five, sir, and a fine morning. You're wanted on the aerodrome at a quarter past." I sit up. A shiver, and a return beneath the blankets for five minutes' rumination. Dressing will be dashed unpleasant in the cold of dawn. The canvas is wet with the night's rain. The reconnaissance is a long one, and will take fully three hours. The air at 10,000 feet will bite hard. Must send a field post-card before we start. Not too much time, so out and on with your clothes. Life is wrotten. While dressing we analyse the weather, that pivot of our day-to-day existence. On the weather depends our work and leisure, our comparative risks and comparative safety. Last thing at night, first thing in the morning, and throughout the day we search the sky for a sign. And I cannot deny that on occasions a sea of low clouds, making impossible the next job, is a pleasant sight. The pale rose of sunrise is smudging over the last flickerings of the grey night. Only a few wisps of cloud are about, and they are too high to bother us. The wind is slight and from the east, for which many thanks, as it will make easier the return half of the circuit. We wrap ourselves in flying kit and cross the road to the aerodrome. There the band of leather-coated officers shiver while discussing their respective places in the formation. A bus lands and taxies to a shed. From it descends the Squadron Commander, who, with gum-boots and a warm coat over his pyjamas, has been "trying the air." "Get into your machines," he calls. As we obey he enters his hut-office and phones the wing headquarters. The major reappears, and the command "Start up!" is passed along the line of machines. Ten minutes later we head for the trenches, climbing as we travel. It was cold on the ground. It was bitter at 5000 feet. It is damnable at 10,000 feet. I lean over the side to look at Arras, but draw back quickly as the frozen hand of the atmosphere slaps my face. My gloved hands grow numb, then ache profoundly when the warm blood brings back their power to feel. I test my gun, and the trigger-pressure is painful. Life is worse than rotten, it is beastly. But the cold soon does its worst, and a healthy circulation expels the numbness from my fingers. Besides, once we are beyond the lines, the work on hand allows small opportunity to waste time on physical sensations. On this trip there is little interruption, thank goodness. Archie falls short of his average shooting, and we are able to outpace a group of some twelve Hun two-seaters that try to intercept us. The movement below is noted, the round is completed according to programme, and we turn westward and homeward. Have you ever sucked bull's-eyes, respected sir or madame? If not, take it from me that the best time to try them is towards the end of a three-hour flight over enemy country. Five bull's-eyes are then far more enjoyable than a five-course meal at the Grand Babylon Hotel. One of these striped vulgarities both soothes and warms me as we re-cross the trenches. Down go the noses of our craft, and we lose height as the leader, with an uneven, tree-bordered road as guide, makes for Doulens. From this town our aerodrome shows up plainly towards the south-west. Soon we shall be in the mess marquee, behind us a completed job, before us a hot breakfast. Life is good. Arrived on land we are met by mechanics, each of whom asks anxiously if his particular bus or engine has behaved well. The observers write their reports, which I take to the Brass Hats at headquarters. This done, I enter the orchard, splash about in a canvas bath, and so to a contented breakfast. Next you will find most of the squadron officers at the aerodrome, seated in deck-chairs and warmed by an early autumn sun. It is the most important moment of the day--the post has just arrived. All letters except the one from His Majesty's impatient Surveyor of Taxes, who threatens to take proceedings "in the district in which you reside," are read and re-read, from "My dearest Bill" to "Yours as ever." Every scrap of news from home has tremendous value. Winkle, the dinky Persian with a penchant for night life, has presented the family with five kittens. Splendid! Lady X., who is, you know, the bosom friend of a certain Minister's wife, says the war will be over by next summer at the _latest_. Splendid again! Life is better than good, it is amusing. Yesterday's London papers have been delivered with the letters. These also are devoured, from light leaders on electoral reform to the serious legends underneath photographs of the Lady Helen Toutechose, Mrs. Alexander Innit, and Miss Margot Rheingold as part-time nurses, canteeners, munitioners, flag-sellers, charity matinee programme sellers, tableaux vivants, and patronesses of the undying arts. Before turning to the latest number of the 'Aeroplane,' our own particular weekly, one wonders idly how the Lady Helen Toutechose and her emulators, amid their strenuous quick-change war-work, find time to be photographed so constantly, assiduously, and distractingly. We pocket our correspondence and tackle the morning's work. Each pilot makes sure that his machine is overhauled, and if necessary, he runs the engine or puts a re-rigged bus through its paces. I am told off to instruct half a dozen officers newly arrived from the trenches on how to become a reliable reconnaissance observer in one week. Several of us perform mysteriously in the workshops, for we are a squadron of many inventors. Every other officer has a pet mechanical originality. Marmaduke is preparing a small gravity tank for his machine, to be used when the pressure tank is ventilated by a bullet. The Tripehound has a scheme whereby all the control wires can be duplicated. Some one else has produced the latest thing in connections between the pilot's joystick and the Vickers gun. I am making a spade-grip trigger for the Lewis gun, so that the observer can always have one hand free to manipulate the movable back-sight. When one of these deathless inventions is completed the real hard work begins. The new gadget is adopted unanimously by the inventor himself, but he has a tremendous task in making the rest of the squadron see its merits. After lunch we scribble letters, for the post leaves at five. As we write the peaceful afternoon is disturbed by the roar of five engines. B Flight is starting up in readiness for an offensive patrol. Ten minutes later more engines break into song, as three machines of C Flight leave to photograph some new lines of defence before Bapaume. The overhead hum dies away, and I allow myself a sleep in payment of the early morning reconnaissance. Wearing a dress suit I am seated on the steps of a church. On my knee is a Lewis gun. An old gentleman, very respectable in dark spats, a black tie, and shiny top-hat, looks down at me reproachfully. "Very sad," he murmurs. "Don't you think this trigger's a damned good idea?" I ask. "Young man, this is an outrage. As you are not ashamed enough to leave the churchyard of your own accord, I shall have you turned out." I laugh and proceed to pass some wire through the pistol-grip. The old man disappears, but he returns with three grave-diggers, who brandish their spades in terrifying manner. "Ha!" I think, "I must fly away." I fly my wings (did I tell you I had wings?) and rise above the church tower. Archie has evidently opened fire, for I hear a near-by _wouff_. I try to dodge, but it is too late. A shell fragment strikes my nose. Much to my surprise I find I can open my eyes. My nose is sore, one side of the tent waves gently, and a small apple reposes on my chest. Having run into the open I discover that the disengaged members of C Flight are raiding our corner with the sour little apples of the orchard. We collect ammunition from a tree and drive off the attackers. A diversion is created by the return of the three photography machines. We troop across to meet them. The next scene is the aerodrome once again. We sit in a group and censor letters. The countryside is quiet, the sun radiates cheerfulness, and the war seems very remote. But the mechanics of B Flight stand outside their sheds and look east. It is time the offensive patrol party were back. "There they are," says a watcher. Three far-away specks grow larger and larger. As they draw near, we are able to recognise them as our buses, by the position of their struts and the distinctive drone of their engines. Four machines crossed the lines on the expedition; where is the fourth? The crew of the other three do not know. They last saw the missing craft ten miles behind the Boche trenches, where it turned west after sending up a Very's light to signal the necessity of an immediate return. There were no Huns in sight, so the cause must have been engine trouble. The shadows of the lost pilot and observer darken the first ten minutes at the dinner-table. However, since cheerfulness is beyond godliness, we will take this to be an anxious occasion with a happy ending. Comes a welcome message from the orderly officer, saying that the pilot has phoned. His reason for leaving the patrol was that his engine went dud. Later it petered out altogether, so that he was forced to glide down and land near a battery of our howitzers. The conversational atmosphere now lightens. Some people from another squadron are our guests, and with them we exchange the latest flying gossip. The other day, X rammed a machine after his gun had jambed. Y has been given the Military Cross. Archie has sent west two machines of the eleventeenth squadron. While on his way home, with no more ammunition, Z was attacked by a fast scout. He grabbed a Very's pistol and fired at the Boche a succession of lights, red, white, and green. The Boche, taking the rockets for a signal from a decoy machine, or from some new form of British frightfulness, promptly retired. Dinner over, the usual crowd settle around the card-table, and the gramophone churns out the same old tunes. There is some dissension between a man who likes music and another who prefers rag-time. Number one leads off with the Peer Gynt Suite, and number two counters with the record that choruses: "Hello, how are you?" From the babel of yarning emerges the voice of our licensed liar-- "So I told the General he was the sort of bloke who ate tripe and gargled with his beer." "Flush," calls a poker player. "Give us a kiss, give us a kiss, by wireless," pleads the gramophone. "Good-night, chaps. See you over Cambrai." This from a departing guest. Chorus--"Good-night, old bean." A somewhat wild evening ends with a sing-song, of which the star number is a ballad to the tune of "Tarpaulin Jacket," handed down from the pre-war days of the Flying Corps, and beginning-- "The young aviator was dying, And as 'neath the wreckage he lay (he lay), To the A.M.'s assembled around him These last parting words he did say: 'Take the cylinders out of my kidneys, The connecting-rod out of my brain (my brain), From the small of my back take the crank-shaft. And assemble the engine again.'" On turning in we give the sky a final scour. It is non-committal on the subject of to-morrow's weather. The night is dark, the moon is at her last quarter, only a few stars glimmer. I feel sure the land needs rain. If it be fine to-morrow we shall sit over Archie for three hours. If it be conveniently wet we shall charter a light tender and pay a long-deferred visit to the city of Arrière. There I shall visit a real barber; pass the time of day with my friend Henriette, whose black eyes and ready tongue grace a book shop of the Rue des Trois Cailloux; dine greatly at a little restaurant in the Rue du Corps Nu Sans Tête; and return with reinforcements of Anatole France, collar-studs, and French slang. FOOTNOTES: [2] This narrative first appeared in 'Blackwood's Magazine.' LETTERS FROM THE SOMME _ACKNOWLEDGMENT IS DUE TO THE OWNER OF THESE LETTERS, WHO HAS ALLOWED ME TO REVISE FOR PUBLICATION WHAT WAS WRITTEN FOR HER ALONE_ I. LOOKING FOR TROUBLE. ... You have asked me, mon amie, to tell you, from personal experience, all about aeroplanes on active service. With the best will in the world I can do no such thing, any more than a medical student could tell you, from personal experience, all about midwifery. The Flying Corps has in France hundreds of aeroplanes, scores of squadrons, and a dozen varying duties. Earlier in the war, when army aircraft were few and their function belonged to the pioneer stage, every pilot and observer dabbled in many things--reconnaissance, artillery observation, bomb raids, photography, and fighting. But the service has since expanded so much, both in size and importance, that each squadron is made to specialise in one or two branches of work, while other specialists look after the remainder. The daily round of an artillery squadron, for example, is very different from the daily round of a reconnaissance squadron, which is quite as different from that of a scout squadron. Alors, my experience only covers the duties of my own squadron. These I will do my best to picture for you, but please don't look upon my letters as dealing with the Flying Corps as a whole. Perhaps you will see better what I mean if you know something of our organisation and of the different kinds of machines. There are slow, stable two-seaters that observe around the lines; fighting two-seaters that operate over an area extending some thirty miles beyond the lines; faster fighting two-seaters that spy upon enemy country still farther afield; the bombing craft, single-seaters or two-seaters used as single-seaters; photography machines; and single-seater scouts, quick-climbing and quick-manoeuvring, that protect and escort the observation buses and pounce on enemy aeroplanes at sight. All these confine themselves to their specialised jobs, though their outgoings are planned to fit the general scheme of aerial tactics. The one diversion shared by every type is scrapping the air Hun whenever possible--and the ground Hun too for that matter, if he appear in the open and one can dive at him. Our organisation is much the same as the organisation of the older--and junior--arms of the Service (oh yes! the Gazette gives us precedence over the Guards, the Household Cavalry, and suchlike people). Three or more squadrons are directed by a wing-commander, whom one treats with deep respect as he speeds a formation from the aerodrome; a number of wings, with an aircraft depôt, are directed by a brigadier, whom one treats with still deeper respect when he pays a visit of inspection; the whole is directed by the General-Officer-Commanding-the-Flying-Corps-in-the-Field, one-of-the-best, who treats us like brothers. We, in umpty squadron, are of the G.H.Q. wing, our work being long reconnaissance and offensive patrols over that part of the Somme basin where bands of Hun aircraft rove thickest. Our home is a wide aerodrome, flanked by a village that comprises about thirty decrepit cottages and a beautiful little old church. Our tents are pitched in a pleasant orchard, which is strewn with sour apples and field kitchens. For the rest, we are a happy family, and the sole blot on our arcadian existence is the daily journey east to meet Brother Boche and his hired bully Archibald. After which explanatory stuff I will proceed to what will interest you more,--the excitements and tediousness of flights over enemy country. Three hours ago I returned from a patrol round Mossy-Face Wood, where one seldom fails to meet black-crossed birds of prey, so I will begin with the subject of a hunt for the Flying Deutschman. There are two kinds of fighting air patrol, the defensive and the offensive, the pleasantly exciting and the excitingly unpleasant. The two species of patrol have of late kept the great majority of German craft away from our lines. Airmen who look for trouble over enemy country seldom fail to find it, for nothing enrages the Boche more than the overhead drone of allied aircraft. Here, then, are some average happenings on an offensive patrol, as I have known them. We cross the lines at our maximum height, for it is of great advantage to be above an enemy when attacking. Our high altitude is also useful in that it makes us a small target for Herr Archie, which is distinctly important, as we are going to sit over him for the next few hours. Archie only takes a few seconds to make up his mind about our height and range. He is not far wrong either, as witness the ugly black bursts slightly ahead, creeping nearer and nearer. Now there are two bursts uncomfortably close to the leader's machine, and its pilot and observer hear that ominous _wouff!_ The pilot dips and swerves. Another _wouff!_ and he is watching a burst that might have got him, had he kept a straight course. Again the Archies try for the leader. This time their shells are well away, in fact so far back that they are near our bus. The German battery notices this, and we are forthwith bracketed in front and behind. We swoop away in a second, and escape with nothing worse than a violent stagger, and we are thrown upward as a shell bursts close underneath. But we soon shake off the Archie group immediately behind the lines. Freed from the immediate necessity of shell-dodging, the flight-commander leads his covey around the particular hostile preserve marked out for his attention. Each pilot and each observer twists his neck as if it were made of rubber, looking above, below, and all around. Only thus can one guard against surprise and yet surprise strangers, and avoid being surprised oneself. An airman new to active service often finds difficulty in acquiring the necessary intuitive vision which attracts his eyes instinctively to hostile craft. If his machine straggles, and he has not this sixth sense, he will sometimes hear the rattle of a mysterious machine-gun, or even the phut of a bullet, before he sees the swift scout that has swooped down from nowhere. There is a moment of excitement when the flight-commander spots three machines two thousand feet below. Are they Huns? His observer uses field-glasses, and sees black crosses on the wings. The signal to attack is fired, and we follow the leader into a steep dive. With nerves taut and every faculty concentrated on getting near enough to shoot, and then shooting quickly but calmly, we have no time to analyse the sensations of that dive. We may feel the tremendous pressure hemming us in when we try to lean over the side, but otherwise all we realise is that the wind is whistling past the strained wires, that our guns must be ready for instant use, and that down below are some enemies. The flight-commander, his machine aimed dead at the leading German, follows the enemy trio down, down, as they apparently seek to escape by going ever lower. He is almost near enough for some shooting, when the Huns dive steeply, with the evident intention of landing on a near-by aerodrome. One of them fires a light as he goes, and--enter the villain Archibald to loud music. A ter-rap! Our old friend Archie has been lying in wait with guns set for a certain height, to which his three decoy birds have led us. There crashes a discord of shell-bursts as we pull our machines out of the dive and swerve away. The last machine to leave the unhealthy patch of air is pursued for some seconds by flaming rockets. The patrol re-forms, and we climb to our original height. One machine has left for home, with part of a control wire dangling helplessly beneath it, and a chunk of tail-plane left as a tribute to Archie. We complete the course and go over it again, with nothing more exciting than further anti-aircraft fire, a few Huns too low for another dive, and a sick observer. Even intrepid birdmen (war correspondentese for flying officers) tire of trying to be offensive on a patrol, and by now we are varying our rubber-neck searchings with furtive glances at the time, in the hopes that the watch-hands may be in the home-to-roost position. At length the leader heads for the lines, and the lords of the air (more war correspondentese) forget their high estate and think of tea. Not yet. Coming south towards Bapaume is a beautiful flock of black-crossed birds. As often happens, the German biplanes are ranged one above the other, like the tiers of a dress-circle. Again the signal to attack, and the flight-commander sweeps at what seems to be the highest enemy. We are ranging ourselves round him, when two enemy scouts sweep down from heaven-knows-where, firing as they come. Several of their bullets enter the engine of our rearmost rearguard. Finding that the engine is on strike, the pilot detaches his machine from the confusion and glides across the lines, which are quite close. For five minutes there is a medley of swift darts, dives, and cart-wheel turns, amid the continuous _ta-ta-ta-ta-ta_ of machine-guns. Then a German machine sways, staggers, noses downward vertically, and rushes earthward, spinning rhythmically. The other Boches put their noses down and turn east. We follow until we find it impossible to catch them up, whereupon we make for home. The trenches are now passed, and our aerodrome is quite near. The strained nerve-tension snaps, the air seems intoxicatingly light. Pilots and observers munch chocolate contentedly or lift up their voices in songs of Blighty. I tackle "The Right Side of Bond Street," and think of pleasant places and beings, such as Henley during regatta week, the Babylon Theatre, and your delightful self. We land, piece together our report, and count the bullet-holes on the machine. In ten minutes' time you will find us around the mess-table, reconstructing the fight over late afternoon tea. In the intervals of eating cake I shall write you, and the gramophone will be shrilling "Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green." FRANCE, _July_, 1916 II. "ONE OF OUR MACHINES IS MISSING." --_Official Report._ ... Much may be read into the ambiguous word "missing." Applied to a wife or an actress's jewellery it can mean anything. Applied to a man on active service it can mean one of three things. He may be dead, he may be a prisoner, he may be wounded and a prisoner. If he be dead he enters Valhalla. If he be a prisoner and a wise man he enters a small cheque for the German Red Cross, as being the quickest way of letting his bankers and relations know he is alive. A missing aeroplane no longer exists, in nine cases out of ten. Either it is lying in pieces on enemy ground, smashed by an uncontrolled fall, or it was burned by its former tenants when they landed, after finding it impossible to reach safety. Quite recently my pilot and I nearly had to do this, but were just able to glide across a small salient. I am thus qualified to describe a typical series of incidents preceding the announcement, "one of our machines is missing," and I do so in the hope that this may interest you, madam, as you flit from town to country, country to town, and so to bed. A group of British machines are carrying out a long reconnaissance. So far nothing has happened to divert the observers from their notes and sketches, and a pilot congratulates himself that he is on a joy-ride. Next instant his sixth sense tells him there is something in the air quite foreign to a joy-ride. And there is. A thousand yards ahead some eight to twelve machines have appeared. The reconnaissance birds keep to their course, but all eyes are strained towards the newcomers. Within ten seconds it is established that they are foes. The observers put aside note-books and pencils, and finger their machine-guns expectantly. On come the Germans to dispute the right of way. On go the British, not seeking a fight, but fully prepared to force a way through. Their job is to complete the reconnaissance, and not to indulge in superfluous air duels, but it will take a very great deal to turn them from their path. Now the aggressors are within 300 yards, and firing opens. When the fight gets to uncomfortably close quarters the Boches move aside and follow the reconnaissance party, waiting for an opportunity to surround stragglers. Finally, some lucky shots by a British observer cause one of them to land in a damaged condition, whereupon the rest retire. The British machines finish their job and return with useful information. But the party is no longer complete. The pilot who thought of joy-rides was in the rear machine, and the rear machine has disappeared. Two Huns cut him off when the rest began to follow the British formation. His observer takes careful aim at the nearest enemy, and rattles through a whole drum as the German sweeps down and past, until he is out of range. The pilot vertical-turns the machine, and makes for the second Boche. But this gentleman, refusing to continue the fight alone, dives to join his companion. The pair of them hover about for a few minutes, and then disappear eastward. The lonely pilot and observer look round and take their bearings. "Where are the others?" shouts the pilot down the speaking-tube. "Right away to the north; we are alone in the wicked world." Thus the observer's reply, handed across on a slip of paper. Hoping to catch sight of the reconnaissance party, my friend the pilot opens his engine full out and begins to follow the course that remained to be covered. For ten minutes he continues the attempt to catch up, but as the only aeroplanes to be seen are coming up from an enemy aerodrome he decides to get back alone as quickly as possible. He turns due west. The homing bird must fly in the teeth of a strong west wind. It struggles along gamely, and the pilot calculates that he may reach the lines within twenty-five minutes. But he has a queer feeling that trouble is ahead, and, like his observer, he turns his head around the horizon, so as not to be caught unprepared. All goes well for five minutes, except for some nasty Archie shells. Then the two men see a flock of aircraft at a great height, coming from the north. Although black crosses cannot be spotted at this range, the shape and peculiar whiteness of the wings make it probable that the strangers are hostile. Possibly they are the very people who attacked and followed the reconnaissance formation. Our pilot puts down the nose of his machine, and races westward. The strangers, making good use of their extra height, turn south-west and try to head him off. They gain quickly, and pilot and observer brace themselves for a fight against odds. The Germans are now about 700 feet higher than my friends, and directly above them. Four enemies dive, at an average speed of 150 miles an hour, and from all directions the Britishers hear the rattle of machine-guns. The observer engages one of the Huns, and evidently gets in some good shooting, for it swerves away and lets another take its place. Meanwhile enemy bullets have crashed through two spars, shot away a rudder-control, and ripped several parts of the fuselage. The black-crossed hawks cluster all around. There are two on the left, one on the right, one underneath the tail, and two above. A seventh Hun sweeps past in front, about eighty yards ahead. The pilot's gun rakes it from stem to stern as it crosses, and he gives a great shout as its petrol-tank begins to blaze and the enemy craft flings itself down, with a stream of smoke and another flame shooting out behind. But his own petrol-tank has been plugged from the side, and his observer has a bullet in the left arm. The petrol supply is regulated by pressure, and, the pressure having gone when German bullets opened the tank, the engine gets less and less petrol, and finally ceases work. To glide fifteen miles to the lines is clearly impossible. There is nothing for it but to accept the inevitable and choose a good landing-ground. The pilot pushes the joystick slowly forward and prepares to land. The Germans follow their prey down, ready to destroy if by any chance its engine comes back to life, and it stops losing height. The observer tears up papers and maps, performs certain other duties whereby the enemy is cheated of booty, and stuffs all personal possessions into his pocket. A medley of thoughts race across the observer's mind as the pilot S-turns the machine over the field he has chosen. A prisoner!--damnable luck--all papers destroyed--arm hurting--useless till end of war--how long will it last?--chances of escape--relieve parents' suspense--must write--due for leave--Marjorie--Piccadilly in the sunshine--rotten luck--was to be--make best of it--Kismet! One duty remains. The observer digs into the petrol tank as they touch earth, and then runs round the machine. In a second the petrol is ablaze and the fuselage and wings are burning merrily. Germans rush up and make vain attempts to put out the fire. Soon nothing remains but charred debris, a discoloured engine, bits of metal and twisted wires. My friends are seized, searched, and disarmed. They then shake hands with the German pilots, now heatedly discussing who was chiefly responsible for their success. The captive couple are lunched by the enemy airmen, who see that the wounded observer receives proper attention. At the risk of incensing some of your eat-'em-alive civilian friends, I may say we have plenty of evidence that the German Flying Corps includes many gentlemen. Later my friends are questioned, searched again from head to toe, and packed off to Germany. Just now they are affected with deadly heart-sickness, due to the wearisome inaction of confinement in a hostile land, while we, their friends and brothers, continue to play our tiny parts in Armageddon. I enclose their names, and that of the prison camp where they are lodged. Perhaps you will find time to send them some of your fast-dwindling luxuries, as you flit from town to country, country to town, and so to bed. FRANCE, _July, 1916_ III. A BOMB RAID. ... What are your feelings, dear lady, as you watch the airships that pass in the night and hear the explosion of their bombs? At such a time the sensations of most people, I imagine, are a mixture of deep interest, deep anger, excitement, nervousness, and desire for revenge. Certainly they do not include speculation about the men who man the raiders. And for their part, the men who man the raiders certainly do not speculate about you and your state of mind. When back home, some of them may wonder what feelings they have inspired in the people below, but at the time the job's the thing and nothing else matters. Out here we bomb only places of military value, and do it mostly in the daytime, but I should think our experiences must have much in common with those of Zeppelin crews. I can assure you they are far more strenuous than yours on the ground. Our bombing machines in France visit all sorts of places--forts, garrison towns, railway junctions and railheads, bivouac grounds, staff headquarters, factories, ammunition depôts, aerodromes, Zeppelin sheds, and naval harbours. Some objectives are just behind the lines, some are 100 miles away. There are also free-lance exploits, as when a pilot with some eggs to spare dives down to a low altitude and drops them on a train or a column of troops. A daylight bomb raid is seldom a complete failure, but the results are sometimes hard to record. If an ammunition store blows up, or a railway station bursts into flames, or a train is swept off the rails and the lines cut, an airman can see enough to know he has succeeded. But if the bombs fall on something that does not explode or catch fire, it is almost impossible to note exactly what has been hit. Even a fire is hard to locate while one is running away from Archie and perhaps a few flaming onions. Fighting machines often accompany the bombing parties as escort. The fighters guard the bombers until the eggs are dropped, and seize any chances of a scrap on the way back. It is only thus that I have played a part in raids, for our squadron does not add bombs to its other troubles. I will now tell you, my very dear friend, about one such trip. The morning is clear and filled with sunshine, but a strong westerly wind is blowing. This will increase our speed on the outward journey, and so help to make the attack a surprise. Those low-lying banks of thick white clouds are also favourable to the factor of surprise. It is just before midday, and we are gathered in a group near the machines, listening to the flight-commander's final directions. Punctually at noon the bombers leave the ground, climb to the rendezvous height, and arrange themselves in formation. The scout machines constituting the escort proper follow, and rise to a few hundred feet above the bombers. The whole party circles round the aerodrome until the signal strips for "Carry on" are laid out on the ground, when it heads for the lines. At this point we, the fighting two-seaters, start up and climb to our allotted height. We are to follow the bombing party and act as a rearguard until the eggs have fallen. Afterwards, when the others have finished their little bit and get home to their tea, it will be our pleasant task to hang about between the lines and the scene of the raid, and deal with such infuriated Boche pilots as may take the air with some idea of revenge. We travel eastwards, keeping well in sight of the bombers. The ridges of clouds become more numerous, and only through gaps can we see the trenches and other landmarks. Archie, also, can only see through the gaps, and, disconcerted by the low clouds, his performance is not so good as usual. But for a few shells, very wide of the mark, we are not interrupted, for there are no German craft in sight. With the powerful wind behind us we are soon over the objective, a large wood some few miles behind the lines. The wood is reported to be a favourite bivouac ground, and it is surrounded by Boche aerodromes. Now the bombers drop below the clouds to a height convenient for their job. As the wood covers an area of several square miles and almost any part of it may contain troops, there is no need to descend far before taking aim. Each pilot chooses a spot for his particular attention, for preference somewhere near the road that bisects the wood. He aligns his sights on the target, releases the bombs, and watches for signs of an interrupted lunch below. It is quite impossible to tell the extent of the damage, for the raid is directed not against some definite object, but against an area containing troops, guns, and stores. The damage will be as much moral as material since nothing unnerves war-weary men more than to realise that they are never safe from aircraft. The guns get busy at once, for the wood contains a nest of Archies. Ugly black bursts surround the bombers, who swerve and zig-zag as they run. When well away from the wood they climb back to us through the clouds. We turn west and battle our way against the wind, now our foe. Half-way to the lines we wave an envious good-bye to the bombers and scouts, and begin our solitary patrol above the clouds. We cruise all round the compass, hunting for Huns. Twice we see enemy machines through rifts in the clouds, but each time we dive towards them they refuse battle and remain at a height of some thousand feet, ready to drop even lower, if they can lure us down through the barrage of A.-A. shells. Nothing else of importance happens, and things get monotonous. I look at my watch and think it the slowest thing on earth, slower than the leave train. The minute-hand creeps round, and homing-time arrives. We have one more flutter on the way to the trenches. Two Huns come to sniff at us, and we dive below the clouds once more. But it is the old, old dodge of trying to salt the bird's tail. The Hun decoys make themselves scarce--and H.E. bursts make themselves plentiful. Archie has got the range of those clouds to a few feet, and, since we are a little beneath them, he has got our range too. We dodge with difficulty, for Archie revels in a background of low clouds. Nobody is hit, however, and our party crosses the lines; and so home. From the point of view of our fighting machines, the afternoon has been uneventful. Nevertheless, the job has been done, so much so that the dwellers in the wood where we left our cards are still regretting their disturbed luncheon, while airmen and A.-A. gunners around the wood tell each other what they will do to the next lot of raiders. We shall probably call on them again next week, when I will let you know whether their bloodthirsty intentions mature. FRANCE, _September_, 1916 IV. SPYING BY SNAPSHOT. ... Since daybreak a great wind has raged from the east, and even as I write you, my best of friends, it whines past the mess-tent. This, together with low clouds, had kept aircraft inactive--a state of things in which we had revelled for nearly a week, owing to rain and mist. However, towards late afternoon the clouds were blown from the trench region, and artillery machines snatched a few hours' work from the fag-end of daylight. The wind was too strong for offensive patrols or long reconnaissance, so that we of Umpty Squadron did not expect a call to flight. But the powers that control our outgoings and incomings thought otherwise. In view of the morrow's operations they wanted urgently a plan of some new defences on which the Hun had been busy during the spell of dud weather. They selected Umpty Squadron for the job, probably because the Sopwith would be likely to complete it more quickly than any other type, under the adverse conditions and the time-limit set by the sinking sun. The Squadron Commander detailed two buses--ours and another. As it was late, we had little leisure for preparation; the cameras were brought in a hurry from the photographic lorry, examined hastily by the observers who were to use them, and fitted into the conical recesses through the fuselage floor. We rose from the aerodrome within fifteen minutes of the deliverance of flying orders. Because of doubtful light the photographs were to be taken from the comparatively low altitude of 7000 feet. We were able, therefore, to complete our climb while on the way to Albert, after meeting the second machine at 2000 feet. All went well until we reached the neighbourhood of Albert, but there we ran into a thick ridge of cloud and became separated. We dropped below into the clear air, and hovered about in a search for the companion bus. Five minutes brought no sign of its whereabouts, so we continued alone towards the trenches. Three minutes later, when about one mile west of Pozières, we sighted, some 900 yards to north of us, a solitary machine that looked like a Sopwith, though one could not be certain at such a range. If it was indeed our second bus, its pilot, who was new to France, must have misjudged his bearings, for it nosed across to the German air country and merged into the nothingness, miles away from our objective. What became of the lost craft is a mystery which may be cleared up to-morrow, or more probably in a month's time by communication from the German Prisoners' Bureau, or maybe never. Thus far we have heard nothing, so a forced landing on British ground is unlikely. For the rest, the pilot and observer may be killed, wounded, injured, or prisoners. All we know is that they flew into the Ewigkeit and are "missing." For these many weeks Pozières has been but a name and a waste brick pile; yet the site of the powdered village cannot be mistaken from the air, for, slightly to the east, two huge mine-craters sentinel it, left and right. From here to Le Sars, which straddles the road four miles beyond, was our photographic objective. We were to cover either side of the road twice, so I had arranged to use half the number of plates during each there-and-back journey. The R.F.C. camera used by us is so simple as to be called foolproof. Eighteen plates are stacked in a changing-box over the shutter. You slide the loading handle forward and backward, and the first plate falls into position. Arrived over the spot to be spied upon, you take careful sight and pull a string--and the camera has reproduced whatever is 9000 feet below it. Again you operate the loading handle; the exposed plate is pushed into an empty changing-box underneath an extension, and plate the second falls into readiness for exposure, while the indicator shows 2. And so on until the changing-box for bare plates is emptied and the changing-box for used ones is filled. Whatever skill attaches to the taking of aerial snapshots is in judging when the machine is flying dead level and above the exact objective, and in repeating the process after a properly timed interval. A.-A. guns by the dozen hit out immediately we crossed the lines, for we were their one target. No other craft were in sight, except a lone B.E., which was drifted by the wind as it spotted for artillery from the British side of the trenches. Scores of black puffs, attended by cavernous coughs, did their best to put the wind up us. They succeeded to a certain extent, though not enough to hinder the work on hand. Everything was in Archie's favour. We were at 7000 feet--an easy height for A.-A. sighting--we were silhouetted against a cover of high clouds, our ground speed was only some thirty miles an hour against the raging wind, and we dared not dodge the bursts, however close, as area photography from anything but an even line of flight is useless. Yet, though the bursts kept us on edge, we were not touched by so much as a splinter. In this we were lucky under the conditions. The luck could scarcely have held had the job lasted much longer than a quarter of an hour--which is a consoling thought when one is safe back and writing to a dear friend in England, not? Northward, along the left-hand side of the road, was my first subject; and a damned unpleasant subject it was--a dirty-soiled, shell-scarred wilderness. I looked overboard to make certain of the map square, withdrew back into the office, pulled the shutter-string, and loaded the next plate for exposure. "_Wouff!_ _Ouff!_ _Ouff!_" barked Archie, many times and loud. An instinct to swerve assaulted the pilot, but after a slight deviation he controlled his impulse and held the bus above the roadside. He had a difficult task to maintain a level course. Whereas we wanted to make east-north-east, the wind was due east, so that it cut across and drifted us in a transverse direction. To keep straight it was necessary to steer crooked--that is to say, head three-quarters into the wind to counteract the drift, the line of flight thus forming an angle of about 12° with the longitudinal axis of the aeroplane. "_Wouff!_ _ouff!_" Archibald continued, as I counted in seconds the interval to the scene of the next snapshot, which, as assurance that the whole ground would be covered, was to overlap slightly the first. A quick glance below, another tug at the string, and plate the second was etched with information. The third, fourth, and fifth followed; and finally, to our great relief, we reach Le Sars. Here the pilot was able to dodge for a few seconds while we turned to retrace the course, this time along the southern edge of the road. He side-slipped the bus, pulled it around in an Immelmann turn, and then felt the rudder-controls until we were in the required direction. The interval between successive exposures was now shorter, as the east wind brought our ground speed to 120 miles an hour, even with the engine throttled back. There was scarcely time to sight the objective before the photograph must be taken and the next plate loaded into place. Within two minutes we were again over Pozières. V. took us across the lines, so as to deceive the Archie merchants into a belief that we were going home. We then climbed a little, turned sharply, and began to repeat our outward trip to north of the road. Evidently Archie had allowed his leg to be pulled by the feint, and for two minutes he only molested the machine with a few wild shots. But soon he recovered his old form, so that when we had reached Le Sars the bus was again wreathed by black puffs. We vertical-turned across the road and headed for the trenches once more, with the last few plates waiting for exposure. Archie now seemed to treat the deliberation of the solitary machine's movements as a challenge to his ability, and he determined to make us pay for our seeming contempt. An ugly barrage of A.-A. shell-bursts separated us from friendly air, the discs of black smoke expanding as they hung in little clusters. Into this barrier of hate we went unwillingly, like children sent to church as a duty. Scores of staccato war-whoops reminded us that the Boche gunners wanted our scalp. I don't know how V. felt about it, but I well know that I was in a state of acute fear. Half-way to Pozières I abandoned checking the ground by the map, and judged the final photographs by counting the seconds between each--"one, two, three, four (_wouff!_ _wouff!_ _wouff!_ _wouff!_)"; pull the string, press forward the loading-handle, bring it back; "one, two, three, four (_wouff!_ _wouff!_ _wouff!_ _wouff!_)," et-cetera. Just as the final plate-number showed on the indicator a mighty report from underneath startled us, and the machine was pressed upward, left wing down. This was terrifying enough but not harmful, for not one of the fragments from the near burst touched us, strange to say. The pilot righted the bus, and I made the last exposure, without, I am afraid, caring what patch of earth was shuttered on to the plate. Nose down and engine full out, we hared over the trenches. Archie's hate followed for some distance, but to no purpose; and at last we were at liberty to fly home, at peace with the wind and the world. We landed less than three-quarters of an hour after we had left the aerodrome in a hurry. "Good boys," said the Squadron Commander; "now see that lightning is used in developing your prints." The camera was rushed to the photographic lorry, the plates were unloaded in the dark hut, the negatives were developed. Half an hour later I received the first proofs, and, with them, some degree of disappointment. Those covering the first outward and return journey between Pozières and Le Sars were good, as were the next three, at the beginning of the second journey. Then came a confused blur of superimposed ground-patterns, and at the last five results blank as the brain of a flapper. A jamb in the upper changing-box had led to five exposures on the one plate. As you know, mon amie, I am a fool. But I do not like to be reminded of the self-evident fact. The photographic officer said I must have made some silly mistake with the loading handle, and he remarked sadly that the camera was supposed to be foolproof. I said he must have made some silly mistake when inspecting the camera before it left his workshop, and I remarked viciously that the camera was foolproof against a careless operator, but by no means foolproof against the careless expert. There we left the subject and the spoiled plates, as the evening was too far advanced for the trip to be repeated. As the photoman has a pleasant job at wing headquarters, whereas I am but an observer--that is to say, an R.F.C. doormat--the blame was laid on me as a matter of course. However, the information supplied by the successful exposures pleased the staff people at whose instigation the deed was done, and this was all that really mattered. I have already told you that our main work in umpty squadron is long reconnaissance for G.H.Q. and offensive patrol. Special photographic stunts such as happened to-day are rare, thank the Lord. But our cameras often prepare the way for a bombing expedition. An observer returns from a reconnaissance flight with snapshots of a railhead, a busy factory, or an army headquarters. Prints are sent to the "I" people, who, at their leisure, map out in detail the point of interest. No fear of doubtful reports from the glossed surface of geometrical reproduction, for the camera, our most trusted spy, cannot distort the truth. Next a complete plan of the chosen objective, with its surroundings, is given to a bombing squadron; and finally, the pilots concerned, well primed with knowledge of exactly where to align their bomb-sights, fly off to destroy. For the corps and army squadrons of the R.F.C. photography has a prominent place in the daily round. To them falls the duty of providing survey-maps of the complete system of enemy defences. Their all-seeing lenses penetrate through camouflage to new trenches and emplacements, while exposing fake fortifications. The broken or unbroken German line is fully revealed, even to such details as the barbed wire in front and the approaches in rear. For clues to battery positions and the like, the gun country behind the frontier of the trenches is likewise searched by camera. One day a certain square on the artillery map seems lifeless. The following afternoon an overhead snapshot reveals a new clump of trees or a curious mark not to be found on earlier photographs. On the third day the mark has disappeared, or the trees are clustered in a slightly different shape. But meanwhile an exact position has been pin-pointed, so that certain heavy guns busy themselves with concentrated fire. By the fourth day the new gun-pits, or whatever it was that the Hun tried to smuggle into place unnoticed, have been demolished and is replaced by a wide rash of shell-holes. Wonderful indeed is the record of war as preserved by prints in the archives of our photographic section. For example, we were shown last week a pair of striking snapshots taken above Martinpuich, before and after bombardment. The Before one pictured a neat little village in compact perspective of squares, rectangles, and triangles. The Aftermath pictured a tangled heap of sprawling chaos, as little like a village as is the usual popular novel like literature. Of all the Flying Corps photographs of war, perhaps the most striking is that taken before Ypres of the first Hun gas attack. A B.E2.C., well behind the German lines, caught sight of a strange snowball of a cloud rolling across open ground, in the wake of an east wind. It flew to investigate, and the pilot photographed the phenomenon from the rear. This reproduction of a tenuous mass blown along the discoloured earth will show coming generations how the Boche introduced to the black art of warfare its most devilish form of frightfulness. I would send you a few aerial photographs, as you suggest, if the private possession of them were not strictly verboten. Possibly you will have an opportunity of seeing all you want later, for if the authorities concerned are wise they will form a public collection of a few thousand representative snapshots, to show the worlds of to-day, to-morrow, and the day after what the camera did in the great war. Such a permanent record would be of great value to the military historian; and on a rainy afternoon, when the more vapid of the revues were not offering matinées, they might even be of interest to the average Londoner. I can tell you little of the technical branch of this new science, which has influenced so largely the changing war of the past two years, and which will play an even greater part in the decisive war of the next two. All I know is that hundreds of photos are taken every day over enemy country, that ninety per cent of them are successful, and that the trained mechanics sometimes produce finished prints twenty minutes after we have given them our plates. Moreover, I am not anxious to discuss the subject further, for it is 10 P.M., and at 5 A.M., unless my good angel sends bad weather, I shall be starting for an offensive patrol over Mossy-Face. Also you don't deserve even this much, as I have received no correspondence, books, or pork-pies from you for over a week. In ten minutes' time I shall be employed on the nightly slaughter of the spiders, earwigs, and moths that plague my tent. Good night. FRANCE, _September_, 1916 V. THE ARCHIBALD FAMILY. ... You remark on the familiarity with which I speak of Archie, and you ask for detailed information about his character and habits. Why should I not treat him with familiarity? If a man calls on you nearly every day you are entitled to use his Christian name. And if the intimacy be such that at each visit he tries to punch your head, he becomes more a brother than a friend. How, you continue, did a creature so strenuous as the anti-aircraft gun come by the flippant name of Archie? Well, once upon a time the Boche A.-A. guns were very young and had all the impetuous inaccuracy incident to youth. British airmen scarcely knew they were fired at until they saw the pretty, white puffs in the distance. One day a pilot noticed some far-away bursts, presumably meant for him. He was young enough to remember the good old days (you would doubtless call them the bad old days) when the music-halls produced hearty, if vulgar, humour, and he murmured "Archibald, certainly not!" The name clung, and as Archibald the A.-A. gun will go down to posterity. You can take it or leave it; any way, I cannot think of a better explanation for the moment. Archie has since grown up and become sober, calculating, accurate, relentless, cunning, and deadly mathematical. John or Ernest would now fit him better, as being more serious, or Wilhelm, as being more frightful. For Archie is a true apostle of frightfulness. There is no greater adept at the gentle art of "putting the wind up" people. Few airmen get hardened to the villainous noise of a loud _wouff!_ _wouff!_ at 12,000 feet, especially when it is near enough to be followed by the shriek of shell-fragments. Nothing disconcerts a man more as he tries to spy out the land, take photographs, direct artillery fire, or take aim through a bombsight, than to hear this noise and perhaps be lifted a hundred feet or so when a shell bursts close underneath. And one is haunted by the knowledge that, unlike the indirect fire of the more precise guns, Archie keeps his own eyes on the target and can observe all swerves and dashes for safety. To anybody who has seen a machine broken up by a direct hit at some height between 8,000 and 15,000 feet, Archie becomes a prince among the demons of destruction. Direct hits are fortunately few, but hits by stray fragments are unfortunately many. Yet, though the damage on such occasions is regrettable, it is seldom overwhelming. Given a skilful pilot and a well-rigged bus, miracles can happen, though a machine stands no technical chance of staggering home. In the air uncommon escapes are common enough. On several occasions, after a direct hit, a wounded British pilot has brought his craft to safety, with wings and fuselage weirdly ventilated and half the control wires helpless. Archie wounded a pilot from our aerodrome in the head and leg, and an opening the size of a duck's egg was ripped into the petrol tank facing him. The pressure went, and so did the engine-power. The lines were too distant to be reached in a glide, so the machine planed down towards Hun territory. The pilot was growing weak from loss of blood, but it occurred to him that if he stuck his knee into the hole he might be able to pump up pressure. He tried this, and the engine came back to life 50 feet from the ground. At this height he flew, in a semi-conscious condition, twelve miles over enemy country and crossed the lines with his bus scarcely touched by the dozens of machine-guns trained on it. One of our pilots lost most of his rudder, but managed to get back by juggling with his elevator and ailerons. The fuselage of my own machine was once set on fire by a chunk of burning H.E. The flames died out under pressure from gloves and hands, just as they had touched the drums of ammunition and all but eaten through a longeron. Escapes from personal injuries have been quite as strange. A piece of high explosive hit a machine sideways, passed right through the observer's cockpit, and grazed two kneecaps belonging to a friend of mine. He was left with nothing worse than two cuts and mild shell-shock. Scottie, another observer (now a prisoner, poor chap), leaned forward to look at his map while on a reconnaissance. A dainty morsel from an Archie shell hurtled through the air and grazed the back of his neck. He finished the reconnaissance, made out his report, and got the scratch dressed at the hospital. Next day he resumed work; and he was delighted to find himself in the Roll of Honour, under the heading "Wounded." I once heard him explain to a new observer that when flying a close study of the map was a guarantee against losing one's way, one's head--and one's neck. The Archibald family tree has several branches. Whenever the founder of the family went on the burst he broke out in the form of white puffs, like those thrown from the funnel of a liner when it begins to slow down. The white bursts still seek us out, but the modern Boche A.-A. gunner specialises more in the black variety. The white bursts contain shrapnel, which is cast outwards and upwards; the black ones contain high explosive, which spreads all around. H.E. has a lesser radius of solid frightfulness than shrapnel, but if it does hit a machine the damage is greater. For vocal frightfulness the black beat the white hollow. If the Titans ever had an epidemic of whooping-cough, and a score of them chorused the symptoms in unison, I should imagine the noise was like the bursting of a black Archie shell. Then there is the green branch of the family. This is something of a problem. One theory is that the green bursts are for ranging purposes only, another that they contain a special brand of H.E., and a third declares them to be gas shells. All three suggestions may be partly true, for there is certainly more than one brand of green Archie. First cousin to Archie is the onion, otherwise the flaming rocket. It is fired in a long stream of what look like short rectangles of compressed flame at machines that have been enticed down to a height of 4000 to 6000 feet. It is most impressive as a firework display. There are also colourless phosphorous rockets that describe a wide parabola in their flight. Within the past month or two we have been entertained at rare intervals by the family ghost. This fascinating and mysterious being appears very suddenly in the form of a pillar of white smoke, stretching to a height of several thousand feet. It is straight, and apparently rigid as far as the top, where it sprays round into a knob. Altogether, it suggests a giant piece of celery. It does not seem to disperse; but if you pass on and look away for a quarter of an hour, you will find on your return that it has faded away as suddenly as it came, after the manner of ghosts. Whether the pillars are intended to distribute gas is uncertain, but it is a curious fact that on the few occasions when we have seen them they have appeared to windward of us. Like babies and lunatics, Archie has his good and bad days. If low clouds are about and he can only see through the gaps he is not very troublesome. Mist also helps to keep him quiet. He breaks out badly when the sky is a cover of unbroken blue, though the sun sometimes dazzles him, so that he fires amok. From his point of view it is a perfect day when a film of cloud about 20,000 feet above him screens the sky. The high clouds forms a perfect background for anything between it and the ground, and aircraft stand out boldly, like the figures on a Greek vase. On such a day we would willingly change places with the gunners below. For my part, Archie has given me a fellow-feeling for the birds of the air. I have at times tried light-heartedly to shoot partridges and even pigeons, but if ever again I fire at anything on the wing, sympathy will spoil my aim. FRANCE, _October, 1916_ VI. BATTLES AND BULLETS. ... I am not sure which is the more disquieting, to be under fire in the air or on the ground. Although the airman is less likely to be hit than the infantryman, he has to deal with complications that could not arise on solid earth. Like the infantryman, a pilot may be killed outright by a questing bullet, and there's an end of it. But in the case of a wound he has a far worse time. If an infantryman be plugged he knows he has probably received "a Blighty one," and as he is taken to the dressing-station he dreams of spending next week-end in England. A wounded pilot dare think of nothing but to get back to safety with his machine, and possibly an observer. He may lose blood and be attacked by a paralysing faintness. He must then make his unwilling body continue to carry out the commands of his unwilling brain, for if he gives way to unconsciousness the machine, freed from reasoned control, will perform circus tricks and twist itself into a spinning nose-dive. Even when he has brought the bus to friendly country he must keep clear-headed; otherwise he will be unable to exercise the judgment necessary for landing. Another unpleasant thought is that though he himself escape unhurt, an incendiary bullet may set his petrol tank ablaze, or some stray shots may cut his most vital control wires. And a headlong dive under these conditions is rather too exciting, even for the most confirmed seeker after sensation. Yet with all these extra possibilities of what a bullet may mean, the chances of being plugged in the air are decidedly less than on the ground. While travelling at anything from 70 to 140 miles an hour it is decidedly more difficult to hit another object tearing along at a like speed and swerving in all directions, than from a machine-gun emplacement to rake a line of men advancing "over the top." Another point favourable to the airman is that he scarcely realises the presence of bullets around him, for the roar of his engine drowns that sinister hiss which makes a man automatically close his eyes and duck. Given a certain temperament and a certain, mood, an air fight is the greatest form of sport on earth. Every atom of personality, mental and physical, is conscripted into the task. The brain must be instinctive with insight into the enemy's moves, and with plans to check and outwit him. The eye must cover every direction and co-operate with the brain in perfect judgments of time and distance. Hands, fingers, and feet must be instantaneous in seizing an opportunity to swoop and fire, swerve and avoid, retire and return. In an isolated fight between two single machines the primary aim of each pilot is to attack by surprise at close quarters. If this be impossible, he plays for position and tries to get above his opponent. He opens fire first if he can, as this may disconcert the enemy, but he must be careful not to waste ammunition at long range. A machine with little ammunition is at a tremendous disadvantage against a machine with plenty. If an isolated British aeroplane sees a formation of Germans crossing to our side it has no hesitation in sweeping forward to break up the party. You will remember our old friend Marmaduke, dear lady? Only last week he attacked ten German machines, chased them back to their own place in the air, and drove two down. Even from the purely selfish point of view much depends on the area. When an airman destroys a Boche over German country he may have no witnesses, in which case his report is attended by an elusive shadow of polite doubt. But if the deed be done near the trenches, his success is seen by plenty of people only too willing to support his claim. Sometimes a pilot may even force a damaged Boche machine to land among the British. He then follows his captive down, receives the surrender, and wonders if he deserves the Military Cross or merely congratulations. The tactics of an air battle on a larger scale are much more complicated than those for single combats. A pilot must be prepared at every instant to change from the offensive to the defensive and back again, to take lightning decisions, and to extricate himself from one part of the fight and sweep away to another, if by so doing he can save a friend or destroy an enemy. To help you realise some of the experiences of an air battle, my very dear madam, let us suppose you have changed your sex and surroundings, and are one of us, flying in a bunch over the back of the German front, seeking whom we may devour. A moment ago the sky was clear of everything but those dainty cloud-banks to the east. Very suddenly a party of enemies appear out of nowhere, and we rush to meet them. Like the rest of us, you concentrate your whole being on the part you must play, and tune yourself up to the strain attendant on the first shock of encounter. What happens in the first few seconds often decides the fight. The opposing forces close up and perfect their order of battle. The usual German method, during the past few weeks, has been to fly very high and range the machines one above the other. If the higher craft are in trouble they dive and join the others. If one of the lower ones be surrounded those above can swoop down to its help. Our own tactics vary according to circumstances. At the start it is a case of follow-my-leader. The flight-commander selects a Boche and dives straight at him. You follow until you are within range, then swerve away and around, so as to attack from the side. Then, with a clear field, you pour in a raking fire by short bursts--_ta-ta-ta-ta_, _ta-ta-ta-ta-ta_, _ta-ta-ta-ta_, aiming to hit the Boche pilot and allowing for deflection. From all directions you hear the rattle of other guns, muffled by the louder noise of the engine. A third British machine is under the Boche's tail, and the observer in it is firing upwards. The three of you draw nearer and nearer to your prey. The Hun puts his nose down to sweep away; but it is too late. His petrol tank bursts into flames, and the machine dives steeply, a streamer of flame running away behind it. The fire spreads to the fuselage and planes. After rushing earthwards for two or three thousand feet, the whole aeroplane crumbles up and you see the main portion falling like a stone. And you (who have shed the skin of sentiment and calm restraint and become for the duration of the fight a bold bad pilot with the lust of battle in your blood) are filled with joy. Meanwhile, your observer's gun has been grinding away behind you, showing that you in your turn are attacked. You twist the machine round. Almost instinctively your feet push the rudder-control just sufficiently to let you aim dead at the nearest enemy. You press the trigger. Two shots are fired, and--your gun jambs. You bank and turn sideways, so as to let your observer get in some shooting while you examine your gun. From the position of the check-lever you realise that there has been a misfire. Quickly but calmly--feverish haste might make a temporary stoppage chronic--you lean over and remedy the fault. Again you press the trigger, and never was sound more welcome than the _ta-ta-ta-ta-ta_ which shows you are ready for all comers. Once more you turn to meet the attacking Germans. As you do so your observer points to a black-crossed bird which is gliding down after he has crippled it. But three more are closing round you. Something sings loudly a yard away. You turn your head and see that a landing wire has been shot through; and you thank the gods that it was not a flying wire. The flight-commander and another companion have just arrived to help you. They dash at a Boche, and evidently some of their shots reach him, for he also separates himself and glides down. The two other Huns, finding themselves outnumbered, retire. All this while the two rear machines have been having a bad time. They were surrounded by five enemies at the very beginning of the fight. One of the Boches has since disappeared, but the other four are very much there. You sweep round and go to the rescue, accompanied by the flight-commander and the remaining British machine. Just as you arrive old X's bus drops forward and down, spinning as it goes. It falls slowly at first, but seems to gather momentum; the spin becomes wilder and wilder, the drop faster and faster. "Poor old X," you think, "how damnable to lose him. Now the poor beggar won't get the leave he has been talking about for the last two months." Then your thoughts turn to Y, the observer in the lost machine. You know his fiancée, you remember he owes you 30 francs from last night's game of bridge. You burn to avenge poor X and Y, but all the Huns have dived and are now too low for pursuit. You recover your place in the formation and the fight ends as suddenly as it began. One German machine has been destroyed and two driven down, but--"one of ours has failed to return." When you return and land, you are not so contented as usual to be back. There will be two vacant places at dinner, and there is a nasty job to be done. You will have to write rather a painful letter to Y's fiancée. Madam, you are now at liberty to give up the temporary role of a bold, bad pilot and become once more your charming self. FRANCE, _November_, 1916 VII. BACK IN BLIGHTY. ... You last heard of my continued existence, I believe, from a field post-card with but one of the printed lines uncrossed: "I have been admitted to hospital." When this was sent I had no more expectation of a return to Blighty than has a rich Bishop of not entering the Kingdom of Heaven. Nevertheless, here we are again, after a three days' tour along the Red Cross lines of communication. Again I have been admitted to hospital. This one is more sumptuous but less satisfying than the casualty clearing station at Gezaincourt, whence the card was posted. There, in a small chateau converted into an R.A.M.C. half-way house, one was not over-anxious to be up and about, for that would have meant a further dose of war at close quarters. Here, in a huge military hospital at Westminster, one is very anxious to be up and about, for that would mean a long-delayed taste of the joys of London. At Gezaincourt rumbling gunfire punctuated the countryside stillness; aeroplanes hummed past on their way to the lines, and engendered gratitude for a respite from encounters with Archie; from the ward window I could see the star-shells as they streaked up through the dim night. At Westminster rumbling buses punctuate the back-street stillness; taxis hum past on their way to the West End, and engender a longing for renewed acquaintance with the normal world and the normal devil; from the ward window I can see the towers of Parliament as they stretch up through the London greyness. For an Englishman just returned from a foreign battlefield to his own capital it should be an inspiring view, that of the Home of Government, wherein the Snowdens, Outhwaites, Ponsonbys, and Sir Vested Interests, talk their hardest for the winning of the war by one side or the other, I am not sure which. But somehow it isn't. I have mentioned the hospital's position, because it will help you on the day after to-morrow, if the herewith forecast is correct. You will read this letter, hang me for my customary disturbing suddenness, and search a time-table. This will tell you that a train from your part of the country arrives in town at 11.45 A.M. (_e_), which bracketed letter means Saturdays excepted. By it you will travel on Tuesday morning. Then, in the afternoon, you will seek a taxi, but either the drivers will have as fares middle-aged contractors, good for a fat tip, or they will claim a lack of petrol, lady. You will therefore fight for place in a bus, which must be left at the corner of Whitehall and Queen Victoria Street. Next you will walk towards the river, past Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Talk, and so to Chelsea Embankment. Turn off by the Tate Gallery, enter the large building on your right, and you will have arrived. Visiting hours are from two to four, but as the Sister is one of the best and my very kind friend, you will not be turned out until five. But I can hear you ask leading questions. No, I am not badly wounded nor seriously ill. Neither am I suffering from shell-shock, nor even from cold feet. A Blighty injury of the cushiest is the spring actuating this Jack-in-the-Box appearance. Have patience. To-day's inactivity has bred a pleasant boredom, which I shall work off by writing you a history of the reasons why I am back from the big war. They include a Hun aeroplane, a crash, a lobster, and two doctors. You will remember how, months ago, our machine landed on an abandoned trench, after being damaged in a scrap? A bullet through the petrol-pipe having put the carburettor out of action, the engine ceased its revs., so that we glided several miles, crossed the then lines at a low height, and touched earth among the network of last June's lines. We pancaked on to the far edge of a trench, and the wheels slid backward into the cavity, causing the lower wings and fuselage to be crumpled and broken. My left knee, which has always been weak since a far-back accident, was jerked by contact with the parapet. Next day it seemed none the worse, so I did not take the accident seriously. During the weeks and months that followed the knee was painless, but it grew larger and larger for no noticeable reason, like Alice in Wonderland and the daily cost of the war. Then an aggressive lobster, eaten in Amiens one fine evening, revenged itself by making necessary a visit to the casualty clearing station for attention to a mildly poisoned tummy. The doctor who examined me noticed the swollen knee, and looked grave. He pinched, punched, and pressed it, and finally said: "My dear boy, why the devil didn't you report this? It's aggravated synovitis, and, if you don't want permanent water-on-the-knee, you'll have to lie up for at least three weeks. I'll have you sent to the Base to-morrow." My ambition did not yet soar beyond a short rest at the Base. Meanwhile it was pleasant to lie between real sheets and to watch real English girls making beds, taking temperatures, and looking after the newly wounded with a blend of tenderness and masterful competence. Their worst job appeared to be fighting the Somme mud. The casualties from the trench region were invariably caked with dirt until the nurses had bathed and cleaned them with comic tact and great success. It being the day of an advance, scores of cases were sent to Gezaincourt from the field dressing stations. Each time an ambulance car, loaded with broken and nerve-shattered men, stopped by the hospital entrance, a young donkey brayed joyously from a field facing the doorway, as if to shout "Never say die!" Most of the casualties echoed the sentiment, for they seemed full of beans and congratulated themselves and each other on their luck in getting Blighty ones. But it was otherwise with the cases of shell-shock. I can imagine no more wretched state of mind than that of a man whose nerves have just been unbalanced by close shaves from gun fire. There was in the same lysol-scented ward as myself a New Zealander in this condition. While he talked with a friend a shell had burst within a few yards of the pair, wounding him in the thigh and sweeping off the friend's head. He lost much blood and became a mental wreck. All day and all night he tossed about in his bed, miserably sleepless and acutely on edge, or lay in a vacant and despondent quiet. Nothing interested him, nothing comforted him--not even a promise from the doctor of a long rest in England. There were also many victims of the prevailing epidemics of trench-fever and rabid influenza. The clearing station was thus hard put to it to make room for all newcomers by means of evacuation. For our batch this happened next evening. A long train drew up on the single-line railway near the hospital, the stretcher cases were borne to special Pullman cars, and the walking cases followed, each docketed in his button-hole by a card descriptive of wound or ailment. You can have no idea of the comfort of a modern R.A.M.C. train as used at the Front. During the first few months of war, when the small amount of available rolling stock was worth its weight in man-power, the general travel accommodation for the wounded was the French railway truck, with straw strewn over the floor. In these the suffering sick were jolted, jerked, and halted for hours at a time, while the scorching sun danced through the van's open sides and the mosquito-flies bit their damnedest. But nowadays one travels in luxury and sleeping-berths, with ever-ready nurses eager to wait upon every whim. A sling-armed Canadian was one of the party of four in our compartment. Great was his joy when a conjuring trick of coincidence revealed that the jolly sister who came to ask what we would like to drink proved to be not only a Canadian, but actually from his own little township in Manitoba. While they discussed mutual friends the rest of us felt highly disappointed that we also were not from the township. As evidence that they both were of the right stuff, neither of them platitudinised: "It's a small world, isn't it?" The smooth-running train sped northward from the Somme battlefield, and we betted on each man's chances of being sent to Blighty. Before settling down to sleep, we likewise had a sweepstake on the Base of destination, for not until arrival were we told whether it was Rouen, Boulogne, or Etaples. I drew Boulogne and won, as we discovered on being awoken at early dawn by a nurse, who arrived with tea, a cheery "Morning, boys," and bread-and-butter thin as ever was poised between your slim fingers. The wounded and shell-shocked New Zealander had pegged out during the journey. May the gods rest his troubled spirit! From Boulogne station a fleet of ambulance cars distributed the train's freight of casualties among the various general hospitals. At three of the starry morning I found myself inside a large one-time hotel on the sea front, being introduced to a bed by a deft-handed nurse of unusual beauty. The Blighty hopes of our party were realised or disappointed at midday, when the surgeon-in-charge came to decide which of the new arrivals were to be forwarded across Channel, and which were to be patched up in France. The world stands still the moment before the Ram Corps major, his examination concluded, delivers the blessed verdict: "Get him off by this afternoon's boat, sister." Or an unwelcome reassurance: "We'll soon get you right here." For my part I had not the least expectation of Blighty until the surgeon showed signs of prolonged dissatisfaction with the swollen knee. Like the doctor at Gezaincourt, he pinched, punched, and pressed it, asked for its history, and finally pronounced: "I'm afraid it'll have to be rested for about six weeks." Then, after a pause: "Sorry we haven't room to keep you here for so long. You'll be fixed up on the other side." Hastily I remarked that I should be sorry indeed to take up valuable space at a Base hospital. The major's departure from the ward was the signal for a demonstration by the Blighty squad. Pillows and congratulations were thrown about, war-dances were performed on game legs, the sister was bombarded with inquiries about the next boat. All places on the afternoon boat having been booked, we were obliged to wait until the morning. What a day! The last of a long period amid the myriad ennuies of active service, the herald of a long spell amid the pleasant things of England. Impatience for the morrow was kept bottled with difficulty; every now and then the cork flew out, resulting in a wild rag among those able to run, walk, or hop. When the 'Times' was delivered, it seemed quite a minor matter that the Gazette should notify me that I had been presented with another pip. After dinner some one remarked that "she" would soon come on duty, and there was an air of conscious expectancy among the veterans of the ward. "She," the V.A.D. girl who had received us when we were deposited at the hospital in the small hours of the morning, was--and is--an efficient nurse, a good comrade, a beautiful woman, and the friend of every casualty lucky enough to have been in her charge. For a wounded officer staled by the brutalities of trench life there could be no better mental tonic than the ministrations and charm of Our Lady of X Ward. I cannot guess the number and variety of proposals made to her by patients of a week's or a month's standing, but both must be large. She is also the possessor of this admirable and remarkable record. For two years she has been nursing--really nursing--in France, and yet, though she belongs to a well-known family, her photograph has never appeared in the illustrated papers that boom war-work patriots. On this particular evening, in the intervals of handing round medicines and cheerfulness, our comrade the night nurse made toffee for us over a gas-burner, a grey-haired colonel and a baby subaltern taking turns to stir the saucepan. The next change of scene was to the quays of Boulogne. Ambulance cars from the several hospitals lined up before a ship side-marked by giant Red Crosses. The stretcher casualties were carried up the gangway, down the stairs, and into the boat's wards below. The remainder were made comfortable on deck. Distribution of life-saving contraptions, business with medical cards, gleeful hoots from the funnel, chug-chug from the paddles, and hey for Blighty! across a smooth lake of a sea. Yarns of attack and bombardment were interrupted by the pleasurable discovery that Dover's cliffs were still white. We seemed an unkempt crowd indeed by contrast with dwellers on this side of the Channel. The ragged raiment of men pipped during a Somme advance did not harmonise with plush first-class compartments of the Chatham and Dover railway. Every uniform in our carriage, except mine and another, was muddied and bloodied, so that I felt almost ashamed of the comparative cleanliness allowed by life in an R.F.C. camp, miles behind the lines. The subaltern opposite, however, was immaculate as the fashion-plate of a Sackville Street tailor. Yet, we thought, he must have seen some tough times, for he knew all about each phase of the Somme operations. Beaumont Hamel? He explained exactly how the Blankshires and Dashshires, behind a dense barrage, converged up the high ground fronting the stronghold. Stuff Redoubt? He gave us a complete account of its capture, loss, and recapture. But this seasoned warrior quietened after the visit of an official who listed us with particulars of wounds, units, and service. His service overseas? Five months in the Claims Department at Amiens. Wound or sickness? Scabies. Charing Cross, gateway of the beloved city! The solid old clock looked down benignly as if to say: "I am the first landmark of your own London to greet you. Pass along through that archway and greet the others." But we could not pass along. The medical watchdogs and mesdemoiselles the ambulance-drivers saw to that. We were detailed to cars and forwarded to the various destinations, some to the provinces by way of another station, some to suburban hospitals, some to London proper. I was one of the lucky last-named and soon found myself settled in Westminster. Here the injured knee was again pinched, punched, and pressed, after which the ward surgeon told me I should probably stay in bed for a month. For exercise I shall be permitted to walk along the passage each morning to the department where they dispense massage and ionisation. Meanwhile, it is midday and flying weather. Over there a formation of A flight, Umpty Squadron, will perhaps be droning back from a hundred-mile reconnaissance. V., my mad friend and sane pilot and flight-commander, leads it; and in my place, alas! Charlie-the-good-guide is making notes from the observer's cockpit. The Tripehound and others of the jolly company man the rear buses, which number four or five, according to whether the wicked bandit Missing has kidnapped some member of the family. And here loaf I, uncertain whether I am glad or sorry to be out of it. The devil of it is that, unlike most of my bed-neighbours, I feel enormously fit and am anxious to shake hands with life and London. Time hangs heavy and long, so bring all you can in the way of the latest books, the latest scandals, and your latest enthusiasms among the modern poets. Above all, bring yourself. LONDON, _November_, 1916 THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK +-----------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | Page 87 phosphorus changed to phosphorous | | Page 137 unnecsary changed to unnecessary | | Page 159 Klaxton changed to Klaxon | | Page 226 Immelman changed to Immelsmann | | Page 249 missfire changed to misfire | +-----------------------------------------------+ 
793	----	AEROPLANES AND DIRIGIBLES OF WAR By Frederick A. Talbot PREFACE Ever since the earliest days of the great conquest of the air, first by the dirigible balloon and then by the aeroplane, their use in time of war has been a fruitful theme for discussion. But their arrival was of too recent a date, their many utilities too unexplored to provide anything other than theories, many obviously untenable, others avowedly problematical. Yet the part airships have played in the Greatest War has come as a surprise even to their most convinced advocates. For every expectation shattered, they have shown a more than compensating possibility of usefulness. In this volume an endeavour has been made to record their achievements, under the stern test of trial, as an axiom of war, and to explain, in untechnical language, the many services to which they have been and may be applied. In the preparation of the work I have received assistance from many sources--British, French, Russian and German--from official reports and from men who have played a part in the War in the Air. The information concerning German military aircraft has been obtained from Government documents, most of which were placed at my disposal before the outbreak of war. The use of aircraft has changed the whole art and science of warfare. With its disabilities well in hand, with its strength but half revealed, the aerial service has revolutionised strategy and shorn the unexpected attack of half its terrors. The Fourth Arm is now an invaluable part of the complex military machine. F. A. TALBOT. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. The introduction of aircraft into military operations II. The military uses of the captive balloon III. Germany's rise to military airship supremacy IV. Airships of war V. Germany's aerial dreadnought fleet VI. The military value of Germany's aerial fleet VII. Aeroplanes of war VIII. Scouting from the skies IX. The airman and artillery X. Bomb-throwing from air-craft XI. Armoured aeroplanes XII. Battles in the air XIII. Tricks and ruses to baffle the airman XIV. Anti-aircraft guns. Mobile weapons XV. Anti-aircraft guns. Immobile weapons XVI. Mining the air XVII. Wireless in aviation XVIII. Aircraft and naval operations XIX. The navies of the air CHAPTER I. THE INTRODUCTION OF AIRCRAFT INTO MILITARY OPERATIONS It is a curious circumstance that an invention, which is hailed as being one of the greatest achievements ever recorded in the march of civilisation, should be devoted essentially to the maiming of humanity and the destruction of property. In no other trend of human endeavour is this factor so potently demonstrated as in connection with Man's Conquest of the Air. The dogged struggle against the blind forces of Nature was waged tenaciously and perseveringly for centuries. But the measure of success recorded from time to time was so disappointing as to convey the impression, except in a limited circle, that the problem was impossible of solution. In the meantime wondrous changes had taken place in the methods of transportation by land and sea. The steam and electric railway, steam propulsion of vessels, and mechanical movement along the highroads had been evolved and advanced to a high standard of perfection, to the untold advantage of the community. Consequently it was argued, if only a system of travel along the aerial highways could be established, then all other methods of mechanical transportation would be rendered, if not entirely obsolete, at least antiquated. At last man triumphed over Nature--at least to such a degree as to inspire the confidence of the world at large, and to bring aerial travel and transportation within range of realisation. But what has been the result? The discovery is not devoted to the interests of peace and economic development, but to extermination and destruction. At the same time this development may be explained. The airship and aeroplane in the present stage of evolution possess no economic value. True, cross-country cruises by airship have been inaugurated, and, up to a point, have proved popularly, if not commercially, successful, while tentative efforts have been made to utilise the aeroplane as a mail-carrier. Still, from the view-point of the community at large aerial travel is as remote as it was centuries ago. It is somewhat interesting to observe how history is repeating itself. When the Montgolfiers succeeded in lifting themselves into the air by means of a vessel inflated with hot air, the new vehicle was hailed not so much as one possessed of commercial possibilities, but as an engine of war! When the indomitable courage and perseverance of Count von Zeppelin in the face of discouraging disasters and flagrant failures, at last commanded the attention of the German Emperor, the latter regarded the Zeppelin craft, not from the interests of peace, but as a military weapon, and the whole of the subsequent efforts of the Imperial admirer were devoted to the perfection of the airship in this one direction. Other nations, when they embarked on an identical line of development, considered the airship from a similar point of view. In fact, outside Germany, there was very little private initiative in this field. Experiments and developments were undertaken by the military or naval, and in some instances by both branches, of the respective Powers. Consequently the aerial craft, whether it be a dirigible airship, or an aeroplane, can only be regarded from the military point of view. Despite the achievements which have been recorded by human endeavour in the field of aerial travel, the balloon per se has by no means been superseded. It still remains an invaluable adjunct to the fighting machine. In Great Britain its value in this direction has never been ignored: of late, indeed, it has rather been developed. The captive balloon is regarded as an indispensable unit to both field and sea operations. This fact was emphasised very strongly in connection with the British naval attacks upon the German forces in Flanders, and it contributed to the discomfiture of the German hordes in a very emphatic manner. The captive balloon may be operated from any spot where facilities exist for anchoring the paying out cable together with winding facilities for the latter. Consequently, if exigencies demand, it maybe operated from the deck of a warship so long as the latter is stationary, or even from an automobile. It is of small cubic capacity, inasmuch as it is only necessary for the bag to contain sufficient gas to lift one or two men to a height of about 500 or 600 feet. When used in the field the balloon is generally inflated at the base, to be towed or carried forward by a squad of men while floating in the air, perhaps at a height of 10 feet. A dozen men will suffice for this duty as a rule, and in calm weather little difficulty is encountered in moving from point to point. This method possesses many advantages. The balloon can be inflated with greater ease at the base, where it is immune from interference by hostile fire. Moreover, the facilities for obtaining the requisite inflating agent--hydrogen or coal gas--are more convenient at such a point. If the base be far removed from the spot at which it is desired to operate the balloon, the latter is inflated at a convenient point nearer the requisite position, advantage being taken of the protective covering offered by a copse or other natural obstacle. As is well known, balloons played an important part during the siege of Paris in 1870-1, not only in connection with daring attempts to communicate with the outer world, but in reconnoitring the German positions around the beleaguered city. But this was not the first military application of the aerial vessel; it was used by the French against the Austrians in the battle of Fleurus, and also during the American Civil War. These operations, however, were of a sporadic character; they were not part and parcel of an organised military section. It is not generally known that the British War office virtually pioneered the military use of balloons, and subsequently the methods perfected in Britain became recognised as a kind of "standard" and were adopted generally by the Powers with such modifications as local exigencies seemed to demand. The British military balloon department was inaugurated at Chatham under Captain Templer in 1879. It was devoted essentially to the employment of captive balloons in war, and in 1880 a company of the Royal Engineers was detailed to the care of this work in the field. Six years previously the French military department had adopted the captive balloon under Colonel Laussedat, who was assisted among others by the well-known Captain Renard. Germany was somewhat later in the field; the military value of captive balloons was not appreciated and taken into serious consideration here until 1884. But although British efforts were preceded by the French the latter did not develop the idea upon accepted military lines. The British authorities were confronted with many searching problems. One of the earliest and greatest difficulties encountered was in connection with the gas for inflation. Coal gas was not always readily available, so that hydrogen had to be depended upon for the most part. But then another difficulty arose. This was the manufacture of the requisite gas. Various methods were tested, such as the electrolytic decomposition of water, the decomposition of sulphuric acid by means of iron, the reaction between slaked lime and zinc, and so forth. But the drawbacks to every process, especially upon the field of battle, when operations have to be conducted under extreme difficulties and at high pressure, were speedily recognised. While other nations concentrated their energies upon the simplification of hydrogen-manufacturing apparatus for use upon the battle-field, Great Britain abandoned all such processes in toto. Our military organisation preferred to carry out the production of the necessary gas at a convenient manufacturing centre and to transport it, stored in steel cylinders under pressure, to the actual scene of operations. The method proved a great success, and in this way it was found possible to inflate a military balloon in the short space of 20 minutes, whereas, under the conditions of making gas upon the spot, a period of four hours or more was necessary, owing to the fact that the manufacturing process is relatively slow and intricate. The practicability of the British idea and its perfection served to establish the captive balloon as a military unit. The British military ballooning department has always ranked as the foremost of its type among the Powers, although its work has been carried out so unostentatiously that the outside world has gleaned very little information concerning its operations. Captain Templer was an indefatigable worker and he brought the ballooning section to a high degree of efficiency from the military point of view. But the British Government was peculiarly favoured, if such a term may be used. Our little wars in various parts of the world contributed valuable information and experience which was fully turned to account. Captive balloons for reconnoitring purposes were used by the British army for the first time at Suakim in 1885, and the section established its value very convincingly. The French military balloon department gained its first experience in this field in the previous year, a balloon detachment having been dispatched to Tonkin in 1884. In both the Tonkin and Soudan campaigns, invaluable work was accomplished by the balloon sections, with the result that this aerial vehicle has come to be regarded as an indispensable military adjunct. Indeed the activity of the German military ballooning section was directly attributable to the Anglo-French achievements therewith. In this work, however, the British force speedily displayed its superiority and initiative. The use of compressed hydrogen was adopted, and within the course of a few years the other Powers, realising the advantages which the British department had thus obtained, decided to follow its example. The gas is stored in cylinders under a pressure varying from six to ten or more atmospheres; in other words from about 80 to 140 or more pounds per square inch. Special military wagons have been designed for the transport of these cylinders, and they are attached to the balloon train. The balloon itself is light, and made of such materials as to reduce the weight thereof to the minimum. The British balloons are probably the smallest used by any of the Powers, but at the same time they are the most expensive. They are made of goldbeater's skin, and range in capacity from 7,000 to 10,000 cubic feet, the majority being of the former capacity. The French balloon on the other hand has a capacity exceeding 18,000 cubic feet, although a smaller vessel of 9,000 cubic feet capacity, known as an auxiliary, and carrying a single observer, is used. The Germans, on the other hand, with their Teutonic love of the immense, favour far larger vessels. At the same time the military balloon section of the German Army eclipses that of any other nations is attached to the Intelligence Department, and is under the direct control of the General Staff. Balloon stations are dotted all over the country, including Heligoland and Kiel, while regular sections are attached to the Navy for operating captive balloons from warships. Although the Zeppelin and aeroplane forces have come to the front in Germany, and have relegated the captive balloon somewhat to the limbo of things that were, the latter section has never been disbanded; in fact, during the present campaign it has undergone a somewhat spirited revival. The South African campaign emphasised the value of the British balloon section of the Army, and revealed services to which it was specially adapted, but which had previously more or less been ignored. The British Army possessed indifferent maps of the Orange Free State and the Transvaal. This lamentable deficiency was remedied in great measure by recourse to topographical photographs taken from the captive balloons. The guides thus obtained were found to be of extreme value. During the early stages of the war the hydrogen was shipped in cylinders from the homeland, but subsequently a manufacturing plant of such capacity as to meet all requirements was established in South Africa. The cylinders were charged at this point and dispatched to the scene of action, so that it became unnecessary to transport the commodity from Britain. The captive balloon revealed the impregnability of Spion Kop, enabled Lord Roberts to ascertain the position of the Boer guns at the Battle of Paardeburg, and proved of invaluable assistance to the forces of General White during the siege of Ladysmith. CHAPTER II. THE MILITARY USES of THE CAPTIVE BALLOON Although the captive balloon is recognised as indispensable in military operations, its uses are somewhat limited. It can be employed only in comparatively still weather. The reason is obvious. It is essential that the balloon should assume a vertical line in relation to its winding plant upon the ground beneath, so that it may attain the maximum elevation possible: in other words, the balloon should be directly above the station below, so that if 100 yards of cable are paid out the aerostat may be 100 yards above the ground. If a wind is blowing, the helpless craft is certain to be caught thereby and driven forwards or backwards, so that it assumes an angle to its station. If this become acute the vessel will be tilted, rendering the position of the observers somewhat precarious, and at the same time observing efficiency will be impaired. This point may be appreciated more easily by reference to the accompanying diagram. A represents the ground station and B the position of the captive balloon when sent aloft in calm weather, 300 feet of cable being paid out. A wind arises and blows the vessel forward to the position C. At this point the height of the craft in relation to the ground has been reduced, and the reduction must increase proportionately as the strength of the wind increases and forces the balloon still more towards the ground. At the same time, owing to the tilt given to the car, observation is rendered more difficult and eventually becomes extremely dangerous. A wind, if of appreciable strength, develops another and graver danger. Greater strain will be imposed upon the cable, while if the wind be gusty, there is the risk that the vessel will be torn away from its anchoring rope and possibly lost. Thus it will be seen that the effective utilisation of a captive balloon is completely governed by meteorological conditions, and often it is impossible to use it in weather which exercises but little influence upon dirigibles or aeroplanes. The captive balloon equipment comprises the balloon, together with the observer's basket, the wire-cable whereby it is anchored and controlled, and the winding apparatus. Formerly a steam engine was necessary for the paying in and out of the cable, but nowadays this is accomplished by means of a petrol-driven motor, an oil-engine, or even by the engine of an automobile. The length of cable varies according to the capacity of the balloon and the maximum operating height. The average British balloon is able to lift about 290 or 300 pounds, which may be taken to represent the weight of two observers. On the other hand, the French and German balloons are able to carry four times this weight, with the exception of the French auxiliaries, which are designed to lift one observer only. The balloons of the two latter Powers have also a greater maximum altitude; it is possible to ascend to a height of some 2,000 feet in one of these. The observing station is connected with the winding crew below either by a telephone, or some other signalling system, the method practised varying according to circumstances. In turn the winding station is connected with the officer in charge of the artillery, the fire of which the captive balloon is directing. The balloon observer is generally equipped with various instruments, such as telescope, photographic cameras, and so forth, so as to be able, if necessary, to prepare a topographical survey of the country below. By this means the absence of reliable maps may be remedied, or if not regarded, as sufficiently correct they may be checked and counter-checked by the data gained aloft. Seeing that the gas has to be transported in cylinders, which are weighty, it is incumbent that the waste of this commodity should be reduced to the minimum. The balloon cannot be deflated at night and re-inflated in the morning--it must be maintained in the inflated condition the whole time it is required for operation. There are various methods of consummating this end. One method is to haul in the balloon and to peg it down on all sides, completing the anchorage by the attachment of bags filled with earth to the network. While this process is satisfactory in calm weather, it is impracticable in heavy winds, which are likely to spring up suddenly. Consequently a second method is practised. This is to dig a pit into the ground of sufficient size to receive the balloon. When the latter is hauled in it is lowered into this pit and there pegged down and anchored. Thus it is perfectly safe during the roughest weather, as none of its bulk is exposed above the ground level. Furthermore it is not a conspicuous object for the concentration of hostile fire. In some instances, and where the military department is possessed of an elaborate equipment such as characterises the German army, when reconnaissance is completed and the balloon is to be removed to another point, the gas is pumped back into the cylinders for further use. Such an economical proceeding is pretty and well adapted to manoeuvres, but it is scarcely feasible in actual warfare, for the simple reason that the pumping takes time. Consequently the general procedure, when the balloon has completed its work, is to permit the gas to escape into the air in the usual manner, and to draw a fresh supply of gas from further cylinders when the occasion arises for re-inflation. Although the familiar spherical balloon has proved perfectly adequate for reconnoitring in the British and French armies, the German authorities maintained that it was not satisfactory in anything but calm weather. Accordingly scientific initiative was stimulated with a view to the evolution of a superior vessel. These endeavours culminated in the Parseval-Siegsfeld captive balloon, which has a quaint appearance. It has the form of a bulky cylinder with hemispherical extremities. At one end of the balloon there is a surrounding outer bag, reminiscent of a cancerous growth. The lower end of this is open. This attachment serves the purpose of a ballonet. The wind blowing against the opening, which faces it, charges the ballonet with air. This action, it is claimed, serves to steady the main vessel, somewhat in the manner of the tail of a kite, thereby enabling observations to be made as easily and correctly in rough as in calm weather. The appearance of the balloon while aloft is certainly curious. It appears to be rearing up on end, as if the extremity saddled with the ballonet were weighted. British and French captive balloon authorities are disposed to discount the steadying effect of this attachment, and, indeed, to maintain that it is a distinct disadvantage. It may hold the vessel steadier for the purpose of observation, but at the same time it renders the balloon a steadier target for hostile fire. On the other hand, the swaying of a spherical balloon with the wind materially contributes to its safety. A moving object, particularly when its oscillations are irregular and incalculable, is an extremely difficult object at which to take effective aim. Seeing that even a small captive balloon is of appreciable dimensions--from 25 to 33 feet or more in diameter--one might consider it an easy object to hit. But experience has proved otherwise. In the first place the colour of the balloon is distinctly protective. The golden or yellowish tinge harmonises well with the daylight, even in gloomy weather, while at night-time it blends excellently with the moonlight. For effective observations a high altitude is undesirable. At a height of 600 feet the horizon is about 28 miles from the observer, as compared with the 3 miles constituting the range of vision from the ground over perfectly flat country. Thus it will be seen that the "spotter" up aloft has the command of a considerable tract. Various ways and means of finding the range of a captive balloon have been prepared, and tables innumerable are available for committal to memory, while those weapons especially designed for aerial targets are fitted with excellent range-finders and other instruments. The Germans, with characteristic thoroughness, have devoted considerable attention to this subject, but from the results which they have achieved up to the present this guiding knowledge appears to be more spectacular and impressive than effective. To put a captive balloon out of action one must either riddle the envelope, causing it to leak like a sieve, blow the vessel to pieces, or ignite the highly inflammable gas with which it is inflated. Individual rifle fire will inflict no tangible damage. A bullet, if it finds its billet, will merely pass through the envelope and leave two small punctures. True, these vents will allow the gas to escape, but this action will proceed so slowly as to permit the vessel to remain aloft long enough to enable the observer to complete his work. A lucky rifle volley, or the stream of bullets from a machine gun may riddle the envelope, precipitating a hurried descent, owing to the greater number of perforations through which the gas is able to escape, but as a rule the observer will be able to land safely. Consequently the general practice is to shatter the aerostat, and to this end either shrapnel, high explosive, or incendiary shells will be used. The former must explode quite close to the balloon in order to achieve the desired end, while the incendiary shell must actually strike it, so as to fire the gas. The high explosive shell may explode effectually some feet away from the vessel, inasmuch as in this instance dependence is placed upon the terrific concussion produced by the explosion which, acting upon the fragile fabric of the balloon, brings about a complete collapse of the envelope. If a shrapnel is well placed and explodes immediately above the balloon, the envelope will be torn to shreds and a violent explosion of the gas will be precipitated. But as a matter of fact, it is extremely difficult to place a shrapnel shell so as to consummate this end. The range is not picked up easily, while the timing of the fuse to bring about the explosion of the shell at the critical moment is invariably a complex problem. One favourite method of finding the range of a balloon is shown in the accompanying diagrams. The artillery battery is at B and the captive balloon, C, is anchored at A. On either side of B and at a specified distance, observers O1 and O2 respectively are stationed. First a shell is fired at "long" range, possibly the maximum range of the gun. It bursts at D. As it has burst immediately in the line of sight of B, but with the smoke obscured by the figure of the balloon C, it is obvious to B that the explosion has occurred behind the objective, but at what distance he cannot tell. To O1 and O2, however, it is seen to have burst at a considerable distance behind C though to the former it appears to have burst to the left and to the second observer to the right of the target. Another shell, at "short" range, is now fired, and it bursts at E. The explosion takes place in the line of sight of B, who knows that he has fired short of the balloon because the latter is eclipsed by the smoke. But the two observers see that it is very short, and here again the explosion appears to O1 to have occurred to the right of the target, while to O2 it has evidently burst to the left of the aerostat, as revealed by the relation of the position of the balloon to the bursting of the shell shown in Fig. 3. A third round is fired, and the shell explodes at F. In this instance the explosion takes place below the balloon. Both the observers and the artillery man concur in their deductions upon the point at which the shell burst. But the shell must explode above the balloon, and accordingly a fourth round is discharged and the shell bursts at G. This appears to be above the balloon, inasmuch as the lines of sight of the two observers and B converge at this point. But whether the explosion occurs immediately above the vessel as is desired, it is impossible to say definitely, because it may explode too far behind to be effective. Consequently, if this shell should prove abortive, the practice is to decrease the range gradually with each succeeding round until the explosion occurs at the critical point, when, of course, the balloon is destroyed. An interesting idea of the difficulty of picking up the range of a captive balloon may be gathered from the fact that some ten minutes are required to complete the operation. But success is due more to luck than judgment. In the foregoing explanation it is premised that the aerial vessel remains stationary, which is an extremely unlikely contingency. While those upon the ground are striving to pick up the range, the observer is equally active in his efforts to baffle his opponents. The observer follows each successive, round with keen interest, and when the shells appear to be bursting at uncomfortably close quarters naturally he intimates to his colleagues below that he desires his position to be changed, either by ascending to a higher point or descending. In fact, he may be content to come to the ground. Nor must the fact be overlooked that while the enemy is trying to place the observer hors de combat, he is revealing the position of his artillery, and the observer is equally industrious in picking up the range of the hostile guns for the benefit of his friends below. When the captive balloon is aloft in a wind the chances of the enemy picking up the range thereof are extremely slender, as it is continually swinging to and fro. While there is always the possibility of a shell bursting at such a lucky moment as to demolish the aerial target, it is generally conceded to be impossible to induce a shell to burst within 100 yards of a balloon, no matter how skilfully the hostile battery may be operated. The value of the captive balloon has been demonstrated very strikingly throughout the attack upon the entrenched German positions in Flanders. Owing to the undulating character of the dunes the "spotters" upon the British monitors and battle ships are unable to obtain a sweeping view of the country. Accordingly captive balloons are sent aloft in some cases from the deck of the monitors, and in others from a suitable point upon the beach itself. The aerial observer from his point of vantage is able to pick up the positions of the German forces and artillery with ease and to communicate the data thus gained to the British vessels, although subjected to heavy and continuous hostile fire. The difficulty of hitting a captive balloon has been graphically emphasised, inasmuch as the German artillerists have failed to bring down a solitary balloon. On the other hand the observer in the air is able to signal the results of each salvo fired from the British battleships as they manoeuvre at full speed up and down the coastline, while he keeps the fire of the monitors concentrated upon the German positions until the latter have been rendered untenable or demolished. The accuracy of the British gun-fire has astonished even the Germans, but it has been directly attributable to the rangefinder perched in the car of the captive balloon and his rapid transmission of information to the vessels below. The enthusiastic supporters of aerial navigation maintained that the dirigible and the aeroplane would supersede the captive balloon completely. But as a matter of fact the present conflict has established the value of this factor more firmly than ever. There is not the slightest possibility that the captive balloon sections of the belligerents will be disbanded, especially those which have the fruits of experience to guide them. The airship and the aeroplane have accomplished wonders, but despite their achievements the captive balloon has fully substantiated its value as a military unit in its particular field of operations. CHAPTER III. GERMANY'S RISE TO MILITARY AIRSHIP SUPREMACY Two incidents in the history of aviation stand out with exceptional prominence. The one is the evolution of the Zeppelin airship--a story teeming with romance and affording striking and illuminating glimpses of dogged perseverance, grim determination in the face of repeated disasters, and the blind courageous faith of the inventor in the creation of his own brain. The second is the remarkable growth of Germany's military airship organisation, which has been so rapid and complete as to enable her to assume supremacy in this field, and that within the short span of a single decade. The Zeppelin has always aroused the world's attention, although this interest has fluctuated. Regarded at first as a wonderful achievement of genius, afterwards as a freak, then as the ready butt for universal ridicule, and finally with awe, if not with absolute terror--such in brief is the history of this craft of the air. Count von Zeppelin can scarcely be regarded as an ordinary man. He took up the subject of flight at an age which the majority of individuals regard as the opportune moment for retirement from activity, and, knowing nothing about mechanical engineering, he concentrated his energies upon the study of this science to enable him to master the difficulties of a mechanical character incidental to the realisation of his grand idea. His energy and indomitable perseverance are equalled by his ardent patriotism, because, although the Fatherland discounted his idea when other Powers were ready to consider it, and indeed made him tempting offers for the acquisition of his handiwork, he stoutly declined all such solicitations, declaring that his invention, if such it may be termed, was for his own country and none other. Count von Zeppelin developed his line of study and thought for one reason only. As an old campaigner and a student of military affairs he realised the shortcomings of the existing methods of scouting and reconnoitring. He appreciated more than any other man of the day perhaps, that if the commander-in-chief of an army were provided with facilities for gazing down upon the scene of operations, and were able to take advantage of all the information accruing to the man above who sees all, he would hold a superior position, and be able to dispose his forces and to arrange his plan of campaign to the most decisive advantage. In other words, Zeppelin conceived and developed his airship for one field of application and that alone-military operations. Although it has achieved certain successes in other directions these have been subsidiary to the primary intention, and have merely served to emphasise its military value. Von Zeppelin was handicapped in his line of thought and investigation from the very first. He dreamed big things upon a big scale. The colossal always makes a peculiar and irresistible appeal to the Teutonic nature. So he contemplated the perfection of a big dirigible, eclipsing in every respect anything ever attempted or likely to be attempted by rival countries. Unfortunately, the realisation of the "colossal" entails an equally colossal financial reserve, and the creator of this form of airship for years suffered from financial cramp in its worst manifestation. Probably it was to the benefit of the world at large that Fortune played him such sorry tricks. It retarded the growth of German ambitions in one direction very effectively. As is well known Zeppelin evolved what may be termed an individual line of thought in connection with his airship activities. He adopted what is known as the indeformable airship: that is to say the rigid, as opposed to the semi-rigid and flexible craft. As a result of patient experiment and continued researches he came to the conclusion that a huge outer envelope taking the form of a polygonal cylinder with hemispherical ends, constructed upon substantial lines with a metallic skeleton encased within an impermeable skin, and charged with a number of smaller balloon-shaped vessels containing the lifting agent--hydrogen gas--would fulfil his requirements to the greatest advantage. Model after model was built upon these lines. Each was subjected to searching tests with the invariable result attending such work with models. Some fulfilled the expectations of the inventor, others resolutely declined to illustrate his reasonings in any direction. The inevitable happened. When a promising model was completed finally the inventor learned to his sorrow what every inventor realises in time. His fortune and the resources of others had been poured down the sink of experiment. To carry the idea from the model to the practical stage required more money, and it was not forthcoming. The inventor sought to enlist the practical sympathy of his country, only to learn that in Germany, as in other lands, the axiom concerning the prophet, honour, and country prevails. No exuberant inventor received such a cold douche from a Government as did Count Zeppelin from the Prussian authorities. For two years further work was brought practically to a standstill: nothing could be done unless the sinews of war were forthcoming. His friends, who had assisted him financially with his models, now concluded that their aid had been misplaced. The inventor, though disappointed, was by no means cast down. He clung tenaciously to his pet scheme and to such effect that in 1896 a German Engineering Society advanced him some funds to continue his researches. This support sufficed to keep things going for another two years, during which time a full-sized vessel was built. The grand idea began to crystallise rapidly, with the result that when a public company was formed in 1898, sufficient funds were rendered available to enable the first craft to be constructed. It aroused considerable attention, as well it might, seeing that it eclipsed anything which had previously been attempted in connection with dirigibles. It was no less than 420 feet in length, by 38 feet in diameter, and was fitted with two cars, each of which carried a sixteen horse-power motor driving independent propellers rigidly attached to the body of the vessel. The propellers were both vertical and horizontal, for the purpose of driving the ship in the two planes--vertical and horizontal respectively. The vessel was of great scientific interest, owing to the ingenuity of its design and construction. The metallic skeleton was built up from aluminium and over this was stretched the fabric of the envelope, care being observed to reduce skin friction, as well as to achieve impermeability. But it was the internal arrangement of the gas-lifting balloons which provoked the greatest concern. The hull was divided into compartments, each complete in itself, and each containing a small balloon inflated with hydrogen. It was sub-division as practised in connection with vessels ploughing the water applied to aerial craft, the purpose being somewhat the same. As a ship of the seas will keep afloat so long as a certain number of its subdivisions remain watertight, so would the Zeppelin keep aloft if a certain number of the gas compartments retained their charges of hydrogen. There were no fewer than seventeen of these gas-balloons arranged in a single line within the envelope. Beneath the hull and extending the full length of the latter was a passage which not only served as a corridor for communication between the cars, but also to receive a weight attached to a cable worked by a winch. By the movement of this weight the bow or stem of the vessel could be tilted to assist ascent and descent. The construction of the vessel subsequently proved to be the easiest and most straightforward part of the whole undertaking. There were other and more serious problems to be solved. How would such a monster craft come to earth? How could she be manipulated upon the ground? How could she be docked? Upon these three points previous experience was silent. One German inventor who likewise had dreamed big things, and had carried them into execution, paid for his temerity and ambitions with his life, while his craft was reduced to a mass of twisted and torn metal. Under these circumstances Count Zeppelin decided to carry out his flights over the waters of the Bodensee and to house his craft within a floating dock. In this manner two uncertain factors might be effectively subjugated. Another problem had been ingeniously overcome. The outer envelope presented an immense surface to the atmosphere, while temperature was certain to play an uncertain part in the behaviour of the craft. The question was to reduce to the minimum the radiation of heat and cold to the bags containing the gas. This end was achieved by leaving a slight air space between the inflated gas balloons and the inner surface of the hull. The first ascent was made on July 2nd, 1900, but was disappointing, several breakdowns of the mechanism occurring while the vessel was in mid-air, which rendered it unmanageable, although a short flight was made which sufficed to show that an independent speed of 13 feet per second could be attained. The vessel descended and was made fast in her dock, the descent being effected safely, while manoeuvring into dock was successful. At least three points about which the inventor had been in doubt appeared to be solved--his airship could be driven through the air and could be steered; it could be brought to earth safely; and it could be docked. The repairs to the mechanism were carried out and on October 17th and 21st of the same year further flights were made. By this time certain influential Teuton aeronautical experts who had previously ridiculed Zeppelin's idea had made a perfect volte-face. They became staunch admirers of the system, while other meteorological savants participated in the trials for the express purpose of ascertaining just what the ship could do. As a result of elaborate trigonometrical calculations it was ascertained that the airship attained an independent speed of 30 feet per second, which exceeded anything previously achieved. The craft proved to be perfectly manageable in the air, and answered her helm, thus complying with the terms of dirigibility. The creator was flushed with his triumph, but at the same time was doomed to experience misfortune. In its descent the airship came to "earth" with such a shock that it was extensively damaged. The cost of repairing the vessel was so heavy that the company declined to shoulder the liability, and as the Count was unable to defray the expense the wreck was abandoned. Although a certain meed of success had been achieved the outlook seemed very black for the inventor. No one had any faith in his idea. He made imploring appeals for further money, embarked upon lecturing campaigns, wrote aviation articles for the Press, and canvassed possible supporters in the effort to raise funds for his next enterprise. Two years passed, but the fruits of the propaganda were meagre. It was at this juncture, when everything appeared to be impossible, that Count Zeppelin discovered his greatest friend. The German Emperor, with an eye ever fixed upon new developments, had followed Zeppelin's uphill struggle, and at last, in 1902, came to his aid by writing a letter which ran:-- "Since your varied flights have been reported to me it is a great pleasure to me to express my acknowledgment of your patience and your labours, and the endurance with which you have pressed on through manifold hindrances till success was near. The advantages of your system have given your ship the greatest attainable speed and dirigibility, and the important results you have obtained have produced an epoch-making step forward in the construction of airships and leave laid down a valuable basis for future experiments." This Imperial appreciation of what had been accomplished proved to be the turning point in the inventor's fortunes. It stimulated financial support, and the second airship was taken in hand. But misfortune still pursued him. Accidents were of almost daily occurrence. Defects were revealed here and weaknesses somewhere else. So soon as one trouble was overcome another made itself manifest. The result was that the whole of the money collected by his hard work was expended before the ship could take to the air. A further crash and blasting of cherished hopes appeared imminent, but at this moment another Royal personage came to the inventor's aid. The King of Wurtemberg took a personal interest in his subject's uphill struggle, and the Wurtemberg Government granted him the proceeds of a lottery. With this money, and with what he succeeded in raising by hook and by crook, and by mortgaging his remaining property, a round L20,000 was obtained. With this capital a third ship was taken in hand, and in 1905 it was launched. It was a distinct improvement upon its predecessors. The airship was 414 feet in length by 38 feet in diameter, was equipped with 17 gas balloons having an aggregate capacity of 367,000 cubic feet of hydrogen, was equipped with two 85 horse-power motors driving four propellers, and displaced 9 tons. All the imperfections incidental to the previous craft had been eliminated, while the ship followed improved lines in its mechanical and structural details. The trials with this vessel commenced on November 30th, 1905, but ill-luck had not been eluded. The airship was moored upon a raft which was to be towed out into the lake to enable the dirigible to ascend. But something went wrong with the arrangements. A strong wind caught the ungainly airship, she dipped her nose into the water, and as the motor was set going she was driven deeper into the lake, the vessel only being saved by hurried deflation. Six weeks were occupied in repairs, but another ascent was made on January 17th, 1906. The trials were fairly satisfactory, but inconclusive. One of the motors went wrong, and the longitudinal stability was found to be indifferent. The vessel was brought down, and was to be anchored, but the Fates ruled otherwise. A strong wind caught her during the night and she was speedily reduced to indistinguishable scrap. Despite catastrophe the inventor wrestled gamely with his project. The lessons taught by one disaster were taken to heart, and arrangements to prevent the recurrence thereof incorporated in the succeeding craft. Unfortunately, however, as soon as one defect was remedied another asserted itself. It was this persistent revelation of the unexpected which caused another period of indifference towards his invention. Probably nothing more would have been heard of the Zeppelin after this last accident had it not been for the intervention of the Prussian Government at the direct instigation of the Kaiser, who had now taken Count Zeppelin under his wing. A State lottery was inaugurated, the proceeds of which were handed over to the indefatigable inventor, together with an assurance that if he could keep aloft 24 hours without coming to earth in the meantime, and could cover 450 miles within this period, the Government would repay the whole of the money he had lavished upon his idea, and liquidate all the debts he had incurred in connection therewith. Another craft was built, larger than its predecessors, and equipped with two motors developing 170 horse-power. Upon completion it was submitted to several preliminary flights, which were so eminently successful that the inventor decided to make a trial trip under conditions closely analogous to those imposed for the Government test. On June 20th, 1908, at 8:26 a.m. the craft ascended and remained aloft for 12 hours, during which time it made an encouraging circular tour. Flushed with this success, the Count considered that the official award was within reach, and that all his previous disasters and misfortunes were on the eve of redemption. The crucial test was essayed on August 5th, 1908. Accompanied by twelve observers the vessel ascended and travelled without incident for eight hours. Then a slight mishap demanded attention, but was speedily repaired, and was ignored officially as being too trivial to influence the main issue. Victory appeared within measurable distance: the arduous toil of many patient years was about to be rewarded. The airship was within sight of home when it had to descend owing to the development of another motor fault. But as it approached the ground, Nature, as if infuriated at the conquest, rose up in rebellion. A sudden squall struck the unwieldy monster. Within a few moments it became unmanageable, and through some inscrutable cause, it caught fire, with the result that within a few moments it was reduced to a tangled mass of metallic framework. It was a catastrophe that would have completely vanquished many an inventor, but the Count was saved the gall of defeat. His flight, which was remarkable, inasmuch as he had covered 380 miles within 24 hours, including two unavoidable descents, struck the Teuton imagination. The seeds so carefully planted by the "Most High of Prussia" now bore fruit. The German nation sympathised with the indomitable inventor, appreciated his genius, and promptly poured forth a stream of subscriptions to enable him to build another vessel. The intimation that other Powers had approached the Count for the acquisition of his idea became known far and wide, together with the circumstance that he had unequivocally refused all offers. He was striving for the Fatherland, and his unselfish patriotism appealed to one and all. Such an attitude deserved hearty national appreciation, and the members of the great German public emptied their pockets to such a degree that within a few weeks a sum of L300,000 or $1,500,000 was voluntarily subscribed. All financial embarrassments and distresses were now completely removed from the Count's mind. He could forge ahead untrammelled by anxiety and worry. Another Zeppelin was built and it created a world's record. It remained aloft for 38 hours, during which time it covered 690 miles, and, although it came to grief upon alighting, by colliding with a tree, the final incident passed unnoticed. Germany was in advance of the world. It had an airship which could go anywhere, irrespective of climatic conditions, and in true Teuton perspective the craft was viewed from the military standpoint. Here was a means of obtaining the mastery of the air: a formidable engine of invasion and aerial attack had been perfected. Consequently the Grand Idea must be supported with unbounded enthusiasm. The Count was hailed by his august master as "The greatest German of the twentieth century," and in this appreciation the populace wholeheartedly concurred. Whether such a panegyric from such an auspicious quarter is praise indeed or the equivalent of complete condemnation, history alone will be able to judge, but when one reflects, at this moment, upon the achievements of this aircraft during the present conflagration, the unprejudiced will be rather inclined to hazard the opinion that Imperial Teuton praise is a synonym for damnation. Although the Zeppelin was accepted as a perfect machine it has never been possible to disperse the atmosphere of disaster with which it has been enveloped from the first. Vessel after vessel has gone up in smoke and flame: few craft of this type have enjoyed more than an evanescent existence; and each successive catastrophe has proved more terrible than its predecessor. But the Teutonic nation has been induced to pin its whole faith on this airship, notwithstanding that the more levelheaded engineers of other countries have always maintained the craft to be a "mechanical monstrosity" condemned from its design and principles of construction to disaster. Unshaken by this adverse criticism, Germany rests assured that by means of its Zeppelins it will achieve that universal supremacy which it is convinced is its Destiny. This blind child-like faith has been responsible for the establishment and development of the Zeppelin factories. At Friedrichshafen the facilities are adequate to produce two of these vessels per month, while another factory of a similar capacity has been established at Berlin. Unfortunately such big craft demand large docks to accommodate them, and in turn a large structure of this character constitutes an easy mark for hostile attack, as the raiding airmen of the Allies have proved very convincingly. But the Zeppelin must not be under-rated. Magnificent performances have been recorded by these vessels, such as the round 1,000 miles' trip in 1909, and several other equally brilliant feats since that date. It is quite true that each astounding achievement has been attended by an equally stupendous accident, but that is accepted as a mere incidental detail by the faithful Teutonic nation. Many vivid prophecies of the forthcoming flights by Zeppelin have been uttered, and it is quite probable that more than one will be fulfilled, but success will be attributable rather to accident than design. Although the Zeppelin is the main stake of the German people in matters pertaining to aerial conquest, other types of airships have not been ignored, as related in another chapter. They have been fostered upon a smaller but equally effective scale. The semi-rigid Parseval and Gross craft have met with whole-hearted support, since they have established their value as vessels of the air, which is tantamount to the acceptance of their military value. The Parseval is pronounced by experts to be the finest expression of aeronautical engineering so far as Teuton effort is concerned. Certainly it has placed many notable flights to its credit. The Gross airship is an equally serviceable craft, its lines of design and construction closely following those of the early French supple airships. There are several other craft which have become more or less recognised by the German nation as substantial units of war, such as the Ruthemberg, Siemens-Schukert, and so forth, all of which have proved their serviceability more or less conclusively. But in the somewhat constricted Teuton mind the Zeppelin and the Zeppelin only represents the ultima Thule of aerial navigation and the means for asserting the universal character of Pan-Germanism as well as "Kultur." CHAPTER IV. AIRSHIPS OF WAR So much has been said and written concerning the Zeppelin airship, particularly in its military aspect, that all other developments in this field have sunk into insignificance so far as the general public is concerned. The Zeppelin dirigible has come to be generally regarded as the one and only form of practical lighter-than-air type of aircraft. Moreover, the name has been driven home with such effect that it is regarded as the generic term for all German airships. These are grievous fallacies. The Zeppelin is merely one of a variety of types, even in Germany, although at the moment it probably ranks as the solitary survivor of the rigid system of construction. At one time, owing to the earnestness with which the advantages of this form of design were discussed, and in view of the fact that the Zeppelin certainly appeared to triumph when all other designs failed, Great Britain was tempted to embrace the rigid form of construction. The building of an immense vessel of this class was actively supported and it was aptly christened the "May-fly." Opponents of the movement tempered their emphatic condemnatory criticism so far as to remark that it MAY FLY, but as events proved it never did. The colossal craft broke its back before it ever ventured into the air, and this solitary experience proving so disastrous, the rigid form of construction was abandoned once and for all. The venture was not in vain; it brought home to the British authorities more convincingly than anything else that the Zeppelin was a mechanical monstrosity. The French never even contemplated the construction of such a craft at that time, estimating it at its true value, and the British failure certainly served to support French antagonism to the idea. Subsequently, however, an attempt at rigid construction was made in France with the "Spiess" airship, mainly as a concession to public clamour. Even in Germany itself the defects of the Zeppelin were recognised and a decided effort to eliminate them was made by Professor Schutte in co-operation with a manufacturer of Mannheim named Lanz. The joint product of their ambitions, the Schutte-Lanz, is declared to be superior to the Zeppelin, but so far it has failed to justify any of the claims of its designers. This vessel, which also favours the colossal, is likewise of the rigid type, but realising the inherent dangers accruing from the employment of metal for the framework, its constructors have used wood, reinforced and strengthened where necessary by metallic angle-iron, plates, and bracing; this utilisation of metal is, however, carried out very sparingly. The first vessel of this class was a huge failure, while subsequent craft have not proved much more successful. In fact, one of the largest German airships ever designed, L4, is, or rather was, a Schutte-Lanz, with a capacity of 918,000 cubic feet, but over 6,000 pounds lighter than a Zeppelin of almost similar dimensions. I say "was" since L4 is no more. The pride of its creators evinced a stronger preference for Davy Jones' Locker than its designed realm. Yet several craft of this type have been built and have been mistaken for Zeppelins owing to the similarity of the broad principles of design and their huge dimensions. In one vital respect they are decidedly inferior to their contemporary--they are not so speedy. The most successful of the German lighter-than-air machines are those known respectively as the semi rigid and non-rigid types, the best examples of which are the Gross and Parseval craft. Virtually they are Teutonic editions of the successful French craft of identical design by which they were anticipated. The Lebaudy is possibly the most famous of the French efforts in this direction. The gas-bag has an asymmetrical shape, and is pointed at both ends, although the prow is blunter or rounder than the stem. The gas-bag comprises a single chamber for the inflating agent, the distended shape of the envelope being sustained by means of an air-ballonet. By varying the contents of the latter through the agency of a pump the tension of the gas in the lifting envelope can be maintained, and the shape of the inflated balloon preserved under all conditions. Beneath the gas-bag is a long strengthened girder, and from this in turn the car is suspended. It is the introduction of this rigid girder which is responsible for the descriptive generic term of "semi-rigid." On the other hand the "non-rigid" type may be roughly described as a pisciform balloon fitted with propelling machinery, inasmuch as the car containing the driving machinery is suspended from the balloon in the manner of the car in the ordinary drifting vessel. So far as the French effort is concerned the Bayard-Clement type is the best example of the non-rigid system; it is represented in Germany by the Parseval class. The Gross airship has been definitely adopted as a military machine by the German authorities, and figures in the "M" class. The "M-IV" completed in 1913 is the largest of this type, and differs from its prototypes in that it carries two cars, each fitted with motors, whereas the earlier machines were equipped with a single gondola after the French pattern. This vessel measures 320 feet in length, has a maximum diameter of 44 1/2 feet, displaces 13 tons, and is fitted with motors developing 450 horse-power, which is sufficient to give it a speed of 47 miles per hour. This vessel represents a huge advance upon its predecessors of this design, inasmuch as the latter were about 245 feet in length by 36 1/4 feet in diameter, and displaced only six tons, while the single car was provided with a motor developing only 150 horse-power, the speed being 28 miles per hour. Thus it will be seen that a huge development has suddenly taken place, a result due no doubt to the co-operation of the well-known engineer Basenach. The "M-IV" is essentially an experiment and great secrecy has been maintained in regard to the trials which have been carried out therewith, the authorities merely vouchsafing the fact that the airship has proved completely successful in every respect; conclusive testimony of this is offered by the inclusion of the vessel in the active aerial fleet of Germany. But it is the Parseval which is regarded as the finest type of airship flying the German flag. This vessel is the product of slow evolution, for it is admitted to be a power-driven balloon. Even the broad lines of the latter are preserved, the shape being that of a cylinder with rounded ends. It is the direct outcome of the "Drachen-Balloon," perfected by Parseval and Siegsfeld, the captive balloon which is an indispensable part of the German military equipment. The complete success of the suspension system in this captive balloon prompted Parseval to continue his researches and experiments in regard to the application of power to the vessel, so as to induce it to move independently of the wind. The suspension system and the car are the outstanding features of the craft. It is non-rigid in the strictest interpretation of the term, although, owing to the incorporation of the steadying hollow "mattress" (as it is called by its inventor), the strength of the suspension system, and the substantial character of the car, it conveys an impression of great solidity. The thinnest rope, both manilla and steel, in the suspension system is as thick as a man's finger, while the car, measuring 30 feet in length by 6 feet in width, carried out in wood, is a striking example of the maximum of strength with the minimum of weight, being as steady and as solid as a boat's deck. The propellers are collapsible, although in the latest craft of this class they are semi-rigid. The mechanical equipment is also interesting. There are two propellers, and two motors, each nominally driving one propeller. But should one motor break down, or motives of economy, such as husbanding of fuel, render it advisable to run upon one engine, then the two propellers may be driven by either of the motors. The inventor has perfected an ingenious, simple, and highly efficient coupling device to attain this end, but to ensure that the propeller output is of the maximum efficiency in relation to the engine, the pitch of the propellers may be altered and even reversed while the engine is running. When one motor only is being used, the pitch is lowered until the propellers revolve at the speed which they would attain if both engines were in operation. This adjustment of the propeller pitch to the most economical engine revolutions is a distinctive characteristic, and contributes to the efficiency and reliability of the Parseval dirigible to a very pronounced degree. Steering in the vertical plane is also carried out upon distinctive lines. There are no planes for vertical steering, but movement is accomplished by tilting the craft and thus driving the gas from one end of the balloon to the other. This is effected by the manipulation of the air-ballonets, one of which is placed at the prow and stem of the gas bag respectively. If it is desired to descend the gas is driven from the forward to the after end of the envelope, merely by inflating the bow ballonet with air by means of a pump placed in the car. If ascent is required, the after-ballonet is inflated, thereby driving the gas to the forward end of the balloon, the buoyancy of which is thus increased. The outstanding feature of the "Drachen-Balloon" is incorporated in the airship. This is the automatic operation of the safety valve on the gas-bag directly by the air ballonets. If these ballonets empty owing to the pressure of the gas within the envelope, a rope system disposed within the balloon and connecting the ballonets and the gas-valve at the top is stretched taut, thereby opening the gas-valve. In this manner the gas-pressure becomes reduced until the ballonets are enabled to exercise their intended function. This is a safety precaution of inestimable value. The Parseval is probably the easiest dirigible to handle, inasmuch as it involves no more skill or knowledge than that required for an ordinary free balloon. Its movements in the vertical plane are not dissimilar to those of the aeroplane, inasmuch as ascent and descent are normally conducted in a "screwing" manner, the only exception being of course in abrupt descent caused by the ripping of the emergency-valve. On one occasion, it is stated, one of the latest machines of this type, when conducting experimental flights, absolutely refused to descend, producing infinite amusement both among the crowd and those on board. The development of the Parseval is directly attributable to the influence and intimate interest of the Kaiser, and undoubtedly this represents the wisest step he ever made in the realm of aeronautics. It certainly has enabled the German military machine to become possessed of a significant fleet of what may be described as a really efficient and reliable type of dirigible. The exact number of military Parsevals in commission is unknown, but there are several classes thereof, in the nature of aerial cruisers and vedettes. The largest and most powerful class are those known as the B type, measuring about 240 feet in length by 40 feet maximum diameter, of 223,000 cubic feet capacity, and fitted with two motorsand two propellers. This vessel carries about 10 passengers, can climb to a maximum height of approximately 8,500 feet, and is capable of remaining in the air for twenty hours upon a single fuel charge. While this is the largest and most serviceable type of Parseval designed for military duties, there is another, the A class, 200 feet in length with accommodation for six passengers in addition to the crew of three, which is capable of attaining a maximum altitude of 6,700 feet, and has an endurance capacity of 15 hours. This class also is fitted with twin propellers and motors. In addition there are the C and E classes, carrying from four to eight passengers, while the vedettes are represented by the D and F classes, which have a maximum altitude of 2,000 feet and can remain aloft for only five hours upon a single fuel charge. These smaller vessels, however, have the advantage of requiring only one or two men to handle them. The present military Parseval dirigible is made in one of these five standardised classes, experience having established their efficiency for the specified military services for which they are built. In point of speed they compare favourably with the latest types of Zeppelin, the speeds of the larger types ranging from 32 to 48 miles per hour with a motor effort of 360 to 400 horse-power. So far as the French airships of war are concerned, the fleet is somewhat heterogeneous, although the non-rigid type prevails. The French aerial navy is represented by the Bayard-Clement, Astra, Zodiac, and the Government-built machines. Although the rigid type never has met with favour in France, there is yet a solitary example of this system of construction--the Spiess, which is 460 feet in length by 47 feet in diameter and has a displacement of 20 tons. The semi-rigid craft are represented by the Lebaudy type, the largest of which measures 293 feet in length by 51 feet in diameter, and has a displacement of 10 tons. One may feel disposed to wonder why the French should be apparently backward in this form of aerial craft, but this may be explained by the fact that the era of experiment had not been concluded at the time war was declared, with the result that it has been somewhat difficult to determine which type would meet the military requirements of the country to the best advantage. Moreover, the French military authorities evinced a certain disposition to relegate the dirigible to a minor position, convinced that it had been superseded by the heavier-than-air machine. Taken on the whole, the French airship fleet is inferior to the German in point of speed, if not numerically, but this deficiency is more than counterbalanced by the skill and ability of the men manning their craft, who certainly are superior to their contemporaries in Germany, combined with the proved character of such craft as are in service. The same criticism may be said to apply to Great Britain. That country was backward in matters pertaining to the airship, because its experiments were carried out spasmodically while dependence was reposed somewhat too much upon foreign effort. The British airships are small and of low speed comparatively speaking. Here again it was the advance of the aeroplane which was responsible for the manifestation of a somewhat indifferent if not lethargic feeling towards the airship. Undoubtedly the experiments carried out in Great Britain were somewhat disappointing. The one and only attempt to out-Zeppelin the Zeppelin resulted in disaster to the craft before she took to the air, while the smaller craft carried out upon far less ambitious lines were not inspiritingly successful. Latterly the non-rigid system has been embraced exclusively, the craft being virtually mechanically driven balloons. They have proved efficient and reliable so far as they go, but it is the personal element in this instance also which has contributed so materially to any successes achieved with them. But although Great Britain and France apparently lagged behind the Germans, appreciable enterprise was manifested in another direction. The airship was not absolutely abandoned: vigilance was maintained for a superior type of craft. It was an instance of weighing the advantages against the disadvantages of the existing types and then evolving for a design which should possess the former without any of the latter. This end appears to be achieved with the Astra type of dirigible, the story of the development of which offers an interesting chapter in the annals of aeronautics. In all lighter-than-air machines the resistance to the air offered by the suspension ropes is considerable, and the reduction of this resistance has proved one of the most perplexing problems in the evolution of the dirigible. The air is broken up in such a manner by the ropes that it is converted into a brake or drag with the inevitable result that the speed undergoes a severe diminution. A full-rigged airship such as the Parseval, for instance, may present a picturesque appearance, but it is severely unscientific, inasmuch as if it were possible to eliminateor to reduce the air-resistance offered by the ropes, the speed efficiency might be raised by some sixty per cent and that without any augmentation of the propelling effort. As a matter of fact Zeppelin solved this vexatious problem unconsciously. In his monster craft the resistance to the air is reduced to a remarkable degree, which explains why these vessels, despite all their other defects are able to show such a turn of speed. It was this feature of the Zeppelin which induced Great Britain to build the May-fly and which likewise induced the French Government to stimulate dirigible design and construction among native manufacturers, at the same time, however, insisting that such craft should be equal at least in speed to the Zeppelins. The response to this invitation was the Spiess, which with its speed of 45 miles per hour ranked, until 1914, as one of the fastest dirigibles in the French service. In the meantime a Spanish engineer, Senor Torres, had been quietly working out a new idea. He realised the shortcomings of the prevailing types of airships some eleven years ago, and unostentatiously and painstakingly set out to eliminate them by the perfection of a new type of craft. He perfected his idea, which was certainly novel, and then sought the assistance of the Spanish Government. But his fatherland was not adapted to the prosecution of the project. He strove to induce the authorities to permit even a small vessel to be built, but in vain. He then approached the French Astra Company. His ambition was to build a vessel as large as the current Zeppelin, merely to emphasise the value of his improvement upon a sufficiently large scale, and to enable comparative data concerning the two designs to be obtained. But the bogey of expense at first proved insuperable. However, the French company, decided to give the invention a trial, and to this end a small "vedette" of about 53,000 cubic feet displacement was built. Although an unpretentious little vessel, it certainly served to emphasise the importance of the Torres idea. It was pitted against the "Colonel Renard," the finest ship at that time in the French aerial service, which had proved the fastest airship in commission, and which also was a product of the Astra Company. But this fine craft was completely outclassed by the puny Astra-Torres. The builders and the inventor were now additionally anxious to illustrate more emphatically the features of this design and to build a far larger vessel. The opportunity was offered by the British Government, which had been following the experiments with the small Astra-Torres in France. An order was given for a vessel of 282,500 cubic feet displacement; in this instance it was ranged against another formidable rival--the Parseval. But the latter also failed to hold its own against the Spanish invention, inasmuch as the Astra-Torres built for the British authorities exceeded a speed of 50 miles per hour in the official tests. This vessel is still doing valuable duty, being attached to the British air-service in France. The achievements of the British vessel were not lost upon the French Government, which forthwith placed an order for a huge vessel of 812,200 cubic feet capacity, equipped with motors developing 1,000 horse-power, which it was confidently expected would enable a speed of 60 miles per hour to be attained. Thus France would be able to meet the Germans upon fairly level terms, inasmuch as the speed of the latest Zeppelins does not exceed 60 miles per hour. So confident were the authorities that a second order for an even larger vessel was placed before the first large craft was completed. This latter vessel is larger than any Zeppelin yet built, seeing that it displaces 38 tons, and is fitted with motors developing 1,000 horse-power. It has recently been completed, and although the results of the trials, as well as the dimensions of the craft have not been published, it is well known that the speed has exceeded 60 miles per hour, so that France now possesses the speediest dirigible in the world. The Torres invention has been described as wonderful, scientifically perfect and extremely simple. The vessel belongs to the non-rigid class, but the whole of the suspension system is placed within the gas-bag, so that the air-resistance offered by ropes is virtually eliminated in its entirety, for the simple reason that practically no ropes are placed outside the envelope. The general principle of design may be gathered from the accompanying diagram. It is as if three sausage-shaped balloons were disposed pyramidally--two lying side by side with one super-imposed, with the bags connected at the points where the circular sections come into contact. Thus the external appearance of the envelope is decidedly unusual, comprising three symmetrical ridges. At the points where the three bags come into contact cloth bands are stretched across the arcs, thereby forming a cord. The suspension system is attached to the upper corners of the inverted triangle thus formed, and converges in straight lines through the gas space. The bracing terminates in collecting rings from which a short vertical cable extends downwards through a special accordion sleeve to pass through the lower wall of the envelope. These sleeves are of special design, the idea being to permit the gas to escape under pressure arising from expansion and at the same time to provide ample play for the cable which is necessary in a flexible airship. This cable emerges from the envelope only at the point or points where the car or cars is or are placed. In the British airship of this type there is only one car, but the larger French vessels are equipped with two cars placed tandem-wise. The vertical cable, after extending downwards a certain distance, is divided, one rope being attached to one, and the second to the other side of the car. The two-bladed propellers are disposed on either side of the car, in each of which a 500 horse-power motor is placed. The Astra-Torres type of dirigible may be said to represent the latest expression in airship design and construction. The invention has given complete satisfaction, and has proved strikingly successful. The French Government has completed arrangements for the acquisition of larger and more powerful vessels of this design, being now in the position to contest every step that is made by Germany in this field. The type has also been embraced by the Russian military authorities. The Astra-Torres airship has a rakish appearance, and although the lines of the gas-bag are admitted to increase frictional resistance, this is regarded as a minor defect, especially when the many advantages of the invention are taken into consideration. CHAPTER V. GERMANY'S AERIAL DREADNOUGHT FLEET Although Germany, as compared with France, was relatively slow to recognise the immense possibilities of aircraft, particularly dirigibles, in the military sense, once the Zeppelin had received the well-wishes of the Emperor William, Teuton activities were so pronounced as to enable the leeway to be made up within a very short while. While the Zeppelin commanded the greatest attention owing to the interesting co-operation of the German Emperor, the other types met with official and royal recognition and encouragement as already mentioned. France, which had held premier position in regard to the aerial fleet of dirigibles for so long, was completely out-classed, not only in dimensions but also in speed, as well as radius of action and strategical distribution of the aerial forces. The German nation forged ahead at a great pace and was able to establish a distinct supremacy, at least on paper. In the light of recent events it is apparent that the German military authorities realised that the dawn of "The Day" was approaching rapidly, and that it behoved them to be as fully prepared in the air as upon the land. It was immaterial that the Zeppelin was the synonym for disaster. By standardisation its cost could be reduced while construction could be expedited. Furthermore, when the matter was regarded in its broadest aspect, the fact was appreciated that forty Zeppelins could be built at the cost of one super-Dreadnought, so that adequate allowance could be made for accidents now and then, since a Zeppelin catastrophe, no matter how complete it may be, is regarded by the Teuton as a mere incident inseparable from progressive development. At the beginning of the year 1914 France relied upon being strengthened by a round dozen new dirigibles. Seven of these were to be of 20,000 cubic metres' capacity and possessed of a speed of 47 miles per hour. While the existing fleet was numerically strong, this strength was more apparent than real, for the simple reason that a large number of craft were in dry-dock undergoing repair or overhaul while many of the units were merely under test and could not be regarded therefore as in the effective fleet. True, there were a certain number of private craft which were liable to be commandeered when the occasion arose, but they could not be considered as decided acquisitions for the simple reason that many were purely experimental units. Aerial vessels, like their consorts upon the water, have been divided into distinctive classes. Thus there are the aerial cruisers comprising vessels exceeding 282,000 cubic feet in capacity; scouts which include those varying between 176,600 and 282,000 cubic feet capacity; and vedettes, which take in all the small or mosquito craft. At the end of 1913, France possessed only four of the first-named craft in actual commission and thus immediately available for war, these being the Adjutant Vincenot, Adjutant Reau, Dupuy de Lome, and the Transaerien. The first three are of 197,800 cubic feet. All, however, were privately owned. On the other hand, Germany had no fewer than ten huge vessels, ranging from 353,000 to 776,900 cubic feet capacity, three of which, the Victoria Luise, Suchard, and Hansa, though owned privately, were immediately available for war. Of these the largest was the Zeppelin naval vessel "L-1" 525 feet in length, by 50 feet diameter, of 776,900 cubic feet capacity, equipped with engines developing 510 horse-power, and with a speed of 51.8 miles per hour. At the end of 1913 the effective aerial fleet of Germany comprised twenty large craft, so far in advance of the French aerial cruisers as to be worthy of the name bestowed upon them--"Aerial Dreadnoughts." This merely represented the fleet available for immediate use and did not include the four gigantic Suchard-Schutte craft, each of 847,500 cubic feet, which were under construction, and which were being hurried forward to come into commission early in 1914. But the most interesting factor, apart from the possession of such a huge fleet of dirigible air-craft, was their distribution at strategical points throughout the Empire as if in readiness for the coming combat. They were literally dotted about the country. Adequate harbouring facilities had been provided at Konigsberg, Berlin, Posen, Breslau, Kiel, Hamburg, Wilhelmshaven, Dusseldorf, Cologne, Frankfort, Metz, Mannheim, Strasburg, and other places, with elaborate headquarters, of course, at Friedrichshafen upon Lake Constance. The Zeppelin workshops, harbouring facilities, and testing grounds at the latter point had undergone complete remodelling, while tools of the latest type had been provided to facilitate the rapid construction and overhaul of the monster Zeppelin dirigibles. Nothing had been left to chance; not an item was perfunctorily completed. The whole organisation was perfect, both in equipment and operation. Each of the above stations possessed provision for an aerial Dreadnought as well as one or more aerial cruisers, in addition to scouts or vedettes. Upon the outbreak of hostilities Germany's dirigible fleet was in a condition of complete preparedness, was better organised, and better equipped than that of any of her rivals. At the same time it constituted more of a paper than a fighting array for reasons which I will explain later. But there was another point which had escaped general observation. Standardisation of parts and the installation of the desired machinery had accomplished one greatly desired end--the construction of new craft had been accelerated. Before the war an interesting experiment was carried out to determine how speedily a vessel could be built. The result proved that a dirigible of the most powerful type could be completed within eight weeks and forthwith the various constructional establishments were brought into line so as to maintain this rate of building. The growth of the Zeppelin, although built upon disaster, has been amazing. The craft of 1906 had a capacity of 430,000 cubic feet and a speed of 36 miles per hour. In 1911 the creator of this type launched a huge craft having a capacity of 627,000 cubic feet. In the meantime speed had likewise been augmented by the use of more powerful motors until 52 miles an hour was attained. But this by no means represented the limit. The foregoing vessels had been designed for land service purely and simply, but now the German authorities demanded similar craft for naval use, possessed of high speed and greater radius of action. Count Zeppelin rose to the occasion, and on October 7th, 1912, launched at Friedrichshafen the monster craft "L-I," 525 feet in length, 50 feet in diameter, of 776,900 cubic feet capacity, a displacement of 22 tons and equipped with three sets of motors aggregating more than 500 horse-power, and capable of imparting a speed of 52 miles per hour. The appearance of this craft was hailed with intense delight by the German nation, while the naval department considered her to be a wonderful acquisition, especially after the searching reliability trial. In charge of Count Zeppelin and manned by a crew of 22 officers and men together with nearly three tons of fuel--the fuel capacity conveys some idea of her possible radius of action--she travelled from Friedrichshafen to Johannisthal in 32 hours. On this remarkable journey another point was established which was of far-reaching significance. The vessel was equipped with wireless telegraphy and therewith she kept in touch with the earth below throughout the journey, dropping and picking up wireless stations as she progressed with complete facility. This was a distinct achievement, inasmuch as the vessel having been constructed especially for naval operations she would be able to keep in touch with the warships below, guiding them unerringly during their movement. The cross-country trip having proved so completely successful the authorities were induced to believe that travelling over water would be equally satisfactory. Accordingly the "L-I" was dispatched to the island of Heligoland, the intention being to participate in naval manoeuvres in order to provide some reliable data as to the value of these craft operating in conjunction with warships. But in these tests German ambition and pride received a check. The huge Zeppelin was manoeuvring over the North Sea within easy reach of Heligoland, when she was caught by one of those sudden storms peculiar to that stretch of salt water. In a moment she was stricken helpless; her motive power was overwhelmed by the blind forces of Nature. The wind caught her as it would a soap-bubble and hurled her into the sea, precipitating the most disastrous calamity in the annals of aeronautics, since not only was the ship lost, but fifteen of her crew of 22 officers and men were drowned. The catastrophe created consternation in German aeronautical circles. A searching inquiry was held to explain the disaster, but as usual it failed to yield much material information. It is a curious circumstance, but every successive Zeppelin disaster, and their number is legion, has been attributable to a new cause. In this instance the accident was additionally disturbing, inasmuch as the ship had been flying across country continuously for about twelve months and had covered more miles than any preceding craft of her type. No scientific explanation for the disaster was forthcoming, but the commander of the vessel, who sank with his ship, had previously ventured his personal opinion that the vessel was over-loaded to meet the calls of ambition, was by no means seaworthy, and that sooner or later she would be caught by a heavy broadside wind and rendered helpless, or that she would make a headlong dive to destruction. It is a significant fact that he never had any faith in the airship, at least for sea duty, though in response to official command he carried out his duties faithfully and with a blind resignation to Fate. Meantime, owing to the success of the "L-I" in cross-country operations, another and more powerful craft, the "L-II" had been taken in hand, and this was constructed also for naval use. While shorter than her consort, being only 487 feet over all, this vessel had a greater beam--55 feet. This latter increase was decided because it was conceded to be an easier matter to provide for greater beam than enhanced length in the existing air-ship harbours. The "L-II" displaced 27 tons--five tons in excess of her predecessor. In this vessel many innovations were introduced, such as the provision of the passage-way connecting the cars within the hull, instead of outside the latter as had hitherto been the practice, while the three cars were placed more closely together than formerly. The motors were of an improved type, giving an aggregate output of 900 horse-power, and were divided into four separate units, housed in two engine-rooms, the front car being a replica in every detail of the navigating bridge of a warship. This vessel was regarded as a distinct improvement upon the "L-I," although the latter could boast some great achievements. But her glory was short-lived. In the course of the Government trials, while some 900 feet aloft, the huge vessel suddenly exploded and was burned in the air, a mass of broken and twisted metal-work falling to the ground. Of the 28 officers and men, including members of the Admiralty Board who were conducting the official trials, all but one were killed outright, and the solitary exception was so terribly burned as to survive the fall for only a few hours. The accident was remarkable and demonstrated very convincingly that although Count Zeppelin apparently had made huge strides in aerial navigation through the passage of years, yet in reality he had made no progress at all. He committed the identical error that characterised the effort of Severo Pax ten years previously, and the disaster was directly attributable to the self-same cause as that which overwhelmed the Severo airship. The gas, escaping from the balloons housed in the hull, collected in the confined passage-way communicating with the cars, came into contact with a naked light, possibly the exhaust from the motors, and instantly detonated with terrific force, blowing the airship to fragments and setting fire to all the inflammable materials. In this airship Zeppelin committed an unpardonable blunder. He had ignored the factor of "internal safety," and had deliberately flown in the face of the official rule which had been laid down in France after the Severo disaster, which absolutely forbade the inclusion of such confined spaces as Zeppelin had incorporated. This catastrophe coming so closely as it did upon the preceding disaster to the pride of the German aerial fleet somewhat shook public confidence in these craft, while aeronautical authorities of other countries described the Zeppelin more vehemently than ever as a "mechanical monstrosity" and a "scientific curiosity." The Zeppelin has come to be feared in a general manner, but this result is due rather to stories sedulously circulated, and which may be easily traced to Teutonic sources. Very few data of a reliable character have been allowed to filter through official circles. We have been told somewhat verbosely of what it can accomplish and of its high degree of efficiency and speed. But can credence be placed in these statements? When Zeppelin IV made its unexpected descent at Luneville, and was promptly seized by the French authorities, the German War office evinced distinct signs of uneasiness. The reason was speedily forth coming. The captain of the craft which had been captured forgot to destroy his log and other records of data concerning the vessel which had been scientifically collected during the journey. All this information fell into the hands of the French military department, and it proved a wondrous revelation. It enabled the French to value the Zeppelin at its true worth, which was by no means comparable to the estimate based on reports skilfully circulated for the benefit of the world at large. Recently the French military department permitted the results of their expert official examination to be made public. From close investigation of the log-book and the diagrams which had been prepared, it was found that the maximum speed attained by Zeppelin IV during this momentous flight was only 45 miles per hour! It was ascertained, moreover, that the load was 10,560 pounds, and the ascensional effort 45,100 pounds. The fuel consumption had averaged 297 pounds per hour, while the fuel tanks carried sufficient for a flight of about seven hours. The airship had attained a maximum height of about 6,230 feet, to reach which 6,600 pounds of ballast had to be discarded. Moreover, it was proved that a Zeppelin, if travelling under military conditions with full armament and ammunition aboard, could carry sufficient fuel for only ten hours at the utmost, during which, if the slightest head-wind prevailed, it could not cover more than 340 miles on the one fuel charge. This information has certainly proved a revelation and has contributed to the indifference with which the Parisians regard a Zeppelin raid. At the outbreak of war the Zeppelin station nearest to Paris was at Metz, but to make the raid from that point the airship was forced to cover a round 500 miles. It is scarcely to be supposed that perfectly calm weather would prevail during the whole period of the flight, so that a raid would be attended by considerable risk. That this handicap was recognised in German military circles is borne out by the fact that a temporary Zeppelin hangar was established at a point considerably nearer the French capital, for the purpose of enabling a raid to be carried out with a greater possibility of success. The capture of Zeppelin IV revealed another important fact. The critical flying height of the airship is between 3,300 and 4,000 feet. To attempt a raid at such an altitude would be to court certain disaster, inasmuch as the vessel would have to run the gauntlet of the whole of the French artillery, which it is admitted has a maximum range exceeding the flying altitude of the Zeppelin. That the above calculation is within reason is supported by the statements of Count Zeppelin himself, who has declared that his airships are useless at a height exceeding 5,000 feet. Confirmatory evidence upon this point is offered by the raid upon the British East Coast towns, when it is stated that the aircraft were manoeuvring at a height not exceeding 2,000 feet. CHAPTER VI. THE MILITARY VALUE OF GERMANY'S AERIAL FLEET Although the Zeppelin undoubtedly has been over-rated by the forces to which it is attached, at the same time it must not be under-estimated by its detractors. Larger and more powerful vessels of this type have been, and still are being, constructed, culminating, so far as is known, in the "L-5," which is stated to have a capacity of about 1,000,000 cubic feet, and to possess an average speed of 65 miles per hour. While it is generally maintained that the Zeppelins will prove formidable in attack, greater reliance is being placed upon the demoralising or terrifying effect which they are able to exercise. Owing to the fact that from 3 to 5 tons of fuel--say 900 to 1,500 gallons of gasoline or petrol--can be carried aboard, giving them a wide radius of action, it is doubtful whether they could travel from Cologne to London and back upon a single fuel charge, since such a raid would entail a journey of about 600 miles. The latest types of this craft are said to possess a high ascensional speed, which offers a distinct protection against aeroplane attack. According to such official information as has been vouchsafed, a Zeppelin, when hard pressed, is able to rise vertically 3,500 feet in about three minutes. This is far in excess of the ascensional speed of even the speediest aeroplane, of course, the penalty for such a factor has to be paid: the loss of gas is appreciable and may lead to the craft's ultimate undoing. At the same time, however, it is able to maintain the superior position as compared with the aeroplane for a considerable period: the upper reaches of the air are its sanctuary. Nor must the nocturnal activities of the Zeppelin be overlooked. So far as night operations by these vessels are concerned, little has leaked out, so that the possibilities of the airship in this direction are still somewhat hypothetical. The fact remains, however, that it is night movements which perhaps are the most to be dreaded by the enemy. According to official German sources of information the latest types of Zeppelins are engined by "noiseless" motors. There is nothing remarkable in this feature, since the modern motor-car virtually answers to this description, although in this instance quietness is obtained for the most part by recourse to the sleeve-valve engine. Still, the ordinary Otto-cycle internal combustion engine can be rendered almost silent by the utilisation of adequate muffling devices, which, in the Zeppelin, are more possible of incorporation than in the aeroplane, because the extra weight imposed by this acquisition is a minor consideration in comparison with the lifting power of the vessel. Night operations, however, have not proved eminently successful. The very darkness which protects the aerial prowler also serves a similar purpose in connection with its prey. But aerial operations under the cover of darkness are guided not so much by the glare of lights from below as betrayal by sound. The difference between villages and cities may be distinguished from aloft, say at 1,500 to 3,000 feet, by the hum which life and movement emit, and this is the best guide to the aerial scout or battleship. The German authorities have made a special study of this peculiar problem, and have conducted innumerable tests upon the darkest nights, when even the sheen of the moon has been unavailable, for the express purpose of training the aerial navigators to discover their position from the different sounds reaching them from below. In other words, the corsair in the skies depends more upon compass and sound than upon compass and vision when operating after dark. The searchlights with which the Zeppelins are equipped are provided merely for illuminating a supposed position. They are not brought into service until the navigator concludes that he has arrived above the desired point: the ray of light which is then projected is merely to assist the crew in the discharge of the missiles of destruction. The Zeppelin, however, owing to its speed, both in the horizontal and vertical planes, is essentially a unit for daylight operations. The other airships which Germany possesses, and which for the most part are of the non-rigid type, are condemned to daylight operations from the character of their design. Owing to their low speeds they may be dismissed as impossible aerial vessels for hazardous work and are not regarded by the German authorities as all-round airships of war. Craft of the air are judged in Germany from the one standard only. This may be a Teutonic failing, but it is quite in keeping with the Teutonic spirit of militarism. Commercialism is a secondary factor. To the German Emperor an airship is much what a new manufacturing process or machine is to the American. Whereas the latter asks, "How much will it save me on the dollar?" to the War Lord of Germany--and an airship notwithstanding its other recommendatory features is judged solely from this standpoint--the question is "What are its military qualifications?" When the semi-rigid airship "V-I" was brought before the notice of the German military department the pressing point concerning its military recommendations arose at once. The inventor had foreseen this issue and was optimistic. Thereupon the authorities asked if the inventor were prepared to justify his claims. The retort was positive. Forthwith the Junkers decided to submit it to the test. This ship is of quite a distinctive type. It is an aerial cruiser, and the inventor claims that it combines all the essential qualifications of the Zeppelin and of the competitors of the latter, in addition to the advantage of being capable of dissection, transportation in parts, and rapid re-erection at any desired spot. The length of the vessel is about 270 feet; maximum diameter approximately 42 feet, and capacity about 300,000 cubic feet. The outstanding feature is a rigid keel-frame forming a covered passage way below the envelope or gas-bag, combined with easy access to all parts of the craft while under way, together with an artificial stiffening which dispenses with the necessity of attaching any additional cars. The frame is so designed that the load, as well as the ballast and fuel tanks, may be distributed as desired, and at the same time it ensures an advantageous disposition of the steering mechanism, far removed from the centre of rotation at the stern, without any overloading of the latter. The lifting part of the airship comprises a single gas bag fitted with two ballonets provided to ensure the requisite gas-tension in the main envelope, while at the same time permitting, in times of emergency, a rapid change of altitude. Self-contained blowers contribute to the preservation of the shape of the envelope, the blowers and the ballonets being under the control of the pilot. Planes resembling Venetian blinds facilitate vertical steering, while the suspension of the keel is carried out in such a manner as to secure uniformity of weight upon the gas bag. The propelling power comprises two sets of internal combustion engines, each developing 130 horse-power, the transmission being through rubber belting. The propellers, built of wood, make 350 revolutions per minute, and are set as closely as possible to the centre of resistance. But the most salient characteristic of this machine is its portability. It can be dismantled and transported by wagons to any desired spot, the suspension frame being constructed in units, each of which is sufficiently small to be accommodated in an ordinary vehicle. Upon arrival the parts may be put together speedily and easily. The authorities submitted the airship to exacting trials and were so impressed by its characteristics and the claims of the inventor that undoubtedly it will be brought into service during the present crisis. At the same time the whole faith of the German military staff so far as airship operations are concerned, is pinned to the Zeppelin. Notwithstanding its many drawbacks it is the vessel which will be used for the invasion of Great Britain. Even the harbour question, which is admitted to be somewhat acute, has been solved to a certain degree. At strategical points permanent harbours or airship sheds have been established. Seeing that the airships demand considerable skill in docking and undocking, and that it is impossible to achieve these operations against the wind, swinging sheds have been adopted. On water the practice is to anchor a floating harbour at one end, leaving the structure to swing round with the wind. But on dry land such a dock is impossible. Accordingly turntable sheds have been adopted. The shed is mounted upon a double turn-table, there being two circular tracks the one near the centre of the shed and the other towards its extremities. The shed is mounted upon a centre pivot and wheels engaged with these inner and outer tracks. In this manner the shed may be swung round to the most favourable point of the compass according to the wind. In the field, however, such practices are impossible, and the issue in this connection has been overcome by recourse to what may be termed portable harbours. They resemble the tents of peripatetic circuses and travelling exhibitions. There is a network of vertical steel members which may be set with facility and speed and which are stayed by means of wire guys. At the top of the outer vertical posts pulleys are provided whereby the outer skin or canvas forming the walls may be hauled into position, while at the apex of the roof further pulleys ensure the proper placing of the roofing. The airship is able to enter or leave from either end according to conditions. The material is fireproofed as a precautionary measure, but at the same time the modern aerial bomb is able to penetrate the roofing without any difficulty and to explode against the airship anchored within. The one great objection to the Zeppelin harbour is the huge target it offers to hostile attack, which, in the event of a vessel being moored within, is inevitably serious. Thus, for instance, upon the occasion of the air raids conducted by Lieutenant Collet and of Squadron Commander Briggs and his colleagues at Dusseldorf and Friedrichshafen respectively, little difficulty was experienced in destroying the airships riding at anchor. The target offered by the shed is so extensive that it would be scarcely possible for a flying enemy to miss it. A bomb dropped from a reasonable height, say 500 feet, would be almost certain to strike some part of the building, and a Zeppelin is an easy vessel to destroy. The firing of one balloon is sufficient to detonate the whole, for the simple reason that hydrogen gas is continuously oozing through the bags in which it is contained. According to a recent statement the Germans are said to be utilising an inert or non-inflammable gas, equal in lifting power to hydrogen, for the inflation of military craft, but scientific thought does not entertain this statement with any degree of seriousness. No gas as light as hydrogen and non-explosive is known to commerce. Will Germany invade Great Britain by air? This is the absorbing topic of the moment--one which has created intense interest and a certain feeling of alarm among the timorous. Although sporadic raids are considered to be possible and likely to be carried out with a varying measure of success--such as that made upon the British East Coast--eminent authorities ridicule an invasion in force. The risk would be enormous, although there is no doubt that Germany, which has always maintained that an invasion of this character will be made, will be compelled to essay such a task, in order to satisfy public opinion, and to justify official statements. It is a moot point, however, whether the invaders ever will succeed in making good their escape, unless Nature proves exceptionally kind. The situation is best summed up in the unbiassed report of General George P. Scriven, Chief Signal officer of the United States Army to the U.S. Secretary of War. In this report, which deals exhaustively with the history, construction and achievements of airships, such an invasion is described as fantastic and impracticable. Writing on November 10th, 1914, the officer declares that "he is not prepared to recommend the American Army to take up seriously the question of constructing dirigibles, as they are not worth their cost as offensive machines, while for reconnaissance or defence they are of far less value than aeroplanes." In his words, "Dirigibles are seemingly useless in defence against the aeroplane or gun-fire." In order to be able to make an invasion in force upon Great Britain's cities extremely favourable weather must prevail, and the treacherous nature of the weather conditions of the North Sea are known fully well both to British and Teuton navigators. Seeing that the majority of the Zeppelin pilots are drawn from the Navy and mercantile marine, and thus are conversant with the peculiarities and characteristics of this stretch of salt water, it is only logical to suppose that their knowledge will exert a powerful influence in any such decision, the recommendations of the meteorological savants not withstanding. When the Zeppelin pride of the German Navy "L-1" was hurled to destruction by a typical North Sea squall, Captain Blew of the Victoria Luise, a Zeppelin with many great achievements to her credit, whose navigator was formerly in the Navy, and thus is familiar with the whole issue, explained that this atmospheric liveliness of the North Sea prevails for the most part in the latitude of Norway, but that it frequently extends as far south as the gate of the Channel. He related furthermore that the rain squalls are of tropical violence, while the vertical thrusts of air are such that no dirigible as yet constructed could ever hope to live in them. Under such conditions, he continued, the gas is certain to cool intensely, and the hull must then become waterlogged, not to mention the downward thrust of the rain. Under such conditions buoyancy must be imperilled to such a degree as to demand the jettisoning of every piece of ballast, fuel and other removable weight, including even the steadying and vertical planes. When this has been done, he pointed out, nothing is left with which to combat the upward vertical thrusts of the air. To attempt to run before the wind is to court positive disaster, as the wind is certain to gain the mastery. Once the airship loses steering way and is rendered uncontrollable it becomes the sport of the forces of Nature, with the result that destruction is merely a matter of minutes, or even seconds. Every navigator who knows the North Sea will support these conclusions. Squalls and blizzards in winter, and thunderstorms in summer, rise with startling suddenness and rage with terrific destructive fury. Such conditions must react against the attempt of an aerial invasion in force, unless it be made in the character of the last throw by a desperate gambler, with good fortune favouring the dash to a certain degree. But lesser and more insignificant Zeppelin raids are likely to be somewhat frequent, and to be made at every favourable climatic opportunity. CHAPTER VII. AEROPLANES OF WAR Owing to the fertility of inventors and the resultant multiplicity of designs it is impossible to describe every type of heavier-than-air machine which has been submitted to the exacting requirements of military duty. The variety is infinite and the salient fact has already been established that many of the models which have proved reliable and efficient under normal conditions are unsuited to military operations. The early days of the war enabled those of doubtful value to be eliminated, the result being that those machines which are now in use represent the survival of the fittest. Experience has furthermore emphasised the necessity of reducing the number of types to the absolute minimum. This weeding-out process is being continued and there is no doubt that by the time the war is concluded the number of approved types of aeroplanes of military value will have been reduced to a score or less. The inconveniences and disadvantages arising from the utilisation of a wide variety of different types are manifold, the greatest being the necessity of carrying a varied assortment of spare parts, and confusion in the repair and overhauling shops. The methodical Teuton was the first to grasp the significance of these drawbacks; he has accordingly carried standardisation to a high degree of efficiency, as is shown in another chapter. At a later date France appreciated the wisdom of the German practice, and within a short time after the outbreak of hostilities promptly ruled out certain types of machines which were regarded as unsuitable. In this instance the process of elimination created considerable surprise, inasmuch as it involved an embargo on the use of certain machines, which under peace conditions had achieved an international reputation, and were held to represent the finest expression of aeronautical science in France as far as aeroplane developments are concerned. Possibly the German machine which is most familiar, by name, to the general public is the Taube, or, as it is sometimes called, the Etrich monoplane, from the circumstance that it was evolved by the Austrian engineer Igo Etrich in collaboration with his colleague Wels. These two experimenters embarked on the study of dynamic flight contemporaneously with Maxim, Langley, Kress, and many other well-known pioneers, but it was not until 1908 that their first practical machine was completed. Its success was instantaneous, many notable flights being placed to its credit, while some idea of the perfection of its design may be gathered from the fact that the machine of to-day is substantially identical with that used seven years ago, the alterations which have been effected meanwhile being merely modifications in minor details. The design of this machine follows very closely the lines of a bird in flight--hence its colloquial description, "Taube," or "dove." Indeed the analogy to the bird is so close that the ribs of the frame resemble the feathers of a bird. The supporting plane is shaped in the manner of a bird's distended wing, and is tipped up at the rear ends to ensure stability. The tail also resembles that of a bird very closely. This aeroplane, especially the latest type, is very speedy, and it has proved extremely reliable. It is very sharp in turning and extremely sensitive to its rudder, which renders it a first-class craft for reconnoitring duty. The latest machines are fitted with motors developing from 120 to 150 horse-power. The "Taube" commanded attention in Germany for the reason that it indicated the first departure from the adherence to the French designs which up to that time had been followed somewhat slavishly, owing to the absence of native initiative. The individuality of character revealed in the "Taube" appealed to the German instinct, with the result that the machine achieved a greater reputation than might have been the case had it been pitted against other types of essentially Teutonic origin. The Taube was subsequently tested both in France and Great Britain, but failed to raise an equal degree of enthusiasm, owing to the manifestation of certain defects which marred its utility. This practical experience tended to prove that the Taube, like the Zeppelin, possessed a local reputation somewhat of the paper type. The Germans, however, were by no means disappointed by such adverse criticism, but promptly set to work to eliminate defects with a view to securing an all-round improvement. The most successful of these endeavours is represented in the Taube-Rumpler aeroplane, which may be described as an improved edition of Etrich's original idea. As a matter of fact the modifications were of so slight, though important, a character that many machines generically described as Taubes are in reality Rumplers, but the difference is beyond detection by the ordinary and unpractised observer. In the Rumpler machine the wings, like those of the Taube, assume broadly the form and shape of those of the pigeon or dove in flight. The early Rumpler machines suffered from sluggish control, but in the later types this defect has been overcome. In the early models the wings were flexible, but in the present craft they are rigid, although fitted with tips or ailerons. The supporting truss beneath the wings, which was such an outstanding feature of its prototype, has been dispensed with, the usual I-beam longitudinals being used in its stead. The latest machines fitted with 100-120 horse-power Mercedes motors have a fine turn of speed, possess an enhanced ascensional effort, and are far simpler to control. Other German machines which are used in the military service are the Gotha and the Albatross. The former is a monoplane, and here again the influence of Etrich upon German aeroplane developments is strongly manifested, the shape of the bird's wing being retained. In the Gotha the truss which Etrich introduced is a prominent characteristic. The Albatross is a biplane, but this craft has proved to be somewhat slow and may be said to be confined to what might be described as the heavier aerial military duties, where great endurance and reliability are essential. As the war proceeds, doubtless Teuton ingenuity will be responsible for the appearance of new types, as well as certain modifications in the detail construction of the existing machines, but there is every indication that the broad lines of Etrich's conception will be retained in all monoplanes. There is one point in which Germany has excelled. Wood is not employed in the construction of these heavier-than-air craft. Steel and the lighter tough alloys are exclusively used. In this way the minimum of weight consistent with the maximum of strength policy is carried out. Moreover the manufacture of component parts is facilitated and accelerated to a remarkable degree by the use of metal, while the tasks of fitting and repairing are notably expedited by the practice of standardisation. Germany is also manifesting commendable enterprise in the perfection of light powerful motors for these dynamic machines. The latest types of explosion-motors range from 100 to 150 horse-power; the advantages of these are obvious. Upon the outbreak of hostilities the French possessed an enormous number and variety of aeroplanes and this aerial fleet had been brought to a high standard of organisation. The aerial fleet is sub-divided into squadrons called "escadrilles," each of which comprises six machines and pilots. These units are kept up to strength, wastage being made up from reserves, so as to maintain the requisite homogeneity. But ere the war had been in progress many weeks an official order was issued forbidding the employment of the Bleriot, Deperdussin, Nieuport, and R.E.P. monoplanes. Those which received official approval included the Caudron, Henry, and Maurice Farman, Morane-Saulnier, and Voisin machines. This drastic order came somewhat as a thunderbolt, and the reason for the decree has not been satisfactorily revealed. Suffice to say that in one stroke the efficiency and numerical strength of the French aerial navy were reduced very appreciably. For instance, it is stated that there were thirty escadrilles of Bleriot monoplanes together with pilots at the front, in addition to thirty mixed escadrilles of the other prohibited types with their fliers. Moreover a round 33 escadrilles of all the various types were in reserve. The effect of the military order was to reduce the effective strength by no fewer than 558 aeroplanes. Seeing that the French aerial force was placed at a great disadvantage numerically by this action, there seems to be ample justification for the hostile criticism which the decree of prohibition aroused in certain circles, especially when it is remembered that there was not an equal number of the accepted machines available to take the place of those which had been ruled out of court. One effect of this decree was to throw some 400 expert aviators upon the waiting list for the simple reason that machines were unavailable. Some of the best aviation skill and knowledge which France possesses were affected by the order. It is stated that accomplished aviators, such as Vedrines, were unable to obtain machines. It will be seen that the ultimate effect of the French military decree was to reduce the number of types to about four, each of which was allotted a specific duty. But whereas three different bi-planes are on the approved list there is only one monoplane--the Morane-Saulaier. This machine, however, has a great turn of speed, and it is also able to climb at a very fast pace. In these respects it is superior to the crack craft of Germany, so that time after time the latter have refused battle in the skies, and have hurried back to their lines. The Morane-Saulnier is the French mosquito craft of the air and like the insect, it is avowedly aggressive. In fact, its duties are confined to the work of chasing and bringing down the enemy, for which work its high manoeuvring capacity is excellently adapted. Its aggressive armament comprises a mitrailleuse. Unfortunately, however, the factory responsible for the production of this machine is at present handicapped by the limitations of its manufacturing plant, which when pushed to the utmost extent cannot turn out more than about ten machines per week. No doubt this deficiency will be remedied as the war proceeds by extension of the works or by allotting orders to other establishments, but at the time of the decree the manufacturing capacity was scarcely sufficient to make good the wastage, which was somewhat heavy. As far as biplanes are concerned the Caudron is the fastest in flight and is likewise extremely quick in manoeuvring. It is a very small machine and is extremely light, but the fact that it can climb at the rate of over 330 feet per minute is a distinct advantage in its favour. It supplements the Morane-Saulnier monoplane in the specific duty of the latter, while it is also employed for discovering the enemy's artillery and communicating the range of the latter to the French and British artillery. In this latter work it has played a very prominent part and to it is due in no small measure that deadly accuracy of the artillery of the Allies which has now become so famous. This applies especially to those tactics, where the field artillery dashes up to a position, discharges a number of rounds in rapid succession, or indulges in rafale firing, and then limbering up, rushes away before the enemy can reply. As is well known the Farman biplanes possess high endurance qualities. They can remain aloft for many hours at a stretch and are remarkably reliable. Owing to these qualities they are utilised for prolonged and searching reconnoitring duties such as strategical reconnaissances as distinct from the hurried and tactical reconnaissances carried out by fleeter machines. While they are not so speedy as the monoplanes of the German military establishment, endurance in this instance is preferable to pace. A thorough survey of the enemy's position over the whole of his military zone, which stretches back for a distance of 30 miles or so from the outer line of trenches, is of incalculable value to a commander who is contemplating any decisive movement or who is somewhat in doubt as to the precise character of his antagonist's tactics. The French aerial fleet has been particularly active in its work of raiding hostile positions and submitting them to a fusillade of bombs from the clouds. The machine which is allotted this specific task is the Voisin biplane. This is due to the fact that this machine is able to carry a great weight. It was speedily discovered that in bomb-raids it is essential for an aeroplane to be able to carry a somewhat large supply of missiles, owing to the high percentage of misses which attends these operations. A raid by a machine capable of carrying only, say, half-a-dozen projectiles, is virtually a waste of fuel, and the endurance limitations of the fast machines reacts against their profitable use in this work. On the other hand, the fact that the Voisin machine is able to carry a large supply of bombs renders it an ideal craft for this purpose; hence the official decision to confine it to this work. So far as the British efforts in aerial work are concerned there is no such display of rigid selection as characterises the practice of the French and German military authorities. Britain's position in the air has been extensively due to private enterprise, and this is still being encouraged. Moreover at the beginning of the war Britain was numerically far inferior both to her antagonist and to her ally. Consequently it was a wise move to encourage the private manufacture of machines which had already established their value. The consequence is that a variety of machines figure in the British aerial navy. Private initiative is excellently seconded by the Government manufacturing aeroplane factory, while the training of pilots is likewise being carried out upon a comprehensive scale. British manufacture may be divided into two broad classes--the production of aeroplanes and of waterplanes respectively. Although there is a diversity of types there is a conspicuous homogeneity for the most part, as was evidenced by the British raid carried out on February 11-12, when a fleet of 34 machines raided the various German military centres established along the coast of Flanders. Considerable secrecy has been displayed by the British Government concerning the types of machines that are being utilised, although ample evidence exists from the producing activity of the various establishments that all available types which have demonstrated their reliability and efficiency are being turned to useful purpose. The Avro and Sopwith warplanes with their very high speeds have proved remarkably successful. So far as manufacturing is concerned the Royal Aerial Factory may be said to constitute the back bone of the British aerial fleet. This factory fulfils various purposes. It is not only engaged in the manufacture of machines, and the development of aeroplanes for specific duties, but also carries out the inspection and testing of machines built by private firms. Every machine is submitted to an exacting test before it is passed into the service. Three broad types of Government machines are manufactured at this establishment. There is that designed essentially for scouting operations, in which speed is the all-important factor and which is of the tractor type. Another is the "Reconnoitring" machine known officially as the "R.E." to-day, but formerly as the "B.E" (Bleriot-Experimental), a considerable number of which are in commission. This machine is also of the tractor type, carrying a pilot and an observer, and has a maximum speed of 40-50 miles per hour. If required it can further be fitted with an automatic gun for defence and attack. The third craft is essentially a fighting machine. Owing to the introduction of the machine-gun which is fixed in the prow, with the marksman immediately behind it, the screw is placed at the rear. The pilot has his seat behind the gunner. The outstanding feature of these machines is the high factor of safety, which attribute has astonished some of the foremost aviation experts in the world. Great Britain lagged behind her Continental rivals in the development of the Fourth Arm, especially in matters pertaining to motive power. For some time reliance was placed upon foreign light highspeed explosion motors, but private enterprise was encouraged, with the result that British Motors comparing favourably in every respect with the best productions upon the Continent are now available. Development is still proceeding, and there is every evidence that in the near future entire reliance will be placed upon the native motor. Undoubtedly, as the war progresses, many valuable lessons will be learned which will exercise an important bearing upon the design and construction of warplanes. The ordeals to which the machines are submitted in military duties are far more severe than any imposed by the conditions of commerce. Accordingly there is every indication that the conflict upon the Continent will represent a distinctive epoch in aeroplane design and construction. Many problems still await solution, such as the capacity to hover over a position, and it is quite possible that these complex and baffling questions will be settled definitely as the result of operations in the field. The aeroplane has reached a certain stage of evolution: further progress is virtually impossible unless something revolutionary is revealed, perfected, and brought to the practical stage. CHAPTER VIII. SCOUTING FROM THE SKIES From the moment when human flight was lifted from the rut of experiment to the field of practical application, many theories, interesting and illuminating, concerning the utility of the Fourth Arm as a military unit were advanced. The general consensus of expert opinion was that the flying machine would be useful to glean information concerning the movements of an enemy, rather than as a weapon of offence. The war is substantiating this argument very completely. Although bomb-dropping is practised somewhat extensively, the results achieved are rather moral than material in their effects. Here and there startling successes have been recorded especially upon the British side, but these triumphs are outnumbered by the failures in this direction, and merely serve to emphasise the views of the theorists. The argument was also advanced that, in this particular work, the aeroplane would prove more valuable than the dirigible, but actual campaigning has proved conclusively that the dirigible and the heavier-than-air machines have their respective fields of utility in the capacity of scouts. In fact in the very earliest days of the war, the British airships, though small and slow in movement, proved more serviceable for this duty than their dynamic consorts. This result was probably due to the fact that military strategy and tactics were somewhat nonplussed by the appearance of this new factor. At the time it was an entirely unknown quantity. It is true that aircraft had been employed in the Balkan and the Italo-Ottoman campaigns, but upon such a limited scale as to afford no comprehensive idea of their military value and possibilities. The belligerents, therefore, were caught somewhat at a disadvantage, and an appreciable period of time elapsed before the significance of the aerial force could be appreciated, while means of counter acting or nullifying its influences had to be evolved simultaneously, and according to the exigencies of the moment. At all events, the protagonists were somewhat loth to utilise the dirigible upon an elaborate scale or in an aggressive manner. It was employed more after the fashion of a captive balloon, being sent aloft from a point well behind the front lines of the force to which it was attached, and well out of the range of hostile guns. Its manoeuvres were somewhat circumscribed, and were carried out at a safe distance from the enemy, dependence being placed upon the advantages of an elevated position for the gathering of information. But as the campaign progressed, the airships became more daring. Their ability to soar to a great height offered them complete protection against gun-fire, and accordingly sallies over the hostile lines were carried out. But even here a certain hesitancy became manifest. This was perfectly excusable, for the simple reason that the dirigible, above all, is a fair-weather craft, and disasters, which had overtaken these vessels time after time, rendered prudence imperative. Moreover, but little was known of the range and destructiveness of anti-aircraft guns. In the duty of reconnoitring the dirigible possesses one great advantage over its heavier-than-air rival. It can remain virtually stationary in the air, the propellers revolving at just sufficient speed to off-set the wind and tendencies to drift. In other words, it has the power of hovering over a position, thereby enabling the observers to complete their task carefully and with deliberation. On the other hand, the means of enabling an aeroplane to hover still remain to be discovered. It must travel at a certain speed through the air to maintain its dynamic equilibrium, and this speed is often too high to enable the airman to complete his reconnaissance with sufficient accuracy to be of value to the forces below. All that the aeroplane can do is to circle above a certain position until the observer is satisfied with the data he has collected. But hovering on the part of the dirigible is not without conspicuous drawbacks. The work of observation cannot be conducted with any degree of accuracy at an excessive altitude. Experience has proved that the range of the latest types of anti-aircraft weapons is in excess of anticipations. The result is that the airship is useless when hovering beyond the zone of fire. The atmospheric haze, even in the clearest weather, obstructs the observer's vision. The caprices of this obstacle are extraordinary, as anyone who has indulged in ballooning knows fully well. On a clear summer's day I have been able to see the ground beneath with perfect distinctness from a height of 4,500 feet, yet when the craft had ascended a further two or three hundred feet, the panorama was blurred. A film of haze lies between the balloon and the ground beneath. And the character of this haze is continually changing, so that the aerial observer's task is rendered additionally difficult. Its effects are particularly notice able when one attempts to photograph the view unfolded below. Plate after plate may be exposed and nothing will be revealed. Yet at a slightly lower altitude the plates may be exposed and perfectly sharp and well-defined images will be obtained. Seeing that the photographic eye is keener and more searching than the human organ of sight, it is obvious that this haze constitutes a very formidable obstacle. German military observers, who have accompanied the Zeppelins and Parsevals on numerous aerial journeys under varying conditions of weather, have repeatedly drawn attention to this factor and its caprices, and have not hesitated to venture the opinion that it would interfere seriously with military aerial reconnaissances, and also that it would tend to render such work extremely hazardous at times. When these conditions prevail the dirigible must carry out its work upon the broad lines of the aeroplane. It must descend to the level where a clear view of the ground may be obtained, and in the interests of safety it has to keep on the move. To attempt to hover within 4,000 feet of the ground is to court certain disaster, inasmuch as the vessel offers a magnificent and steady target which the average gunner, equipped with the latest sighting devices and the most recent types of guns, scarcely could fail to hit. But the airman in the aeroplane is able to descend to a comparatively low level in safety. The speed and mobility of his machine constitute his protection. He can vary his altitude, perhaps only thirty or forty feet, with ease and rapidity, and this erratic movement is more than sufficient to perplex the marksmen below, although the airman is endangered if a rafale is fired in such a manner as to cover a wide zone. Although the aeroplane may travel rapidly it is not too fleet for a keen observer who is skilled in his peculiar task. He may only gather a rough idea of the disposition of troops, their movements, the lines of communication, and other details which are indispensable to his commander, but in the main the intelligence will be fairly accurate. Undulating flight enables him to determine speedily the altitude at which he is able to obtain the clearest views of the country beneath. Moreover, owing to his speed he is able to complete his task in far less time than his colleague operating in the dirigible, the result being that the information placed at the disposal of his superior officers is more to the moment, and accordingly of greater value. Reconnoitring by aeroplane may be divided into two broad categories, which, though correlated to a certain degree, are distinctive, because each constitutes a specific phase in military operations. They are known respectively as "tactical" and "strategical" movements. The first is somewhat limited in its scope as compared with the latter, and has invariably to be carried out rapidly, whereas the strategical reconnaissance may occupy several hours. The tactical reconnaissance concerns the corps or divisional commander to which the warplane is attached, and consequently its task is confined to the observation of the line immediately facing the particular corps or division. The aviator does not necessarily penetrate beyond the lines of the enemy, but, as a rule limits his flight to some distance from his outermost defences. The airman must possess a quick eye, because his especial duty is to note the disposition of the troops immediately facing him, the placing of the artillery, and any local movements of the forces that may be in progress. Consequently the aviator engaged on this service may be absent from his lines for only a few minutes, comparatively speaking; the intelligence he acquires must be speedily communicated to the force to which he is attached, because it may influence a local movement. The strategical reconnaissance, on the other hand, affects the whole plan of campaign. The aviators told off for this duty are attached to the staff of the Commander-in-Chief, and the work has to be carried out upon a far more comprehensive and elaborate scale, while the airmen are called upon to penetrate well into the hostile territory to a point thirty, forty, or more miles beyond the outposts. The procedure is to instruct the flier either to carry out his observations of the territory generally, or to report at length upon a specified stretch of country. In the latter event he may fly to and fro over the area in question until he has acquired all the data it is possible to collect. His work not only comprises the general disposition of troops, defences, placing of artillery, points where reserves are being held, high-roads, railways, base camps, and so forth, but he is also instructed to bring back as correct an idea as possible of what the enemy proposes to do, so that his Commander-in-Chief may adjust his moves accordingly. In order to perform this task with the requisite degree of thoroughness it is often necessary for the airman to remain in the air for several hours continuously, not returning, in fact, until he has completed the allotted duty. The airman engaged in strategical aerial reconnaissance must possess, above all things, what is known as a "military" eye concerning the country he traverses. He must form tolerably correct estimates of the forces beneath and their character. He must possess the ability to read a map rapidly as he moves through the air and to note upon it all information which is likely to be of service to the General Staff. The ability to prepare military sketches rapidly and intelligibly is a valuable attribute, and skill in aerial photography is a decidedly useful acquisition. Such men must be of considerable stamina, inasmuch as great demands are made upon their powers of endurance. Being aloft for several hours imposes a severe tax upon the nervous system, while it must also be borne in mind that all sorts and conditions of weather are likely to be encountered, more particularly during the winter. Hail, rain, and blizzards may be experienced in turn, while the extreme cold which often prevails in the higher altitudes during the winter season is a fearful enemy to combat. Often an airman upon his return from such a reconnaissance has been discovered to be so numbed and dazed as a result of the prolonged exposure, that considerable time has elapsed before he has been sufficiently restored to set forth the results of his observations in a coherent, intelligible manner for the benefit of the General Staff. Under these circumstances it is not surprising that the most skilful and experienced aviators are generally reserved for this particular work. In addition to the natural accidents to which the strategical aerial observer is exposed, the dangers arising from hostile gun-fire must not be overlooked. He is manoeuvring the whole time over the enemy's firing zone, where anti-aircraft weapons are disposed strategically, and where every effort is made by artillery to bring him down, or compel him to repair to such a height as to render observation with any degree of accuracy well-nigh impossible. The methods practised by the German aerial scout vary widely, and are governed in no small measure by the intrepidity and skill of the airman himself. One practice is to proceed alone upon long flights over the enemy's lines, penetrating just as far into hostile territory as the pilot considers advisable, and keeping, of course, within the limits of the radius of action of the machine, as represented by the fuel supply, the while carefully taking mental stock of all that he observes below. It is a kind of roving commission without any definite aim in view beyond the collection of general intelligence. This work, while productive and valuable to a certain degree, is attended with grave danger, as the German airmen have repeatedly found to their cost. Success is influenced very materially by the accuracy of the airman's judgment. A slight miscalculation of the velocity and direction of the wind, or failure to detect any variations in the climatic conditions, is sufficient to prove his undoing. German airmen who essayed journeys of discovery in this manner, often failed to regain their lines because they ventured too far, misjudged the speed of the wind which was following them on the outward run, and ultimately were forced to earth owing to the exhaustion of the fuel supply during the homeward trip; the increased task imposed upon the motor, which had to battle hard to make headway, caused the fuel consumption per mile to exceed calculations. Then the venturesome airman cannot neglect another factor which is adverse to his success. Hostile airmen lie in wait, and a fleet of aeroplanes is kept ready for instant service. They permit the invader to penetrate well into their territory and then ascend behind him to cut off his retreat. True, the invader has the advantage of being on the wing, while the ether is wide and deep, without any defined channels of communication. But nine times out of ten the adventurous scout is trapped. His chances of escape are slender, because his antagonists dispose themselves strategically in the air. The invader outpaces one, but in so doing comes within range of another. He is so harassed that he either has to give fight, or, finding his retreat hopelessly cut off, he makes a determined dash, trusting to his high speed to carry him to safety. In these driving tactics the French and British airmen have proved themselves adepts, more particularly the latter, as the chase appeals to their sporting instincts. There is nothing so exhilarating as a quarry who displays a determination to run the gauntlet. The roving Teuton scout was considerably in evidence in the early days of the war, but two or three weeks' experience emphasised the sad fact that, in aerial strategy, he was hopelessly outmatched by his opponents. His advantage of speed was nullified by the superior tactical and strategical acumen of his antagonists, the result being that the German airman, who has merely been trained along certain lines, who is in many cases nothing more than a cog-wheel in a machine, and who is proverbially slow-witted, has concluded that he is no match for the airmen of the Allies. He found from bitter experience that nothing afforded the Anglo-French military aviators such keen delight as to lie in wait for a "rover," and then to swoop into the air to round him up. The proportion of these individual scouts who were either brought down, or only just succeeded in reaching safety within their own lines, and who were able to exhibit serious wounds as evidence of the severity of the aerial tussle, or the narrowness of the escape, has unnerved the Teuton airmen as a body to a very considerable extent. Often, even when an aeroplane descended within the German lines, it was found that the roving airman had paid the penalty for his rashness with his life, so that his journey had proved in vain, because all the intelligence he had gained had died with him, or, if committed to paper, was so unintelligible as to prove useless. It was the success of the British airmen in this particular field of duty which was responsible for the momentous declaration in Field-Marshal Sir John French's famous despatch:--"The British Flying Corps has succeeded in establishing an individual ascendancy, which is as serviceable to us as it is damaging to the enemy.... The enemy have been less enterprising in their flights. Something in the direction of the mastery of the air has already been gained." The methods of the British airmen are in vivid contrast to the practice of the venturesome Teuton aerial rovers described above. While individual flights are undertaken they are not of unknown duration or mileage. The man is given a definite duty to perform and he ascends merely to fulfil it, returning with the information at the earliest possible moment. It is aerial scouting with a method. The intelligence is required and obtained for a specific purpose, to govern a contemplated move in the grim game of war. Even then the flight is often undertaken by two or more airmen for the purpose of checking and counterchecking information gained, or to ensure such data being brought back to headquarters, since it is quite possible that one of the party may fall a victim to hostile fire. By operating upon these lines there is very little likelihood of the mission proving a complete failure. Even when raids upon certain places such as Dusseldorf, Friedrichshafen or Cuxhaven are planned, complete dependence is not placed on one individual. The machine is accompanied, so that the possibility of the appointed task being consummated is transformed almost into a certainty. The French flying men work upon broadly similar lines. Their fleet is divided into small squadrons each numbering four, six, or more machines, according to the nature of the contemplated task. Each airman is given an area of territory which is to be reconnoitred thoroughly. In this way perhaps one hundred or more miles of the enemy's front are searched for information at one and the same time. The units of the squadron start out, each taking the appointed direction according to the preconceived plan, and each steering by the aid of compass and map. They are urged to complete the work with all speed and to return to a secret rendezvous. Later the air is alive with the whirring of motors. The machines are coming back and all converging to one point. They vol-plane to the earth and gracefully settle down within a short distance of each other at the rendezvous. The pilots collect and each relates the intelligence he has gained. The data are collated and in this manner the General Staff is able to learn exactly what is transpiring over a long stretch of the hostile lines, and a considerable distance to the rear of his advance works. Possibly five hundred square miles have been reconnoitred in this manner. Troops have been massed here, lines of communication extend somewhere else, while convoys are moving at a third place. But all has been observed, and the commanding officer is in a position to re-arrange his forces accordingly. It is a remarkable example of method in military tactics and strategy, and conveys a striking idea of the degree to which aerial operations have been organised. After due deliberation it is decided that the convoys shall be raided, or that massed troops shall be thrown into confusion, if not dispersed. The squadron is ordered to prepare for another aerial journey. The roads along which the convoys are moving are indicated upon the map, or the position of the massed troops in bivouac is similarly shown. The airmen load their machines with a full charge of bombs. When all is ready the leader ascends, followed in rapid succession by the other units, and they whirr through the air in single file. It now becomes a grim game of follow-my-leader. The leader detects the convoy, swoops down, suddenly launches his missiles, and re-ascends. He does not deviate a foot from his path to observe the effects of his discharge, as the succeeding aeroplane is close behind him. If the leader has missed then the next airman may correct his error. One after another the machines repeat the manoeuvre, in precisely the same manner as the units of a battleship squadron emulate the leading vessel when attacking the foe. The tactical evolutions have been laid down, and there is rigid adherence thereto, because only thereby may success be achieved. When the last war-plane has completed its work, the leader swings round and repeats the dash upon the foe. A hail of bullets may scream around the men in the air, but one and all follow faithfully in the leader's trail. One or more machines may fail in the attack, and may even meet with disaster, but nothing interferes with the movements of the squadron as a whole. It is the homogeneity of the attacking fleet which tells, and which undermines the moral of the enemy, even if it does not wreak decisive material devastation. The work accomplished to the best of their ability, the airmen speed back to their lines in the same formation. At first sight reconnoitring from aloft may appear a simple operation, but a little reflection will reveal the difficulties and arduousness of the work. The observer, whether he be specially deputed, or whether the work be placed in the hand of the pilot himself--in this event the operation is rendered additionally trying, as he also has to attend to his machine must keep his eyes glued to the ground beneath and at the same time be able to read the configuration of the panorama revealed to him. He must also keep in touch with his map and compass, so as to be positive of his position and direction. He must be a first-class judge of distances and heights. When flying rapidly at a height of 4,000 feet or more, the country below appears as a perfect plane, or flat stretch, although as a matter of fact it may be extremely undulating. Consequently, it is by no means a simple matter to distinguish eminences and depressions, or to determine the respective and relative heights of hills. If a rough sketch is required, the observer must be rapid in thought, quick in determination, and facile with his pencil, as the machine, no matter how it may be slowed down, is moving at a relatively high speed. He must consult his map and compass frequently, since an airman who loses his bearings is useless to his commander-in-chief. He must have an eagle eye, so as to be able to search the country unfolded below, in order to gather all the information which is likely to be of value to his superior officers. He must be able to judge accurately the numbers of troops arrayed beneath him, the lines of the defensive works, to distinguish the defended from the dummy lines which are thrown up to baffle him, and to detect instantly the movement of the troops and the direction, as well as the roads, along which they are proceeding. Reserves and their complement, artillery, railway-lines, roads, and bridges, if any, over streams and railways must be noted--in short he must obtain an eye photograph of the country he observes and grasp exactly what is happening there. In winter, with the thermometer well down, a blood-freezing wind blowing, wreaths of clouds drifting below and obscuring vision for minutes at a time, the rain possibly pelting down as if presaging a second deluge, the plight of the vigilant human eye aloft is far from enviable. Upon the return of the machine to its base, the report must be prepared without delay. The picture recorded by the eye has to be set down clearly and intelligibly with the utmost speed. The requisite indications must be made accurately upon the map. Nothing of importance must be omitted: the most trivial detail is often of vital importance. A facile pencil is of inestimable value in such operations. While aloft the observer does not trust to his memory or his eye picture, but commits the essential factors to paper in the form of a code, or what may perhaps be described more accurately as a shorthand pictorial interpretation of the things he has witnessed. To the man in the street such a record would be unintelligible, but it is pregnant with meaning, and when worked out for the guidance of the superior officers is a mass of invaluable detail. At times it so happens that the airman has not been able to complete his duty within the time anticipated by those below. But he has gathered certain information which he wishes to communicate without coming to earth. Such data may be dropped from the clouds in the form of maps or messages. Although wireless telegraphy is available for this purpose, it suffers from certain drawbacks. If the enemy possesses an equipment which is within range of that of the air-craft and the force to which it belongs, communications may be nullified by the enemy throwing out a continuous stream of useless signals which "jamb" the intelligence of their opponents. If a message--written in code--or a map is to be dropped from aloft it is enclosed within a special metallic cylinder, fitted with a vane tail to ensure direction of flight when launched, and with a detonating head. This is dropped overboard. When it strikes the ground the detonator fires a charge which emits a report without damaging the message container, and at the same time fires a combustible charge emitting considerable smoke. The noise attracts anyone in the vicinity of the spot where the message has fallen, while at the same time the clouds of smoke guide one to the point and enable the cylinder to be recovered. This device is extensively used by the German aviators, and has proved highly serviceable; a similar contrivance is adopted by French airmen. There is one phase of aerial activity which remains to be demonstrated. This is the utilisation of aerial craft by the defenders of a besieged position such as a ring of fortifications or fortified city. The utility of the Fourth Arm in this province has been the subject of considerable speculation. Expert opinion maintains that the advantage in this particular connection would rest with the besiegers. The latter would be able to ascertain the character of the defences and the defending gun-force, by means of the aerial scout, who would prove of inestimable value in directing the fire of the besieging forces. On the other hand it is maintained that an aerial fleet would be useless to the beleaguered. In the first place the latter would experience grave difficulties in ascertaining the positions of the attacking and fortress-reducing artillery, inasmuch as this could be masked effectively, and it is thought that the aerial force of the besieged would be speedily reduced to impotence, since it would be subjected to an effective concentrated fire from the ring of besieging anti-aircraft guns and other weapons. In other words, the theory prevails that an aerial fleet, no matter how efficient, would be rendered ineffective for the simple reason that it would be the initial object of the besieger's attack. Possibly the stem test of experience will reveal the fallacy of these contentions as emphatically as it has disproved others. But there is one point upon which authorities are unanimous. If the artillery of the investing forces is exposed and readily distinguishable, the aerial forces of the beleaguered will bring about its speedy annihilation, as the defensive artillery will be concentrated upon that of the besiegers. CHAPTER IX. THE AIRMAN AND ARTILLERY There is one field in which the airman has achieved distinctive triumphs. This is in the guidance of artillery fire. The modern battle depends first and foremost upon the fierce effectiveness of big-gun assault, but to ensure this reliable direction is imperative. No force has proved so invaluable for this purpose as the man of-the-air, and consequently this is the province in which he has been exceptionally and successfully active. It will be recalled that in the Japanese investiture of Port Arthur during the Russo-Japanese war, thousands of lives were expended upon the retention and assault of 203 Metre Hill. It was the most blood-stained spot upon the whole of the Eastern Asiatic battlefield. General Nogi threw thousands after thousands of his warriors against this rampart while the Russians defended it no less resolutely. It was captured and re-captured; in fact, the fighting round this eminence was so intense that it appeared to the outsider to be more important to both sides than even Port Arthur itself. Yet if General Nogi had been in the possession of a single aeroplane or dirigible it is safe to assert that scarcely one hundred Japanese or Russian soldiers would have met their fate upon this hill. Its value to the Japanese lay in one sole factor. The Japanese heavy guns shelling the harbour and the fleet it contained were posted upon the further side of this eminence and the fire of these weapons was more or less haphazard. No means of directing the artillery upon the vital points were available; 203 Metre Hill interrupted the line of sight. The Japanese thereupon resolved to capture the hill, while the Russians, equally appreciative of the obstruction it offered to their enemy, as valiantly strove to hold it. Once the hill was captured and the fire of the Japanese guns could be directed, the fate of the fortress was sealed. Similar conditions have prevailed during the present campaign, especially in the western theatre of war, where the ruggedness of the country has tended to render artillery fire ineffective and expensive unless efficiently controlled. When the German Army attacked the line of the British forces so vehemently and compelled the retreat at Mons, the devastating fire of the enemy's artillery was directed almost exclusively by their airmen, who hovered over the British lines, indicating exactly the point where gun-fire could work the maximum of havoc. The instant concentration of massed artillery fire upon the indicated positions speedily rendered one position after another untenable. The Germans maintained the upper hand until at last the aerial forces of the British Expeditionary Army came into action. These airmen attacked the Teuton aerial craft without the slightest hesitation, and in a short while rendered cloudland absolutely unhealthy. The sequel was interesting. As if suddenly blinded, the German artillery fire immediately deteriorated. On the other hand, the British artillery, now having the benefit of aerial guidance, was able to repay the German onslaughts with interest, and speedily compelled that elaborate digging-in of the infantry lines which has now become so characteristic of the opposing forces. So far as the British lines are concerned the men in the trenches keep a sharp look-out for hostile aeroplanes. The moment one is observed to be advancing, all the men seclude themselves and maintain their concealment. To do otherwise is to court a raking artillery outburst. The German aeroplane, detecting the tendency of the trenches describes in the air the location of the vulnerable spot and the precise disposition by flying immediately above the line. Twice the manoeuvre is repeated, the second movement evidently being in the character of a check upon the first observation, and in accordance with instructions, whereupon the Tommies, to quote their own words, "know they are in for it!" Ere the aeroplane has completed the second manoeuvre the German guns ring out. The facility with which artillery fire can be concentrated through the medium of the aeroplane is amazing. In one instance, according to the story related to me by an officer, "a number of our men were resting in an open field immediately behind the second line of trenches, being in fact the reserves intended for the relief of the front lines during the following night. An aeroplane hove in sight. The men dropped their kits and got under cover in an adjacent wood. The aeroplane was flying at a great height and evidently laboured under the impression that the kits were men. Twice it flew over the field in the usual manner, and then the storm of shrapnel, 'Jack Johnsons' and other tokens from the Kaiser rained upon the confined space. A round four hundred shells were dropped into that field in the short period of ten minutes, and the range was so accurate that no single shell fell outside the space. Had the men not hurried to cover not one would have been left alive to tell the tale, because every square foot of the land was searched through and through. We laughed at the short-sightedness of the airman who had contributed to such a waste of valuable shot and shell, but at the same time appreciated the narrowness of our own escape." The above instance is by no means isolated. It has happened time after time. The slightest sign of activity in a trench when a "Taube" is overhead suffices to cause the trench to be blown to fragments, and time after time the British soldiers have had to lie prone in their trenches and suffer partial burial as an alternative to being riddled by shrapnel. The method of ascertaining the range of the target from the indications given by the aeroplane are of the simplest character. The German method is for the aerial craft to fly over the position, and when in vertical line therewith to discharge a handful of tinsel, which, in falling, glitters in the sunlight, or to launch a smoking missile which answers the same purpose as a projectile provided with a tracer. This smoke-ball being dropped over the position leaves a trail of black or whitish smoke according to the climatic conditions which prevail, the object being to enable the signal to be picked up with the greatest facility. The height at which the aerial craft is flying being known, a little triangulation upon the part of the observer at the firing point enables him to calculate the range and to have the guns laid accordingly. When the aerial craft has been entrusted with the especial duty of directing artillery-fire, a system of communication between the aerial observer and the officer in charge of the artillery is established, conducted, of course, by code. In the British Army, signalling is both visual and audible. In daylight visual signalling is carried out by means of coloured flags or streamers and smoke-signals, while audible communication is effected by means of a powerful horn working upon the siren principle and similar to those used by automobiles. Both flags and sound-signals, however, are restricted owing to the comparatively short distances over which they can be read with any degree of accuracy. The smoke-signal therefore appears to be the most satisfactory and reliable, as the German airmen have proved conclusively, for the simple reason that the trail of smoke may be picked up with comparative ease, even at a distance, by means of field glasses. The tinsel too, is readily distinguishable, particularly in bright weather, for the glittering surface, catching the sun-light, acts some what in the manner of a heliograph. The progress of the airman is followed by two officers at the base from which he started. One is equipped with the director, while the second takes the range. Directly this has been found as a result of calculation, the guns are laid ready for firing. In those cases where the enemy's artillery is concealed perhaps behind a hill, the airman is of incalculable value, inasmuch as he is able to reveal a position which otherwise would have to be found by considerable haphazard firing, and which, even if followed by a captive balloon anchored above the firing point, might resist correction. The accuracy of the airman's work in communicating the range has been responsible for the high efficiency of the British and French artillery. The latter, with the 75 millimetre quick-firing gun, is particularly adapted to following up the results of the aeroplane's reconnaissance, especially with the system of rafale fire, because the whole position can be searched through and through within a minute or two. According to information which has been given to me by our artillery officers, the British system also has proved disastrous to the enemy. The practice is to get the range as communicated by the aeroplane, to bring the artillery into position speedily, to discharge salvo after salvo with all speed for a few minutes, and then to wheel the artillery away before any hostile fire can be returned. The celerity with which the British artillery comes into, and goes out of, action has astonished even our own authorities. This mobility is of unique value: it is taking advantage of a somewhat slow-witted enemy with interest. By the time the Germans have opened fire upon the point whence the British guns were discharged, the latter have disappeared and are ready to let fly from another point, some distance away, so that the hostile fire is abortive. Mobility of such a character is decidedly unnerving and baffling even to a quick-witted opponent. In his search for hostile artillery the airman runs grave risks and displays remarkable resource. It is invariably decided, before he sets out, that he shall always return to a certain altitude to communicate signals. Time after time the guns of the enemy have been concealed so cunningly from aerial observation as to pass unnoticed. This trait became more pronounced as the campaigns of the Aisne progressed. Accordingly the airman adopts a daring procedure. He swoops down over suspicious places, where he thinks guns may be lurking, hoping that the enemy will betray its presence. The ruse is invariably successful. The airman makes a sudden dive towards the earth. The soldiers in hiding below, who have become somewhat demoralised by the accuracy of the British aerial bomb-throwers, have an attack of nerves. They open a spirited fusillade in the hope of bringing the airman to earth. But their very excitement contributes to his safety. The shots are fired without careful aim and expend themselves harmlessly. Sweeping once more upwards, the airman regains the pre-determined level, performs a certain evolution in the air which warns the observer at his base that he has made a discovery, and promptly drops his guiding signal directly over the point from which he has drawn fire. Operations at night are conducted by means of coloured lights or an electrical searchlight system. In the former instance three lights are generally carried--white, red, and green--each of which has a distinctive meaning. If reliance is placed upon the electric light signalling lamp, then communications are in code. But night operations are somewhat difficult and extremely dangerous, except when the elements are propitious. There is the ground mist which blots everything from sight, rendering reconnaissance purely speculative. But on a clear night the airman is more likely to prove successful. He keeps a vigilant eye upon all ground-lights and by close observation is able to determine their significance. It is for this reason that no lights of any description are permitted in the advance trenches. The striking of a match may easily betray a position to the alert eye above. So far as the British Army is concerned a complete code is in operation for communicating between aeroplanes and the ground at night. Very's lights are used for this purpose, it being possible to distinguish the respective colours at a distance of six miles and from an altitude of 2,000 feet. The lights are used both by the aeroplane and the battery of artillery. The code is varied frequently, but the following conveys a rough idea of how communication is carried out by this means under cover of darkness. The aeroplane has located its objective and has returned to the pre-arranged altitude. A red light is thrown by the airman. It indicates that he is directly over the enemy's position. A similarly coloured light is shown by the artillery officer, which intimates to the airman that his signal has been observed and that the range has been taken. In observing the effects of artillery fire a code of signals is employed between the airman and the artillery officer to indicate whether the shot is "long" or "short," to the right or to the left of the mark, while others intimate whether the fuse is correctly timed or otherwise. It is necessary to change the code fairly frequently, not only lest it should fall into the enemy's hands, but also to baffle the hostile forces; otherwise, after a little experience, the latter would be able to divine the significance of the signals, and, in anticipation of being greeted with a warm fusillade, would complete hurried arrangements to mitigate its effects, if not to vacate the position until the bombardment had ceased. Sufficient experience has already been gathered, however, to prove the salient fact that the airman is destined to play an important part in the direction and control of artillery-fire. Already he has been responsible for a re-arrangement of strategy and tactics. The man aloft holds such a superior position as to defy subjugation; the alternative is to render his work more difficult, if not absolutely impossible. CHAPTER X. BOMB-THROWING FROM AIR-CRAFT During the piping times of peace the utility of aircraft as weapons of offence was discussed freely in an academic manner. It was urged that the usefulness of such vessels in this particular field would be restricted to bomb-throwing. So far these contentions have been substantiated during the present campaign. At the same time it was averred that even as a bomb-thrower the ship of the air would prove an uncertain quantity, and that the results achieved would be quite contrary to expectations. Here again theory has been supported by practice, inasmuch as the damage wrought by bombs has been comparatively insignificant. The Zeppelin raids upon Antwerp and Britain were a fiasco in the military sense. The damage inflicted by the bombs was not at all in proportion to the quantity of explosive used. True, in the case of Antwerp, it demoralised the civilian population somewhat effectively, which perhaps was the desired end, but the military results were nil. The Zeppelin, and indeed all dirigibles of large size, have one advantage over aeroplanes. They are able to throw bombs of larger size and charged with greater quantities of high explosive and shrapnel than those which can be hurled from heavier-than-air machines. Thus it has been stated that the largest Zeppelins can drop single charges exceeding one ton in weight, but such a statement is not to be credited. The shell generally used by the Zeppelin measures about 47 inches in length by 8 1/2 inches in diameter, and varies in weight from 200 to 242 pounds. Where destruction pure and simple is desired, the shell is charged with a high explosive such as picric acid or T.N.T., the colloquial abbreviation for the devastating agent scientifically known as "Trinitrotoluene," the base of which, in common with all the high explosives used by the different powers and variously known as lyddite, melinite, cheddite, and so forth, is picric acid. Such a bomb, if it strikes the objective, a building, for instance, fairly and squarely, may inflict widespread material damage. On the other hand, where it is desired to scatter death, as well as destruction, far and wide, an elaborate form of shrapnel shell is utilised. The shell in addition to a bursting charge, contains bullets, pieces of iron, and other metallic fragments. When the shell bursts, their contents, together with the pieces of the shell which is likewise broken up by the explosion, are hurled in all directions over a radius of some 50 yards or more, according to the bursting charge. These shells are fired upon impact, a detonator exploding the main charge. The detonator, comprising fulminate of mercury, is placed in the head or tail of the missile. To secure perfect detonation and to distribute the death-dealing contents evenly in all directions, it is essential that the bomb should strike the ground almost at right angles: otherwise the contents are hurled irregularly and perhaps in one direction only. One great objection to the percussion system, as the method of impact detonation is called, is that the damage may be localised. A bomb launched from a height of say 1,000 feet attains terrific velocity, due to the force of gravity in conjunction with its own weight, in consonance with the law concerning a falling body, by the time it reaches the ground. It buries itself to a certain depth before bursting so that the forces of the explosion become somewhat muffled as it were. A huge deep hole--a miniature volcano crater--is formed, while all the glass in the immediate vicinity of the explosion may be shattered by the concussion, and the walls of adjacent buildings be bespattered with shrapnel. Although it is stated that an airship is able to drop a single missile weighing one ton in weight, there has been no attempt to prove the contention by practice. In all probability the heaviest shell launched from a Zeppelin has not exceeded 300 pounds. There is one cogent reason for such a belief. A bomb weighing one ton is equivalent to a similar weight of ballast. If this were discarded suddenly the equilibrium of the dirigible would be seriously disturbed--it would exert a tendency to fly upwards at a rapid speed. It is doubtful whether the planes controlling movement in the vertical plane would ever be able to counteract this enormous vertical thrust. Something would have to submit to the strain. Even if the dirigible displaced say 20 tons, and a bomb weighing one ton were discharged, the weight of the balloon would be decreased suddenly by approximately five per cent, so that it would shoot upwards at an alarming speed, and some seconds would elapse before control was regained. The method of launching bombs from airships varies considerably. Some are released from a cradle, being tilted into position ready for firing, while others are discharged from a tube somewhat reminiscent of that used for firing torpedoes, with the exception that little or no initial impetus is imparted to the missile; the velocity it attains is essentially gravitational. The French favour the tube-launching method since thereby it is stated to be possible to take more accurate aim. The objective is sighted and the bomb launched at the critical moment. In some instances the French employ an automatic detonator which corresponds in a certain measure to the time-fuse of a shrapnel shell fired from a gun. The bomb-thrower reads the altitude of his airship as indicated by his barometer or other recording instrument, and by means of a table at his command ascertains in a moment the time which will elapse before the bomb strikes the ground. The automatic detonator is set in motion and the bomb released to explode approximately at the height to which it is set. When it bursts the full force of the explosion is distributed downwards and laterally. Owing to the difficulty of ensuring the explosion of the bomb at the exact height desired, it is also made to explode upon impact so as to make doubly sure of its efficacy. Firing timed bombs from aloft, however, is not free from excitement and danger, as the experience of a French airman demonstrates. His dirigible had been commanded to make a night-raid upon a railway station which was a strategical junction for the movement of the enemy's troops. Although the hostile searchlights were active, the airship contrived to slip between the spokes of light without being observed. By descending to a comparatively low altitude the pilot was able to pick up the objective. Three projectiles were discharged in rapid succession and then the searchlights, being concentrated, struck the airship, revealing its presence to the troops below. Instantly a spirited fusillade broke out. The airmen, by throwing ballast and other portable articles overboard pell-mell, rose rapidly, pursued by the hostile shells. In the upward travel the bomb-thrower decided to have a parting shot. The airship was steadied momentarily to enable the range to be taken, the automatic detonator was set going and the bomb slipped into the launching tube. But for some reason or other the missile jambed. The situation was desperate. In a few seconds the bomb would burst and shatter the airship. The bomb-thrower grabbed a tool and climbing into the rigging below hacked away at the bomb-throwing tube until the whole equipment was cut adrift and fell clear of the vessel. Almost instantly there was a terrific explosion in mid-air. The blast of air caused the vessel to roll and pitch in a disconcerting manner, but as the airman permitted the craft to continue its upward course unchecked, she soon steadied herself and was brought under control once more. The bomb carried by aeroplanes differs consider ably from that used by dirigibles, is smaller and more convenient to handle, though considering its weight and size it is remarkably destructive. In this instance complete reliance is placed upon detonation by impact. The latest types of British war-plane bombs have been made particularly formidable, those employed in the "raids in force" ranging up to 95 pounds in weight. The type of bomb which has proved to be the most successful is pear-shaped. The tail spindle is given an arrow-head shape, the vanes being utilised to steady the downward flight of the missile. In falling the bomb spins round, the rotating speed increasing as the projectile gathers velocity. The vanes act as a guide, keeping the projectile in as vertical a plane as possible, and ensuring that the rounded head shall strike the ground. The earlier types of bombs were not fitted with these vanes, the result being that sometimes they turned over and over as they fell through the air, while more often than not they failed to explode upon striking the ground. The method of launching the bomb also varies considerably, experience not having indicated the most efficient method of consummating this end. In some cases the bombs are carried in a cradle placed beneath the aeroplane and launched merely by tilting them in a kind of sling, one by one, to enable them to drop to the ground, this action being controlled by means of a lever. In another instance they are dropped over the side of the car by the pilot, the tail of the bomb being fitted with a swivel and ring to facilitate the operation. Some of the French aviators favour a still simpler method. The bomb is attached to a thread and lowered over the side. At the critical moment it is released simply by severing the thread. Such aeroplane bombs, however, constitute a menace to the machine and to the pilot. Should the bomb be struck by hostile rifle or shell fire while the machine is aloft, an explosion is probable; while should the aero plane make an abrupt descent the missiles are likely to be detonated. A bomb which circumvents this menace and which in fact will explode only when it strikes the ground is that devised by Mr. Marten-Hale. This projectile follows the usual pear-shape, and has a rotating tail to preserve direction when in flight. The detonator is held away from the main charge by a collar and ball-bearing which are held in place by the projecting end of a screw-releasing spindle. When the bomb is dropped the rotating tail causes the spindle to screw upwards until the projection moves away from the steel balls, thereby allowing them to fall inward when the collar and the detonator are released. In order to bring about this action the bomb must have a fall of at least 200 feet. When the bomb strikes the ground the detonator falls down on the charge, fires the latter, and thus brings about the bursting of the bomb. The projectile is of the shrapnel type. It weighs 20 pounds complete, is charged with some four pounds of T.N.T., and carries 340 steel balls, which represent a weight of 5 3/4 pounds. The firing mechanism is extremely sensitive and the bomb will burst upon impact with the hull of an airship, water, or soft soil. This projectile, when discharged, speedily assumes the vertical position, so that there is every probability that it will strike the ground fairly and squarely, although at the same time such an impact is not imperative, because it will explode even if the angle of incidence be only 5 degrees. It is remarkably steady in its flight, the balancing and the design of the tail frustrating completely any tendency to wobble or to turn turtle while falling. Other types of missile may be used. For instance, incendiary bombs have been thrown with success in certain instances. These bombs are similar in shape to the shrapnel projectile, but are charged with petrol or some other equally highly inflammable mixture, and fitted with a detonator. When they strike the objective the bursting charge breaks up the shell, releasing the contents, and simultaneously ignites the combustible. Another shell is the smoke-bomb, which, up to the present, has been used only upon a restricted scale. This missile is charged with a certain quantity of explosive to burst the shell, and a substance which, when ignited, emits copious clouds of dense smoke. The scope of such a shell is somewhat restricted, it is used only for the purpose of obstructing hostile artillery fire. The shells are dropped in front of the artillery position and the clouds of smoke which are emitted naturally inter fere with the operations of the gunners. These bombs have also been used with advantage to denote the position of concealed hostile artillery, although their utility in this connection is somewhat uncertain, owing to the difficulty of dropping the bomb so accurately as to enable the range-finders to pick up the range. Dropping bombs from aloft appears to be a very simple operation, but as a matter of fact it is an extremely difficult matter to strike the target, especially from a high altitude. So far as the aeroplane is concerned it is somewhat at a disadvantage as compared with the airship, as the latter is able to hover over a position, and, if a spring-gun is employed to impart an initial velocity to the missile, there is a greater probability of the projectile striking the target provided it has been well-aimed. But even then other conditions are likely to arise, such as air-currents, which may swing the missile to one side of the objective. Consequently adequate allowance has to be made for windage, which is a very difficult factor to calculate from aloft. Bomb-dropping from an aeroplane is even more difficult. If for instance the aeroplane is speeding along at 60 miles an hour, the bomb when released will have a speed in the horizontal plane of 60 miles an hour, because momentarily it is travelling at the speed of the aeroplane. Consequently the shell will describe a curved trajectory, somewhat similar to that shown in Fig. 7. On the other hand, if the aeroplane is travelling slowly, say at 20 miles an hour, the curve of the trajectory will be flatter, and if a head wind be prevailing it may even be swept backwards somewhat after it has lost its forward momentum, and describe a trajectory similar to that in Fig. 8. A bomb released from an altitude of 1000 feet seldom, if ever, makes a bee-line for the earth, even if dropped from a stationary airship. Accordingly, the airman has to release the bomb before he reaches the target below. The determination of the critical moment for the release is not easy, inasmuch as the airman has to take into his calculations the speed of his machine, his altitude, and the direction and velocity of the air-currents. The difficulty of aiming has been demonstrated upon several occasions at aviation meetings and other similar gatherings. Monsieur Michelin, who has done so much for aviation in France, offered a prize of L1,00--$5,000--in 1912 for bomb-dropping from an aeroplane. The target was a rectangular space marked out upon the ground, measuring 170 feet long by 40 feet broad, and the missiles had to be dropped from a height of 2,400 feet. The prize was won by the well-known American airman, Lieutenant Riley E. Scott, formerly of the United States Army. He dropped his bombs in groups of three. The first round fell clear of the target, but eight of the remaining missiles fell within the area. In the German competition which was held at Gotha in September of the same year the results were somewhat disappointing. Two targets were provided. The one represented a military bivouac occupying a superficies of 330 square feet, and the other a captive balloon resembling a Zeppelin. The prizes offered were L500, L200, and L80--$2,500, $1,000 and $400--respectively, and were awarded to those who made the greatest number of hits. The conditions were by no means so onerous as those imposed in the Michelin contest, inasmuch as the altitude limit was set at 660 feet, while no machine was to descend within 165 feet. The first competitor completely failed to hit the balloon. The second competitor flying at 800 feet landed seven bombs within the square, but only one other competitor succeeded in placing one bomb within the space. Bomb-dropping under the above conditions, however, is vastly dissimilar from such work under the grim realities of war. The airman has to act quickly, take his enemy by surprise, avail himself of any protective covering which may exist, and incur great risks. The opposing forces are overwhelmingly against him. The modern rifle, if fired vertically into the air, will hurl the bullet to a height of about 5,000 feet, while the weapons which have been designed to combat aircraft have a range of 10,000 feet or more. At the latter altitude aggressive tactics are useless. The airman is unable to obtain a clear sharp view of the country beneath owing to the interference offered to vision by atmospheric haze, even in the dearest of weather. In order to obtain reasonable accuracy of aim the corsair of the sky must fly at about 400 feet. In this respect, however, the aeroplane is at a decided advantage, as compared with the dirigible. The machine offers a considerably smaller target and moves with much greater speed. Experience of the war has shown that to attempt to hurl bombs from an extreme height is merely a waste of ammunition. True, they do a certain amount of damage, but this is due to luck, not judgment. For success in aerial bomb operations the human element is mainly responsible. The daring airman is likely to achieve the greatest results, as events have proved, especially when his raid is sudden and takes the enemy by surprise. The raids carried out by Marix, Collet, Briggs, Babington, Sippe and many others have established this fact incontrovertibly. In all these operations the airmen succeeded because of their intrepidity and their decision to take advantage of cover, otherwise a prevailing mist or low-lying clouds. Flight-Lieutenant Collet approached the Zeppelin shed at Dusseldorf at an altitude of 6,000 feet. There was a bank of mist below, which he encountered at 1,500 feet. He traversed the depth of this layer and emerged therefrom at a height of only 400 feet above the ground. His objective was barely a quarter of a mile ahead. Travelling at high speed he launched his bombs with what proved to be deadly precision, and disappeared into cover almost before the enemy had grasped his intentions. Lieutenant-Commander, now Flight-Commander, Marix was even more daring. Apparently he had no mist in which to conceal himself but trusted almost entirely to the speed of his machine, which probably at times notched 90 miles per hour. Although his advent was detected and he was greeted with a spirited fusillade he clung to his determined idea. He headed straight for the Zeppelin shed, launched two bombs and swung into the higher reaches of the air without a moment's hesitation. His aim was deadly, since both bombs found their mark, and the Zeppelin docked within was blown up. The intrepid airman experienced several narrow escapes, for his aeroplane was struck twenty times, and one or two of the control wires were cut by passing bullets. The raid carried out by Commanders Briggs and Babington in company with Lieutenant Sippe upon the Zeppelin workshops at Friedrichshafen was even more daring. Leaving the Allies' lines they ascended to an altitude of 4,500 feet, and at this height held to the pre-arranged course until they encountered a mist, which while protecting them from the alert eyes of the enemy below, was responsible for the separation of the raiders, so that each was forced to act independently and to trust to the compass to bring him out of the ordeal successfully. Lieutenant Sippe sighted Lake Constance, and taking advantage of the mist lying low upon the water, descended to such an extent that he found himself only a few feet above the roofs of the houses. Swinging round to the Lake he descended still lower until at last he was practically skimming the surface of the Lake, since he flew at the amazingly low height of barely seven feet off the water. There is no doubt that the noise of his motor was heard plainly by the enemy, but the mist completely enveloped him, and owing to the strange pranks that fog plays with sound deceived his antagonists. At last, climbing above the bank of vapour, he found that he had overshot the mark, so he turned quickly and sped backwards. At the same time he discovered that he had been preceded by Commander Briggs, who was bombarding the shed furiously, and who himself was the object of a concentrated fire. Swooping down once more, Lieutenant Sippe turned, rained his bombs upon the objective beneath, drawing fire upon himself, but co-operating with Commander Babington, who had now reached the scene, he manoeuvred above the works and continued the bombardment until their ammunition was expended, when they sped home-wards under the cover of the mist. Considering the intensity of the hostile fire, it is surprising that the aeroplanes were not smashed to fragments. Undoubtedly the high speed of the machines and the zigzagging courses which were followed nonplussed the enemy. Commander Briggs was not so fortunate as his colleagues; a bullet pierced his petrol tank, compelling a hurried descent. The most amazing feature of these aerial raids has been the remarkably low height at which the airmen have ventured to fly. While such a procedure facilitates marksmanship it increases the hazards. The airmen have to trust implicitly to the fleetness of their craft and to their own nerve. Bearing in mind the vulnerability of the average aeroplane, and the general absence of protective armouring against rifle fire at almost point-blank range, it shows the important part which the human element is compelled to play in bomb-dropping operations. Another missile which has been introduced by the French airmen, and which is extremely deadly when hurled against dense masses of men, is the steel arrow, or "flechette" as it is called. It is a fiendish projectile consisting in reality of a pencil of solid polished steel, 4 3/4 inches in length. The lower end has a sharp tapering point, 5/8ths of an inch in length. For a distance of 1 1/8th of an inch above this point the cylindrical form of the pencil is preserved, but for the succeeding three inches to the upper end, the pencil is provided with four equally spaced angle flanges or vanes. This flanging of the upper end or tail ensures the arrow spinning rapidly as it falls through the air, and at the same times preserves its vertical position during its descent. The weight of the arrow is two-thirds of an ounce. The method of launching this fearsome projectile is ingenious. A hundred or even more are packed in a vertical position in a special receptacle, placed upon the floor of the aeroplane, preferably near the foot of the pilot or observer. This receptacle is fitted with a bottom moving in the manner of a trap-door, and is opened by pressing a lever. The aviator has merely to depress this pedal with his foot, when the box is opened and the whole of the contents are released. The fall at first is somewhat erratic, but this is an advantage, as it enables the darts to scatter and to cover a wide area. As the rotary motion of the arrows increases during the fall, the direct line of flight becomes more pronounced until at last they assume a vertical direction free from all wobbling, so that when they alight upon the target they are quite plumb. When launched from a height they strike the objective with terrific force, and will readily penetrate a soldier's helmet and skull. Indeed, when released at a height of 4,000 feet they have been known to pierce a mounted soldier's head, and pass vertically through his body and that of his horse also. Time after time German soldiers have found themselves pinned to the ground through the arrow striking and penetrating their feet. Owing to the extremely light weight of the darts they can be launched in batches of hundreds at a time, and in a promiscuous manner when the objective is a massed body of infantry or cavalry, or a transport convoy. They are extremely effective when thrown among horses even from a comparatively low altitude, not so much from the fatalities they produce, as from the fact that they precipitate a stampede among the animals, which is generally sufficiently serious and frantic to throw cavalry or a transport-train into wild confusion. Although aerial craft, when skilfully handled, have proved highly successful as weapons of offence, the possibilities of such aggression as yet are scarcely realised; aerial tactics are in their infancy. Developments are moving rapidly. Great efforts are being centred upon the evolution of more formidable missiles to be launched from the clouds. The airman is destined to inspire far greater awe than at present, to exercise a still more demoralising influence, and to work infinitely more destruction. CHAPTER XI. ARMOURED AEROPLANES The stern test of war has served to reveal conclusively the fact that aerial craft can be put out of action readily and effectively, when once the marksman has picked up the range, whether the gunner be conducting his operations with an anti-aircraft gun stationed upon the ground, or from a hostile machine. It will be remembered that Flight-Commander Briggs, on the occasion of the daring British raid upon the Zeppelin sheds at Friedrichshafen, was brought to the ground by a bullet which penetrated his fuel tank. Several other vessels, British, German, French, and Russian alike, have been thrown out of action in a similar manner, and invariably the craft which has been disabled suddenly in this way has fallen precipitately to earth in the fatal headlong dive. Previous to the outbreak of hostilities there was considerable divergence of opinion upon this subject. The general opinion was that the outspread wings and the stays which constituted the weakest parts of the structure were most susceptible to gun-fire, and thus were likely to fail. But practice has proved that it is the driving mechanism which is the most vulnerable part of the aeroplane. This vulnerability of the essential feature of the flying machine is a decisive weakness, and exposes the aviator to a constant menace. It may be quite true that less than one bullet in a thousand may hit the machine, but when the lucky missile does find its billet its effect is complete. The fact must not be overlooked that the gunners who work the batteries of anti-aircraft guns are becoming more and more expert as a result of practice, so that as time progresses and improved guns for such duty are rendered available, the work of the aviator is likely to become more dangerous and difficult. Experience has proved that the high velocity gun of to-day is able to hurl its projectile or shell to an extreme height--far greater than was previously considered possible--so that considerable discretion has to be exercised by the airman, who literally bears his life in his hands. Although elaborate trials were carried out upon the testing ranges with the weapons devised especially for firing upon flying machines, captive balloons being employed as targets, the data thus obtained were neither conclusive nor illuminating. The actual experiences of airmen have given us some very instructive facts upon this point for the first time. It was formerly held that the zone of fire that is to be considered as a serious danger was within a height of about 4,500 feet. But this estimate was well within the mark. Airmen have found that the modern projectiles devised for this phase of operations are able to inflict distinctly serious damage at an altitude of 9,000 feet. The shell itself may have but little of its imparted velocity remaining at this altitude, but it must be remembered that when the missile bursts, the contents thereof are given an independent velocity, and a wide cone of dispersion, which is quite sufficient to achieve the desired end, inasmuch as the mechanism of the modern aeroplane and dirigible is somewhat delicate. It was for this reason that the possibility of armouring the airship was discussed seriously, and many interesting experiments in this field were carried out. At the same time it was decided that the armouring should be effected upon lines analogous to that prevailing in warship engineering. The craft should not only be provided with defensive but also with aggressive armament. This decision was not viewed with general approbation. It was pointed out that questions of weight would arise, especially in relation to the speed of the machine. Increased weight, unless it were accompanied by a proportionate augmentation of power in the motor, would react against the efficiency and utility of the machine, would appreciably reduce its speed, and would affect its climbing powers very adversely. In some quarters it was maintained that as a result the machine would even prove unsuited to military operations, inasmuch as high speed is the primary factor in these. Consequently it was decided by the foremost aviating experts that machines would have to be classified and allotted to particular spheres of work, just as warships are built in accordance with the special duty which they are expected to perform. In reconnaissance, speed is imperative, because such work in the air coincides with that of the torpedo-boat or scout upon the seas. It is designed to acquire information respecting the movements of the enemy, so as to assist the heavier arms in the plan of campaign. On the other hand, the fighting corsair of the skies might be likened to the cruiser or battleship. It need not possess such a high turn of speed, but must be equipped with hard-hitting powers and be protected against attacking fire. One attempt to secure the adequate protection against gun-fire from the ground assumed the installation of bullet-proof steel plating, about one fifth of an inch thick, below the tank and the motor respectively. The disposition of the plating was such as to offer the minimum of resistance to the air and yet to present a plane surface to the ground below. So far as it went this protection was completely effective, but it failed to armour the vital parts against lateral, cross and downward fire while aloft. As the latter is more to be feared than the fire from the ground, seeing that it may be directed at point blank range, this was a decided defect and the armour was subsequently abandoned as useless. The only effective method of achieving the desired end is to armour the whole of the carriage or fuselage of the adroplane, and this was the principle adopted by the Vickers Company. The Vickers military aeroplane is essentially a military machine. It is built of steel throughout. The skeleton of the machine is formed of an alloy which combines the qualities of aluminium and steel to ensure toughness, strength, and lightness. In fact, metal is employed liberally throughout, except in connection with the wings, which follow the usual lines of construction. The body of the car is sheathed with steel plating which is bullet proof against rifle or even shrapnel fire. The car is designed to carry two persons; the seats are therefore disposed tandem-wise, with the observer or gunner occupying the front seat. The defensive armament is adequate for ordinary purposes. Being fitted with a 100 horse-power motor, fairly high speeds are attainable, although the velocity is not equal to that of machines constructed upon conventional lines, inasmuch as there is an appreciable increase in weight. The car is short and designed upon excellent stream lines, so that the minimum of resistance to the air is offered, while at the same time the balancing is perfect. The sides of the car are brought up high enough to protect the aviators, only their heads being visible when they are seated. The prow of the car follows the lines generally adopted in high speed torpedo boat design; there is a sharp knife edge stem with an enclosed fo'c's'le, the latter housing the gun. Another craft, designed for scouting operations, may be likened to the mosquito craft of the seas. This machine, while a biplane like the military aeroplane, is of lighter construction, everything being sacrificed to speed in this instance. It is fitted with a 100 horse-power motor and is designed to carry an observer if required. There is no offensive armament, however. The fuel tank capacity, moreover, is limited, being only sufficient for a two or three hours' flight. While this is adequate for general reconnoitring, which for the most part entails short high speed flights, there are occasions when the Staff demands more prolonged observations conducted over a greater radius. This requisition can be met by eliminating the observer, whose duties in this instance must be assumed by the pilot, and substituting in place of the former, a second fuel tank of sufficient capacity for a flight of four or five hours, thereby bringing the term of action in the air to about 6 1/4 hours. This machine travels at a very high speed and is eminently adapted to its specific duty, but it is of limited service for general purposes. The arming of an aeroplane, to enable it to defend itself against hostile attack or to participate in raiding operations upon the aerial fleet of the enemy, appears to be a simple task, but as a matter of fact it is an undertaking beset with difficulties innumerable. This is especially the case where the aeroplane is of the tractive type, that is to say where the propellers are placed in the forefront of the machine and in their revolution serve to draw the machine forward. All other considerations must necessarily be sacrificed to the mounting of the propeller. Consequently it is by no means easy to allot a position for the installation of a gun, or if such should be found there is grave risk of the angle of fire being severely restricted. In fact, in many instances the mounting of a gun is out of the question: it becomes a greater menace to the machine than to the enemy. The French aeronautical section of the military department devoted considerable study to this subject, but found the problem almost insurmount able. Monsieur Loiseau met with the greatest measure of success, and his system is being practised in the present campaign. This principle is essentially adapted to tractor aeroplanes. Forward of the pilot a special position is reserved for the gunner. A special mounting is provided towards the prow, and upon the upper face of the body of the machine. The gun mounting is disposed in such a manner that it is able to command a wide arc of fire in the vertical plane over the nose of the machine and more particularly in the downward direction. The marksman is provided with a special seat, but when he comes into action he has to stand to manipulate his weapon. The lower part of his body is protected by a front shield of steel plate, a fifth of an inch in thickness, while a light railing extending upon either side and behind enables the gunner to maintain his position when the aeroplane is banking and climbing. The machine gun, of the Hotchkiss type, is mounted upon a swivel attached to a tripod, while the latter is built into the bracing of the car, so as to ensure a fairly steady gun platform. While the gun in the hands of a trained marksman may be manipulated with destructive effect, the drawbacks to the arrangement are obvious. The gunner occupies a very exposed position, and, although the bullet-proof shield serves to break the effects of wind when travelling at high speed which renders the sighting and training of the weapon extremely difficult, yet he offers a conspicuous target, more particularly when the enemy is able to assume the upper position in the air as a result of superior speed in travelling. The gun, however, may be elevated to about 60 degrees, which elevation may be accentuated by the inclination of the aeroplane when climbing, while the facility with which the weapon may be moved through the horizontal plane is distinctly favourable. But the aerial marksman suffers from one very pronounced defect: he has a severely restricted survey of everything below, since his vision is interrupted by the planes. The result is that an enemy who has lost ascendancy of position is comparatively safe if he is able to fly immediately below his adversary: the mitrailleuse of the latter cannot be trained upon him. On the other hand the enemy, if equipped with repeating rifles or automatic pistols, is able to inflict appreciable damage upon the craft overhead, the difficulties of firing vertically into the air notwithstanding. In the Vickers system, where the propeller is mounted behind the car, the aeroplane thus operating upon the pusher principle, the nose of the car is occupied by the arm, which is a rifle calibre machine gun fitted upon a special mounting. The prow is provided with an embrasure for the weapon and the latter is so installed as to command an angle of 30 degrees on all sides of the longitudinal axis of the machine when in flight. In this instance the marksman is provided with complete protection on all sides, inasmuch as his position is in the prow, where the hood of the fo'c's'le shields him from overhead attack. The gun is protected by a special shield which moves with the gun barrel. This shield is provided with mica windows, through which the gunner is able to sight his arm, so that he is not inconvenienced in any way by the wind draught. One shortcoming of such methods of arming an aeroplane will be observed. Ahead firing only is possible; the weapon cannot be trained astern, while similarly the line of fire on either broadside is severely limited. This is one reason why the machine-gun armament of aerial craft of the heavier-than-air type has not undergone extensive development. In many instances the pilot and observer have expressed their preference for repeating high velocity rifles over any form of fixed gun mounting, and have recourse to the latter only when the conditions are extremely favourable to its effective employment. Efforts are now being made to equip the military type of aeroplane with both forward and astern firing guns. The urgency of astern fire has been brought home very vividly. Suppose, for instance, two hostile aeroplanes, A and B, are in the air. A has the advantage at first, but B is speedier and rapidly overhauls A. During the whole period of the overhauling movement the gun of B can be directed upon A, while the latter, owing to the arc of training being limited to c d cannot reply. Obviously in the running fight it would be to the advantage of B, although the fleeter machine, to keep behind A (position 1), but the latter is making towards its own lines. Under these circumstances A must be headed off, so B crowds on speed to consummate this end. But in the overtaking process B renders his gun-fire ineffective, inasmuch as B passes beyond the arc of his gun which is represented by e f. But in so doing B comes within the firing arc of A (position 9). To minimise this danger B ascends to a higher level to obtain the paramount position. If, however, B were equipped with an astern gun the aeroplane A would be within the fire of B when the forward gun of the latter could not be used. Similarly if A were also fitted with an astern gun it would be able to attack its pursuer the whole time B was to its rear and in this event, if its gun-fire were superior, it would be able to keep the latter to a safe distance, or compel B to manoeuvre into a superior position, which would entail a certain loss of time. An astern firing gun would be valuable to B in another sense. Directly it had passed A or brought the latter within the zone of its astern gun it could maintain its fire at the most advantageous range, because owing to its speed it would be able to dictate the distance over which shots should be exchanged and if mounted with a superior weapon would be able to keep beyond the range of A's guns while at the same time it would keep A within range of its own gun and consequently rake the latter. In the interests of self-preservation A would be compelled to change its course; in fact, B would be able to drive it in any direction he desired, as he would command A's movements by gun-fire. The value of combined ahead and astern firing has been appreciated, but there is one difficulty which at the moment appears to be insuperable the clearance of the propeller. At the moment astern-firing, if such it may be called, is maintained by repeating rifles, but this armament is not to be compared with machine-gun firing, as the latter with its capacity to pour 400 to 600 shots a minute, is far more deadly, particularly when the weapon is manipulated by a crack gunner. Up to the present the offensive armament of aeroplanes has been confined to light machine guns such as the Hotchkiss, Berthier, Schwartlose, and Maxim weapons. So far as the arming of aeroplanes is concerned the indispensable condition is light weight. With airships this factor is not so vital, the result being that some dirigibles are mounted with guns, throwing one pound bursting shells, fitted either with delay action or percussion fuses, the former for preference. These shells are given a wide cone of dispersion. Experiments are also being made with a gun similar to the pom-pom which proved so useful in South Africa, the gun throwing small shells varying from four to eight ounces in weight at high velocity and in rapid succession. While such missiles would not be likely to inflict appreciable damage upon an armoured aeroplane, they would nevertheless be disconcerting to the aviators subjected to such fire, and in aerial combats the successful undermining of the adversary's moral is of far greater importance than in land operations, since immediately ascendancy in the artillery operations is attained the final issue is a matter of moments. But the most devastating arm which has yet been contrived for aerial operations is the light machine gun which has recently been perfected. The one objective with this weapon is to disable the hostile aircraft's machinery. It fires an armour piercing projectile which, striking the motor of any aircraft, would instantly put the latter out of action. The shell has a diameter of about.75 inch and weighs about four ounces. The gun is a hybrid of the mitrailleuse and the French "Soixante-quinze," combining the firing rapidity of the former with the recoil mechanism of the latter. This missile has established its ability to penetrate the defensive armouring of any aeroplane and the motor of the machine at 1,000 yards' range. This offensive arm is now being manufactured, so that it is likely to be seen in the near future as the main armament of aeroplanes. At the moment widespread efforts are being made in the direction of increasing the offensive efficiency of aircraft. It is one of the phases of ingenuity which has been stimulated into activity as a result of the war. CHAPTER XII. BATTLES IN THE AIR Ever since the days of Jules Verne no theme has proved so popular in fiction as fighting in the air. It was a subject which lent itself to vivid imagination and spirited picturesque portrayal. Discussion might be provoked, but it inevitably proved abortive, inasmuch as there was a complete absence of data based upon actual experience. The novelist was without any theory: he avowedly depended upon the brilliance of his imagination. The critic could only theorise, and no matter how dogmatic his reasonings, they were certainly as unconvincing as those of the object of his attack. But truth has proved stranger than fiction. The imaginative pictures of the novelist have not only been fulfilled but surpassed, while the theorising critic has been utterly confounded. Fighting in the air has become so inseparable from the military operations of to-day that it occurs with startling frequency. A contest between hostile aeroplanes, hundreds of feet above the earth, is no longer regarded as a dramatic, thrilling spectacle: it has become as matter-of-fact as a bayonet melee between opposed forces of infantry. A duel in the clouds differs from any other form of encounter. It is fought mercilessly: there can be no question of quarter or surrender. The white flag is no protection, for the simple reason that science and mechanical ingenuity have failed, so far, to devise a means of taking an aeroplane in tow. The victor has no possible method of forcing the vanquished to the ground in his own territory except driving. If such a move be made there is the risk that the latter will take the advantage of a critical opportunity to effect his escape, or to turn the tables. For these reasons the fight is fought to a conclusive finish. To aspire to success in these combats waged in the trackless blue, speed, initiative, and daring are essential. Success falls to the swift in every instance. An aeroplane travelling at a high speed, and pursuing an undulating or irregular trajectory is almost impossible to hit from the ground, as sighting is so extremely difficult. Sighting from another machine, which likewise is travelling rapidly, and pursuing an irregular path, is far more so. Unless the attacker can approach relatively closely to his enemy the possibility of hitting him is extremely remote. Rifle or gun-fire must be absolutely point blank. When a marauding aeroplane is espied the attacking corsair immediately struggles for the strategical position, which is above his adversary. To fire upwards from one aeroplane at another is virtually impossible, at least with any degree of accuracy. The marksman is at a hopeless disadvantage. If the pilot be unaccompanied and entirely dependent upon his own resources he cannot hope to fire vertically above him, for the simple reason that in so doing he must relinquish control of his machine. A rifle cannot possibly be sighted under such conditions, inasmuch as it demands that the rifleman shall lean back so as to obtain control of his weapon and to bring it to bear upon his objective. Even if a long range Mauser or other automatic pistol of the latest type be employed, two hands are necessary for firing purposes, more particularly as, under such conditions, the machine, if not kept under control, is apt to lurch and pitch disconcertingly. Even a colleague carried for the express purpose of aggression is handicapped. If he has a machinegun, such as a Maxim or a mitrailleuse, it is almost out of the question to train it vertically. Its useful vertical training arc is probably limited to about 80 degrees, and at this elevation the gunner has to assume an extremely uncomfortable position, especially upon an aeroplane, where, under the best of circumstances, he is somewhat cramped. On the other hand the man in the aeroplane above holds the dominating position. He is immediately above his adversary and firing may be carried out with facility. The conditions are wholly in his favour. Sighting and firing downwards, even if absolutely vertically, imposes the minimum physical effort, with the result that the marksman is able to bring a steadier aim upon his adversary. Even if the machine be carrying only the pilot, the latter is able to fire upon his enemy without necessarily releasing control of his motor, even for a moment. If he is a skilled sharpshooter, and the exigencies demand, he can level, sight, and fire his weapon with one hand, while under such circumstances an automatic self-loading pistol can be trained upon the objective with the greatest ease. If the warplane be carrying a second person, acting as a gunner, the latter can maintain an effective rifle fusillade, and, at the same time, manipulate his machine-gun with no great effort, maintaining rifle fire until the pilot, by manoeuvring, can enable the mitrailleuse or Maxim to be used to the greatest advantage. Hence the wonderful display of tactical operations when two hostile aeroplanes sight one another. The hunted at first endeavours to learn the turn of speed which his antagonist commands. If the latter is inferior, the pursued can either profit from his advantage and race away to safety, or at once begin to manoeuvre for position. If he is made of stern stuff, he attempts the latter feat without delay. The pursuer, if he realises that he is out classed in pace, divines that his quarry will start climbing if he intends to show fight, so he begins to climb also. Now success in this tactical move will accrue to the machine which possesses the finest climbing powers, and here again, of course, speed is certain to count. But, on the other hand, the prowess of the aviator--the human element once more--must not be ignored. The war has demonstrated very convincingly that the personal quality of the aviator often becomes the decisive factor. A spirited contest in the air is one of the grimmest and most thrilling spectacles possible to conceive, and it displays the skill of the aviator in a striking manner. Daring sweeps, startling wheels, breathless vol-planes, and remarkable climbs are carried out. One wonders how the machine can possibly withstand the racking strains to which it is subjected. The average aeroplane demands space in which to describe a turn, and the wheel has to be manipulated carefully and dexterously, an operation requiring considerable judgment on the part of the helmsman. But in an aerial duel discretion is flung to the winds. The pilot jambs his helm over in his keen struggle to gain the superior position, causing the machine to groan and almost to heel over. The stem stresses of war have served to reveal the perfection of the modern aeroplane together with the remarkable strength of its construction. In one or two instances, when a victor has come to earth, subsequent examination has revealed the enormous strains to which the aeroplane has been subjected. The machine has been distorted; wires have been broken--wires which have succumbed to the enormous stresses which have been imposed and have not been snapped by rifle fire. One well-known British airman, who was formerly a daring automobilist, confided to me that a fight in the air "is the finest reliability trial for an aeroplane that was ever devised!" In these desperate struggles for aerial supremacy the one party endeavours to bring his opponent well within the point-blank range of his armament: the other on his part strives just as valiantly to keep well out of reach. The latter knows fully well that his opponent is at a serious disadvantage when beyond point-blank range, for the simple reason that in sighting the rifle or automatic pistol, it is difficult, if not impossible while aloft, to judge distances accurately, and to make the correct allowances for windage. If, however, the dominating aviator is armed with a machine gun he occupies the superior position, because he can pour a steady hail of lead upon his enemy. The employment of such a weapon when the contest is being waged over friendly territory has many drawbacks. Damage is likely to be inflicted among innocent observers on the earth below; the airman is likely to bombard his friends. For this very reason promiscuous firing, in the hope of a lucky shot finding a billet in the hostile machine, is not practised. Both parties appear to reserve their fire until they have drawn within what may be described as fighting distance, otherwise point blank range, which may be anything up to 300 yards. Some of the battles between the German and the French or British aeroplanes have been waged with a total disregard of the consequences. Both realise that one or the other must perish, and each is equally determined to triumph. It is doubtful whether the animosity between the opposing forces is manifested anywhere so acutely as in the air. In some instances the combat has commenced at 300 feet or so above the earth, and has been fought so desperately, the machines climbing and endeavouring to outmanoeuvre each other, that an altitude of over 5,000 feet has been attained before they have come to close grips. The French aviator is nimble, and impetuous: the German aviator is daring, but slow in thought: the British airman is a master of strategy, quick in thought, and prepared to risk anything to achieve his end. The German airman is sent aloft to reconnoitre the enemy and to communicate his information to his headquarters. That is his assigned duty and he performs it mechanically, declining to fight, as the welfare of his colleagues below is considered to be of more vital importance than his personal superiority in an aerial contest. But if he is cornered he fights with a terrible and fatalistic desperation. The bravery of the German airmen is appreciated by the Allies. The French flying-man, with his traditional love for individual combat, seeks and keenly enjoys a duel. The British airman regards such a contest as a mere incident in the round of duty, but willingly accepts the challenge when it is offered. It is this manifestation of what may be described as acquiescence in any development that enabled the British flying corps, although numerically inferior, to gain its mastery of the air so unostentatiously and yet so completely. All things considered an aeroplane duel is regarded as a fairly equal combat. But what of a duel between an aeroplane and a dirigible? Which holds the advantage? This question has not been settled, at any rate conclusively, but it is generally conceded that up to a certain point the dirigible is superior. It certainly offers a huge and attractive target, but rifle fire at its prominent gas-bag is not going to cause much havoc. The punctures of the envelope may represent so many vents through which the gas within may effect a gradual escape, but considerable time must elapse before the effect of such a bombardment becomes pronounced in its result, unless the gas-bag is absolutely riddled with machine gun-fire, when descent must be accelerated. On the other hand, it is to be presumed that the dirigible is armed. In this event it has a distinct advantage. It has a steady gun-platform enabling the weapons of offence to be trained more easily and an enhanced accuracy of fire to be obtained. In order to achieve success it is practically imperative that an aeroplane should obtain a position above the dirigible, but the latter can ascend in a much shorter space of time, because its ascent is vertical, whereas the aeroplane must describe a spiral in climbing. Under these circumstances it is relatively easy for the airship to outmanoeuvre the aeroplane in the vertical plane, and to hold the dominating position. But even should the aeroplane obtain the upper position it is not regarded with fear. Some of the latest Zeppelins have a machine gun mounted upon the upper surface of the envelope, which can be trained through 360 degrees and elevated to about 80 degrees vertical. Owing to the steady gun platform offered it holds command in gun-fire, so that the aeroplane, unless the aviator is exceptionally daring, will not venture within the range of the dirigible. It is stated, however, that this upper gun has proved unsatisfactory, owing to the stresses and strains imposed upon the framework of the envelope of the Zeppelin during firing, and it has apparently been abandoned. The position, however, is still available for a sniper or sharpshooter. The position in the sky between two such combatants is closely analogous to that of a torpedo boat and a Dreadnought. The latter, so long as it can keep the former at arm's, or rather gun's, distance is perfectly safe. The torpedo boat can only aspire to harass its enemy by buzzing around, hoping that a lucky opportunity will develop to enable it to rush in and to launch its torpedo. It is the same with the aeroplane when arrayed against a Zeppelin. It is the mosquito craft of the air. How then can a heavier-than-air machine triumph over the unwieldy lighter-than-air antagonist? Two solutions are available. If it can get above the dirigible the adroplane may bring about the dirigible's destruction by the successful launch of a bomb. The detonation of the latter would fire the hydrogen within the gas-bag or bags, in which event the airship would fall to earth a tangled wreck. Even if the airship were inflated with a non-inflammable gas--the Germans claim that their Zeppelins now are so inflated--the damage wrought by the bomb would be so severe as to destroy the airship's buoyancy, and it would be forced to the ground. The alternative is very much more desperate. It involves ramming the dirigible. This is undoubtedly possible owing to the speed and facile control of the aeroplane, but whether the operation would be successful remains to be proved. The aeroplane would be faced with such a concentrated hostile fire as to menace its own existence--its forward rush would be frustrated by the dirigible just as a naval vessel parries the ramming tactics of an enemy by sinking the latter before she reaches her target, while if it did crash into the hull of the dirigible, tearing it to shreds, firing its gas, or destroying its equilibrium, both protagonists would perish in the fatal dive to earth. For this reason ramming in mid-air is not likely to be essayed except when the situation is desperate. What happens when two aeroplanes meet in dire combat in mid-air and one is vanquished? Does the unfortunate vessel drop to earth like a stone, or does it descend steadily and reach the ground uninjured? So far as actual experience has proved, either one of the foregoing contingencies may happen. In one such duel the German aeroplane was observed to start suddenly upon a vol-plane to the ground. Its descending flight carried it beyond the lines of the Allies into the territory of its friends. Both came to the conclusion that the aviator had effected his escape. But subsequent investigation revealed the fact that a lucky bullet from the Allies' aeroplane had lodged in the brain of the German pilot, killing him instantly. At the moment when Death over took him the aviator had set his plane for the descent to the ground, and the machine came to earth in the manner of a glider. But in other instances the descent has been far more tragic. The aeroplane, deprived of its motive power, has taken the deadly headlong dive to earth. It has struck the ground with terrific violence, burying its nose in the soil, showing incidentally that a flying machine is an indifferent plough, and has shattered itself, the debris soaked with the escaping fuel becoming ignited. In any event, after such a fall the machine is certain to be a wreck. The motor may escape damage, in which event it is salvaged, the machine subsequently being purposely sacrificed to the flames, thereby rendering it no longer available to the enemy even if captured. In many instances the hostile fire has smashed some of the stays and wires, causing the aeroplane to lose its equilibrium, and sending it to earth in the manner of the proverbial stone, the aviators either being dashed to pieces or burned to death. What are the vulnerable parts of the aeroplane? While the deliberate intention of either combatant is to put his antagonist hors de combat, the disablement of the machine may be achieved without necessarily killing or even seriously wounding the hostile airman. The prevailing type of aeroplane is highly susceptible to derangement: it is like a ship without armour plate protection. The objective of the antagonist is the motor or the fuel-tank, the vital parts of the machine, as much as the aviator seated within. A well-planted shot, which upsets the mechanism of the engine, or a missile which perforates the fuel tank, thereby depriving the motor of its sustenance, will ensure victory as conclusively as the death of the aviator himself. Rifle fire can achieve either of these ends with little difficulty. Apart from these two nerve-centres, bombardment is not likely to effect the desired disablement, inasmuch as it cannot be rendered completely effective. The wings may be riddled like a sieve, but the equilibrium of the machine is not seriously imperilled thereby. Even many of the stays may be shot away, but bearing in mind the slender objective they offer, their destruction is likely to be due more to luck than judgment. On the other hand, the motor and fuel tank of the conventional machine offer attractive targets: both may be put out of action readily, and the disablement of the motive power of an enemy's craft, be it torpedo-boat, battleship, or aeroplane, immediately places the same at the assailant's mercy. Nevertheless, of course, the disablement of the airman brings about the desired end very effectively. It deprives the driving force of its controlling hand; The aeroplane becomes like a ship without a rudder: a vessel whose helmsman has been shot down. It is unmanageable, and likely to become the sport of the element in which it moves. It is for this reason that aviators have been urged to direct their fire upon the men and mechanism of a dirigible in the effort to put it out of action. An uncontrolled airship is more likely to meet with its doom than an aeroplane. The latter will inevitably glide to earth, possibly damaging itself seriously in the process, as events in the war have demonstrated, but a helpless airship at once becomes the sport of the wind, and anyone who has assisted, like myself, in the descent of a vessel charged with gas and floating in the air, can appreciate the difficulties experienced in landing. An uncontrolled Zeppelin, for instance, would inevitably pile up in a tangled twisted ruin if forced to descend in the manner of an ordinary balloon. Consequently the pilot of a dirigible realises to the full the imperative urgency of keeping beyond the point-blank fire of aerial mosquito craft. The assiduity with which British aviators are prepared to swarm to the attack has been responsible for a display of commendable ingenuity on the part of the German airman. Nature has provided some of its creatures, such as the octopus, for instance, with the ways and means of baffling its pursuers. It emits dense clouds of inky fluid when disturbed, and is able to effect its escape under cover of this screen. The German aviator has emulated the octopus. He carries not only explosive bombs but smoke balls as well. When he is pursued and he finds himself in danger of being overtaken, the Teuton aviator ignites these missiles and throws them overboard. The aeroplane becomes enveloped in a cloud of thick impenetrable smoke. It is useless to fire haphazard at the cloud, inasmuch as it does not necessarily cover the aviator. He probably has dashed out of the cloud in such a way as to put the screen between himself and his pursuer. In such tactics he has merely profited by a method which is practised freely upon the water. The torpedo boat flotilla when in danger of being overwhelmed by superior forces will throw off copious clouds of smoke. Under this cover it is able to steal away, trusting to the speed of the craft to carry them well beyond gunshot. The "smoke screen," as it is called, is an accepted and extensively practised ruse in naval strategy, and is now adopted by its mosquito colleagues of the air. CHAPTER XIII. TRICKS AND RUSES TO BAFFLE THE AIRMAN The airman has not been allowed to hold his undisputed sway in military operations for long. Desperate situations demand drastic remedies and already considerable and illuminating ingenuity is being displayed to baffle and mislead the scout of the skies. It is a somewhat curious and noteworthy fact, that the Germans were among the first to realise the scope of the airman's activities, and the significance of their relation to the conveyance of intimate information and the direction of artillery fire. Consequently, they now spare no effort to convey illusory information, in the hope that the hostile force may ultimately make a false move which may culminate in disaster. Thus, for instance, as much endeavour is bestowed upon the fashioning of dummy trenches as upon the preparation of the actual lines of defence. And every care will be taken to indicate that the former are strongly held. The dug-outs are complete and at places are apparently cunningly masked. If the airman is flying swiftly, he is likely to fail to distinguish the dummy from the real trenches. To him the defences appear to be far more elaborate and more strongly held than is the actual case. The advantage of this delusion is obvious when a retreat is being made. It enables the enemy to withdraw his forces deliberately and in perfect order, and to assume another and stronger position comparatively at leisure. The difficulty of detecting the dummies is emphasised, inasmuch as now, whenever the sound of an aeroplane is heard, or a glimpse thereof is obtained, the men keep well down and out of sight. Not a sign of movement is observable. For all the airman may know to the contrary, the trenches may be completely empty, whereas, as a matter of fact, they are throbbing with alert infantry, anxious for a struggle with the enemy. This is one instance where the dirigible is superior to the aeroplane. The latter can only keep circling round and round over the suspicious position; the movement through the air interferes with close continuous observation. On the other hand, the dirigible can maintain a stationary position aloft for hours on end. Then the issue is resolved into a contest of patience, with the advantage to the airman. The soldiers in the trenches fret and fume under cover; confined concealment is irksome and is a supreme test of the nerves. Unless the soldiers are made of very stern stuff, physical endurance succumbs. Some rash act--apparently very trivial--may be committed; it suffices for the vigilant sentinel overhead. He detects the slender sign of life, forms his own conclusions, and returns to his headquarters with the intelligence that the enemy is playing "Brer Rabbit." It has also become increasingly difficult for the airman to gather absolutely trustworthy data concerning the disposition and movement of troops. Small columns are now strung out along the highways to convey the impression that the moving troops are in far greater force than is actually the case, while the main body is under the cover offered by a friendly wood and is safe from detection. The rapidity with which thousands of men are able to disappear when the word "Airman" is passed round is astonishing. They vanish as completely and suddenly as if swallowed by the earth or dissolved into thin air. They conceal themselves under bushes, in ditches, lie prone under hedgerows, dart into houses and outbuildings--in short, take every cover which is available, no matter how slender it may seem, with baffling alacrity. The attenuated column, however, is kept moving along the highway for the express purpose of deceiving the airman. Advancing troops also are now urged to move forward under the shelter of trees, even if the task entails marching in single or double file, to escape the prying eyes of the man above. By keeping close to the line of trunks, thus taking full advantage of the overhanging branches, and marching in such a manner as to create little dust, it is possible to escape the aerial scout. The concealment of cavalry, however, is somewhat difficult. An animal, especially if he be unaccustomed to the noise of the aeroplane, is likely to become startled, and to give vent to a frightened and vociferous neighing which invariably provokes a hearty response from his equine comrades. The sharp ear of the airman does not fail to distinguish this sound above the music of his motor. Again, he has come to regard all copses and stretches of undergrowth with suspicion. Such may or may not harbour the enemy, but there is no risk in making an investigation. He swoops down, and when a short distance above the apparently innocent copse, circles round it two or three times. Still undecided, he finally hurls a bomb. Its detonation invariably proves effective. The horses stampede and the secret is out. Even foot soldiers must be severely trained and experienced to resist the natural inclination to break cover when such a missile is hurled into their midst. Frequently a force, which has laboured under the impression that it is safe from detection, has revealed its presence unwittingly and upon the spur of the moment. If the men be steeled against the bomb attack, it is almost impossible to resist the inclination to take a shot when the airman, swooping down, ventures so temptingly near as to render him an enticing target almost impossible to miss. As a rule, however, the observer is on the alert for such a betrayal of a force's existence. When the bomb fails to scatter the enemy, or the men are proof against the temptation to fire a volley, a few rounds from the aeroplane's machine gun often proves effective. If the copse indeed be empty no harm is done, beyond the abortive expenditure of a few rounds of ammunition: if it be occupied, the fruits of the manoeuvre are attractive. Cunning is matched against cunning, and the struggle for supremacy in the art of craftiness is keen. The French Flying Corps have had recourse to an ingenious ruse for accomplishing two ends--the one to draw concealed artillery fire, and the other to pre-occupy the airmen. Two German aerial scouts observed a French machine flying at a somewhat venturesome height over their masked artillery. Divining the reason for the hostile intrepidity they gave chase. Circling round the French machine they assailed it with machine-gun fire. The enemy appeared to take no notice but continued his gradual descent in a steady line. Presently the German airmen, having drawn sufficiently near, observed that the French aviator was inert. Had he been killed? Everything pointed to such a conclusion, especially as they had raked the aeroplane fore and aft with bullets. But still suspicious they continued their circling movements, their attention so concentrated upon their quarry that they had not observed another move. It was the crash of guns from their masked artillery which broke in upon their absorption. Looking round, they observed three French aeroplanes soaring around and above them at high speed. Scarcely had they realised the situation before a spirited mitraireuse fire was rained upon them. One of the German aeroplanes was speedily disabled. Its fuel tank was riddled and it sank rapidly, finally crashing to earth in the deadly dive head foremost, and killing both its occupants in the fall. The second aeroplane hurried away with its pilot wounded. In the excitement of the aerial melee the first French aeroplane had been forgotten. It was now scarcely 100 feet above the German artillery. A capture appeared to be imminent, but the Germans received a rude surprise. Suddenly the aeroplane exploded and a hail of shrapnel burst over the heads of the artillerymen. The circumstance was decidedly uncanny, but after two or three such experiences of exploding aeroplanes the matter was explained. The apparently helpless aeroplane was merely a glider, which, instead of carrying a man, had a booby-trap aboard. It appears that the French airmen have found a use for the aeroplanes which are considered unsafe for further use. The motor and propeller are removed and the dummy of explosives is strapped into position. The laden glider is then taken aloft by means of an airship, and in the concealment of the clouds is released, the rudder being so set as to ensure a gradual vol-plane towards the suspicious position below. The explosive cargo is set with a time fuse, the arrangement being that the contents will be detonated while the machine is near the ground, unless this end is accelerated by a well-planted shell from an anti-aircraft gun. The decoy glider is generally accompanied by one or two aeroplanes under control, which keep under the cover of the clouds until the hostile aviators have been drawn into the air, when they swoop down to the attack. The raiders are fully aware that they are not likely to become the target of fire from the ground, owing to the fact that the enemy's artillery might hit its friends. Consequently the antagonistic airmen are left to settle their own account. In the meantime the dummy machine draws nearer to the ground to explode and to scatter its death-dealing fragments of steel, iron, and bullets in all directions. Possibly in no other phase of warfare is subterfuge practised so extensively as in the concealment of guns. The branches of trees constitute the most complete protection and guns are placed in position beneath a liberal cover of this character. The branches also offer a screen for the artillerymen, who can lurk beneath this shelter until the aeroplane has passed. To complete the illusion dummy guns fashioned from tree trunks and the wheels of useless limbers are rigged up, and partially hidden under branches, the idea being to convey the impression to the man aloft that they are the actual artillery. The aerial scout observes the dummies beneath the sparse covering of branches. Congratulating himself upon his sharp eyesight, he returns to his base with the intelligence that he has found the enemy's guns he indicates their position upon the map, and in some cases returns to notify the position of the weapons by smoke-ball or tinsel, when they are immediately subjected to a severe bombardment. He follows the shell-fire and sees the arms put out of action. He returns to camp satisfied with his exploit, oblivious of the smiles and laughter of the hostile artillerymen, who have their guns safely in position and well masked some distance away. The dummies are imperfectly concealed purposely, so that they may be discovered by the aerial scout, while the real guns are completely masked and ready to belch forth from another point. In one or two cases the dummies have been rigged up in such a manner as to convey the impression, when seen from aloft, that a whole battery has been put out of action, barrels and wheels as well as broken limbers strewing the ground in all directions. Moving masses of soldiers are also resorting to cunning in order to mislead the airman or to escape his observation. At the battle of Haelen, during which engagement the German warplanes were exceptionally active, the Belgian soldiers covered their heads with bundles of wheat snatched from the standing stooks, and under this cover lurked in a field where the corn was still standing. From aloft their forms defied detection: the improvised headgear completely covered them and blended effectively with the surrounding wheat. In another instance the French misled a German airman somewhat effectively. What appeared to be cavalry was seen to be retreating along the country road, and the airman returned hurriedly to report. A German squadron was dispatched in hasty pursuit. But as it rounded a copse skirting the road it received a murderous fire at close quarters, which decimated the ranks and sent the survivors flying for their lives along the road up which they had ridden so confidently. Had the aviator been in a position to observe the horses more closely, he would have found that what appeared to be riders on their backs were in reality sacks stuffed with straw, dressed in old uniforms, and that a mere handful of men were driving the animals forward. The cavalrymen had purposely dismounted and secreted themselves in the wood in anticipation of such a pursuit as was made. While the Germans do not appear to be so enterprising in this form of ingenuity they have not been idle. A French airman flying over the Teuton lines observed the outermost trenches to be alive with men whose helmets were distinctly visible. The airman reported his observations and the trench was subjected to terrific shell fire. Subsequently the French made a spirited charge, but to their dismay found that the outermost German trench was occupied by dummies fashioned from all sorts of materials and crowned with helmets! This ruse had enabled the German lines to be withdrawn to another position in safety and comparatively at leisure. Before war was declared the German military experts were emphasising the importance of trees for masking troops and guns against aerial observation. One of the foremost authorities upon military aviation only a few months ago urged the German Military Staff to encourage the planting of orchards, not for the purpose of benefiting agriculture or in the interests of the farmers, but merely for military exigencies. He pointed to the extensive orchards which exist in Alsace-Lorraine and Baden, the military covering value of which he had determined from personal experience, having conducted aerial operations while military were moving to and fro under the cover of the trees. He declared that the cover was efficient and that under the circumstances the laying out of extensive orchards in strategical places should be carried out without any delay. This, he urged, was a national and not a private obligation. He advocated the bestowal of subsidies on the farmers to encourage the planting of fruit trees. He suggested that the trees should be provided by the State, and given to all who were prepared to plant them; that substantial prizes should be awarded to encourage the rapid growth thereof, and that annual prizes should be awarded to the man who would undertake their cultivation and pruning, not from the fruit-yielding point of view, but for facilitating the movement of troops beneath their dense branches. He even urged the military acquisition of suitable land and its determined, skilful, and discreet exploitation by those who loved the Fatherland. He emphasised the necessity for keeping such orchards under military control, only vouchsafing sufficient powers to the local authorities to ensure the desired consummation. He maintained that, if the work were prosecuted upon the right lines and sufficient financial assistance were given, the purpose in view could be achieved without saddling the war department with any unremunerative or excessive burden. He admitted that the process of raising fruit trees to the stage when they would afford adequate cover would be tedious and somewhat prolonged, but argued that the military advantages, such as enabling troops to move below the welcome shelter with absolute freedom and without physical fatigue, would be an ample compensation. The utility of such cover to artillery was another factor he did not fail to emphasise. He dwelt seriously upon the difficulty of rendering permanent gun emplacements and heavy artillery invisible to the airman by resort to the usual type of gun shields. The latter may be located with ease by alert airmen, whereas if the guns were under cover of fruit trees they would be able to accomplish their deadly mission without betraying their presence to the aerial scout. Moreover, by pruning the trees in such a manner as to ensure free movement beneath, the artillery would be able to advance without betraying the fact to the enemy. This authority vigorously insisted that the work should be carried out without a moment's delay as it was vital to the Fatherland. In the light of recent events, and the excellent cover which is offered by the orchards of the territory he cited as an illustration of his contention, such a disclosure is pregnant with meaning. It throws a new light upon the thorough methods with which the Germans carried out their military preparations, and incidentally shows that they were fully alive to every possible development. Fruit-raising as a complement to military operations may be a new line of discussion, but it serves to reveal the German in his true light, ready for every contingency, and shows how thoroughly he appreciates the danger from the man in the clouds. CHAPTER XIV. ANTI-AIRCRAFT GUNS. MOBILE WEAPONS. When the airship and the aeroplane became accepted units of warfare it was only natural that efforts should be concentrated upon the evolution of ways and means to compass their destruction or, at least, to restrict their field of activity. But aircraft appeared to have an immense advantage in combat. They possess virtually unlimited space in which to manoeuvre, and are able to select the elevation from which to hurl their missiles of destruction. There is another and even more important factor in their favour. A projectile fired, or even dropped, from a height, say of 5,000 feet, is favourably affected by the force of gravity, with the result that it travels towards the earth with accumulating energy and strikes the ground with decisive force. On the other hand, a missile discharged into space from a weapon on the earth has to combat this action of gravity, which exercises a powerful nullifying influence upon its flight and velocity, far in excess of the mere resistance offered by the air. In other words, whereas the projectile launched from aloft has the downward pull of the earth or gravitational force in its favour, the shell fired from the ground in the reverse direction has to contend against this downward pull and its decelerating effect. At the time when aircraft entered the realms of warfare very little was known concerning the altitudes to which projectiles could be hurled deliberately. Certain conclusive information upon this point was available in connection with heavy howitzer fire, based on calculations of the respective angles at which the projectile rose into the air and fell to the ground, and of the time the missile took to complete its flight from the gun to the objective. But howitzer fire against aircraft was a sheer impossibility: it was like using a six-inch gun to kill a fly on a window pane at a thousand yards' range. Some years ago certain experiments in aerial firing with a rifle were undertaken in Switzerland. The weapon was set vertically muzzle upwards and discharged. From the time which elapsed between the issue of the bullet from the muzzle until it struck the earth it was possible to make certain deductions, from which it was estimated that the bullet reached an altitude of 600 feet or so. But this was merely conjecture. Consequently when artillerists entered upon the study of fighting air-craft with small arms and light guns, they were compelled to struggle in the dark to a very pronounced extent, and this darkness was never satisfactorily dispelled until the present war, for the simple reason that there were no means of getting conclusive information. The German armament manufacturers endeavoured to solve the problem by using smoking shells or missiles fitted with what are known as tracers. By following the ascensional path of the projectiles as revealed by the smoke it was possible to draw certain conclusions. But these were by no means convincing or illuminating, as so many factors affected the issue. Despite the peculiar and complex difficulties associated with the problem it was attacked some what boldly. In this trying field of artillery research the prominent German armament manufacturers, Krupp of Essen and Ehrhardt of Dusseldorf, played a leading part, the result being that before the airship or the aeroplane was received within the military fold, the anti-aircraft gun had been brought into the field of applied science. The sudden levelling-up serves to illustrate the enterprise of the Germans in this respect as well as their perspicacity in connection with the military value of aircraft. Any gun we can hope to employ against aircraft with some degree of success must fulfil special conditions, for it has to deal with a difficult and elusive foe. Both the lighter-than-air and the heavier than-air craft possess distinctive features and varying degrees of mobility. Taking the first-named, the facility with which it can vary its altitude is a disconcerting factor, and is perplexing to the most skilful gunner, inasmuch as he is called upon to judge and change the range suddenly. On the other hand, the artilleryman is favoured in certain directions. The range of utility of the airship is severely limited. If its avowed mission is reconnaissance and conclusive information concerning the disposition of forces, artillery and so forth is required, experience has proved that such work cannot be carried out satisfactorily or with any degree of accuracy at a height exceeding 5,000 feet, and a distance beyond six miles. But even under these circumstances the climatic conditions must be extremely favourable. If the elements are unpropitious the airship must venture nearer to its objective. These data were not difficult to collect, inasmuch as they were more or less available from the results of military observations with captive balloons, the conditions being somewhat similar. With the ordinary captive balloon it has been found that, in clear weather, a radius of about 3 3/4 miles at the maximum elevation constitutes its range of reliable utility. With the aeroplane, however, the conditions are very dissimilar. In the first place the machine owing to its diminutive size as compared with the airship, offers a small and inconspicuous target. Then there is its high independent speed, which is far beyond that of the airship. Furthermore its mobility is greater. It can wheel, turn sharply to the right or to the left, and pursue an irregular undulating flight in the horizontal plane, which renders it well nigh impossible for a gunner to pick it up. The machine moves at a higher relative speed than that at which the gun can be trained. It is the rapid and devious variation which so baffles the gunner, who unless he be highly skilled and patient, is apt to commence to fire wildly after striving for a few moments, and in vain, to pick up the range; he trusts to luck or depends upon blind-shooting, which invariably results in a waste of ammunition. A gun, to be of tangible destructive efficiency when directed against aircraft, especially those depending upon the gas-bag for equilibrium, must be of special design. It must be capable of firing at an angle only a few degrees less than the absolute vertical, and in order to follow the rapid and involved movements of its objective, must be so mobile that it can be trained through a complete circle at any angle of inclination less than its maximum. At the same time, if the weapon is being used in field operations it must be mounted upon a carriage of adequate mobility to enable it to follow the airship, and thereby keep pace with the latter, so that the aerial craft may be sorely harassed if not actually hit. The automobile is the obvious vehicle for this duty, and it has accordingly been extensively used in this service. The automobile and the gun mounted thereon follow widely different lines. Some vehicles are designed especially for this duty, while others are improvisations, and be it noted, in passing, that many of the latter have proved more serviceable than the former. Still, the first-named is to be preferred, inasmuch as necessarily it is designed to meet the all-round requirements imposed, and consequently is better able to stand up to the intended work, whereas the extemporised vehicle is only serviceable under favourable conditions. The Krupp Company has evolved many designs of anti-aircraft motor-driven guns--"Archibalds" the British airmen term them with emphatic levity. They are sturdily-built vehicles fitted with heavy motors, developing from 40 to 50 horse-power, with the chassis not widely dissimilar from that adopted for motor-omnibus traffic. Consequently, they are not necessarily condemned to the high-roads, but within certain limits are able to travel across country, i.e., upon fields or other level expanses, where the soil is not unduly soft. But the very character of the problem rendered the evolution of the vehicle a somewhat perplexing matter. There were many factors which had to be taken into consideration, and it was possible to meet the imposed requirements only within certain limits. In the first place, the weight of the gun itself had to be kept down. It was obviously useless to overload the chassis. Again, the weight of the projectile and its velocity had to be borne in mind. A high velocity was imperative. Accordingly, an initial velocity varying from 2,200 to 2,700 feet per second, according to the calibre of the gun, was determined. Moreover, as mobility was an indispensable condition, the gun had to be so mounted that it could be fired from the motor-car even if the latter were travelling at high speed. This requirement entailed another difficulty. The gun had to be mounted in such a manner as to enable the gunner to train it easily and readily through the complete circle and through its complete range of vertical inclination. As the result of prolonged experiments it was ascertained that the most suitable arrangement was a pedestal mounting, either within a turret or upon an open deck. To meet the weight of the gun, as well as the strains and stresses incidental to firing, the chassis was strengthened, especially over the rear axle near which the mounting is placed. The heaviest gun of this type is the 10.5 centimetre (4 1/4-inch) quick-firer, throwing a shell weighing nearly forty pounds, with an initial velocity of 2,333 feet per second. This "Archibald" is totally unprotected. The gun is mounted centrally upon the carriage over the rear axle, and occupies the centre of the deck between the driver's seat and that of the gun crew behind. The whole of the deck is clear, thereby offering no obstruction to the gunner in training the weapon, while the space may be widened by dropping down the wings of the vehicle. At the rear is a seat to accommodate the gun crew, beneath which the ammunition is stowed. When travelling and out of action, the gun lies horizontally, the muzzle pointing from the rear of the car. To reduce the strains arising from firing, the arm is fitted with what is known as the "differential recoil." Above the breach is an air recuperator and a piston, while there is no hydraulic brake such as is generally used. The compressor is kept under compression while the car is travelling with the gun out of action, so that the arm is available for instant firing. This is a departure from the general practice in connection with such weapons. When the gun is loaded the bolt which holds the compressor back is withdrawn, either by the hand for manual firing, or by the action of the automatic closing of the breech when the arm is being used as a quick-firer. In firing the gun is thrown forward under the pressure of the released air which occurs at the moment of discharge. The energy of the recoil brings the gun back and at the same time recharges the compressed air reservoir. The gun is so mounted upon its pedestal as to enable a maximum vertical inclination of 75 degrees to be obtained. The mounting system also enables the weapon to be trained in any desired direction up to the foregoing maximum elevation throughout a complete circle, and it can be handled with ease and celerity. A smaller "Archibald" is the 7.5 centimetre (3-inch gun) throwing a 14.3 pound shell at an initial velocity of about 2,170 feet per second. The turret anti-aircraft gun carried upon a motor-car differs from the foregoing very considerably. This is a protected arm. The gun of 7.1 centimetres--approximately 2.75 inches--is mounted in the same manner upon the car-deck and over the driving axle, but is enclosed within a sheet steel turret, which is proof against rifle and machine-gun fire. This turret resembles the conning-tower of a battleship, and is sufficiently spacious to house the whole of the gun crew, the internal diameter being about seven feet. Access to the turret is obtained through a rear door. This gun has a maximum elevation of about 75 degrees, while its operation and mechanism are similar to those of the unprotected weapon. The vehicle itself is practically identical with the armoured motor-car, which has played such an important part during the present campaign, the driver being protected by a bullet-proof steel screen similar in design to the ordinary glass wind-screen fitted to touring automobiles. This is carried sufficiently high to offer complete protection to his head when seated at the wheel, while through a small orifice in this shield he is able to obtain a clear view of the road. The engine and its vital parts are also adequately protected. The ammunition is carried in a cupboard-like recess forming part of the driver's seat, encased in bullet-proof steel sheeting with flap-doors. This device enables the shells to be withdrawn readily from the side of the car and passed to the crew within the turret. The caisson is of sufficient dimensions to receive 69 shells. The Ehrhardt airship fighting ordnance is similarly adapted to motor-car operations, one type being especially powerful. The whole of the vehicle is encased in armour-plating impervious to rifle and machine-gun fire. The driver is provided with a small orifice through which he is able to obtain a clear uninterrupted view of the road ahead, while the armouring over the tonneau is carried to a sufficient height to allow head-room to the gun crew when standing at the gun. All four wheels are of the disk type and fashioned from heavy sheet steel. The motor develops 40-50 horse-power and, in one type, in order to mitigate the risk of breakdown or disablement, all four wheels are driven. The gun, a small quick-firer, is mounted on a pedestal in a projecting conning-tower. The mounting is placed behind the driver's seat, and is trained and operated from the tonneau. The maximum elevation is 75 degrees, and like the gun carriage bearing the tube guide it can be moved through a complete circle, being free to rotate in the fixed pivot jack to enable this end to be attained. The foregoing may be said to represent the most powerful types of mobile anti-aircraft weapons used by the Austro-German forces to-day. Arms of similar design, roughly speaking, have also been introduced into the French and Russian services. In addition many semi-armoured weapons of this character are in operation, some specially built for the work, while others have been improvised. In the semi-armoured motor-car the carriage follows the usual lines; it has an open top, the armouring comprising the body of the tonneau and the diskwheels, which are made of light bullet-proof steel. Here again the prevailing practice is to mount the gun as nearly above the rear axle as possible, and to work it from the tonneau. The maximum elevation is also 75 degrees, with training throughout the entire circle. Another type comprises a very light machine gun of rifle calibre, and this is intended for attachment to an ordinary motor car. There is a pedestal mounting which can be set within the tonneau, while the weapon is pivoted in an outrigger, the latter being free to rotate in its pivot jack. This arrangement enables the arm to cover a wide range, while it also admits of training through an extensive angle of elevation. The Allied forces improvised travelling anti-aircraft offences by mounting the latest types of Vickers, Hotchkiss, and other machine guns in armoured motor cars. Some of these have the domed turret form, with the gun projecting through the roof, while others are protected against hostile attack from the side only, the carriage being panelled with bullet-proof steel sheeting. While such weapons are useful, inasmuch as they can maintain a hot fire ranging up to 750 shots per minute, they are not to be compared with the "Archibalds," which are able to throw heavy shrapnel and incendiary shells, and have a vertical range of about 6,000 to 8,000 feet. The improvised motor-gun has not proved a complete success, except in those instances when the hostile aircraft has ventured to approach somewhat closely to the ground. The more formidable weapons cannot be mounted upon ordinary vehicles, inasmuch as the increase in weight, which is appreciable, impairs the efficiency of the vehicle, and at the same time enhances the possibility of breakdown at a critical moment. For such arms a special and substantial chassis is imperative, while the motive power and gearing must be adapted to the circumstances. Motor-mounted anti-aircraft weapons, however, have not proved an unqualified success. The fact that the vehicles are condemned to the high roads, or at least to comparatively smooth and level ground, constitutes a severe handicap. Again, when travelling at high speed, and this is essential when pursuing a fast aeroplane, the accurate laying of the weapon is extremely difficult, owing to the oscillation of the vehicle itself, especially if the road surface is in a bad condition. The sighting arrangements are of a wonderfully complete character, as described elsewhere, but the irregular rolling movement arising from high speed is a nullifying quantity. It is tolerably easy for the aircraft, especially an aeroplane, to evade successful pursuit, either by rising to an elevation beyond the range of the gun, or by carrying out baffling evolutions such as irregular undulating flight, wheeling, and climbing. According to the reports of the British and French airmen the "Archibald" has failed to establish the glowing reputation which was anticipated, for the simple reason that, unless it has a clear straight road and can maintain its high speed, it can easily be out-distanced by the fleet human bird. The motor-car suffers from another serious disability. It cannot manoeuvre with sufficient celerity. For instance, if it is necessary to turn round in a narrow lane, valuable time is lost in the process, and this the airman turns to account. In hilly country it is at a still greater disadvantage, the inclines, gradients, and sinuosities of the roads restricting its effectiveness very pronouncedly. It must also be remembered that, relatively speaking, the "Archibald" offers a better target to the airman than the aeroplane offers to the man behind the anti-aircraft gun on the motor below. A few well-placed bombs are sufficient to induce the pursuers to cease their activities. Even if the missiles fail to strike the motor-car itself they can wreak disaster in directly by rendering the road impassable or dangerous to negotiate at high speed. On the whole therefore, the "Archibald" is a greatly exaggerated weapon of offence against aircraft, and, so far as is known, has failed to fulfil expectations. In fact, the Germans have practically abandoned the idea of using it in the manner of a pursuing arm; they work the weapon as a fixture, depending upon the car merely as a means of moving it from point to point. Thus, in reality, it has been converted into a light field-piece, and may almost be included in the category of fixed weapons for combating aerial operations. CHAPTER XV. ANTI-AIRCRAFT GUNS. IMMOBILE WEAPONS The immobile anti-aircraft gun, as distinct from that attached to a travelling carriage such as a motor-car, may be subdivided into two classes. The one is the fixed arm which cannot be moved readily, mounted upon a permanent emplacement; the other is the field-piece which, while fired from a stationary position, may be moved from point to point upon a suitable carriage. The distinction has its parallel in ordinary artillery, the first-named weapon coinciding with the heavy siege gun, which is built into and forms part and parcel of the defensive or offensive scheme, while the second is analogous to the field artillery, which may be wheeled from position to position. In this phase of artillery the Germans led the way, for the simple reason that they recognised the military value of aerial navigation years in advance of their contemporaries. Again, in this field the Krupp Organisation has played a prominent part. It embarked upon actual construction of weapons while its rivals in other countries were content to prepare their drawings, which were filed against "The Day." But it must not be thought that because the German manufacturers of armaments were ahead of their contemporaries they dominated the situation. Far from it. Their competitors in the market of destruction were every whit as keen, as ingenious, and as enterprising. Kruppism saw a commercial opportunity to profit from advertisement and seized it: its rivals were content to work in secret upon paper, to keep pace with the trend of thought, and to perfect their organisations so as to be ready for the crisis when it developed. The first Krupp anti-aircraft field-piece was a 6.5 centimetre (2 9/16 inch) arm. It possessed many interesting features, the most salient of which was the design of the axle of the carriage. The rigid axle for the two wheels was replaced by an axle made in two sections, and joined together in the form of a universal coupling, so that each wheel virtually possessed its own axle, or rather half-axle. This was connected with the cradle of the gun in such a manner that the wheels were laterally pivoted thereon. The result is that each axle can be turned forward together with its wheel, and thus the wheels have their rims brought into line to form an arc of a circle, of which the rear end of the spade of the gun carriage constitutes the centre. This acts as a pivot, about which the gun can be turned, the pair of wheels forming the runners for the achievement of this movement. The setting of the weapon in the firing position or its reversion to the travelling position can be easily and speedily effected merely by the rotation of a handwheel and gearing. With this gun a maximum elevation of 60 degrees is possible, owing to the trunnions being carried well behind the breech in combination with the system of long steady recoil. The balancing spring which encloses the elevating screw is contained in a protected box. The recoil brake, together with the spring recuperator, follows the usual Krupp practice in connection with ordinary field pieces, as does also the automatic breech-closing and firing mechanism. In fact there is no pronounced deviation from the prevailing Krupp system, and only such modifications as are necessary to adapt the arm to its special duty. When the gun is elevated to high angles the shell, after insertion the breech is prevented from slipping out by means of a special device, so that the proper and automatic closing of the breech is not impaired in any way. In such an arm as this, which is designed essentially for high-angle firing, the sighting and training facilities require to be carried out upon special lines, inasmuch as the objective is necessarily at a considerable altitude above the horizon of the gun. In other words, in firing at a high inclination, distance between the gun and the target cannot be utilised directly for the back sight. On the other hand, it is essential that in proportion as the angle from the horizontal increases, the back sight should be lowered progressively in a manner corresponding to the distance. To assist the range-finder in his task of sighting it is necessary that he should be provided with firing tables set out in a convenient form, which, in conjunction with the telemeter, serve to facilitate training for each successive round. In this way it is possible to pick up the range quickly and to keep the objective in the line of fire until it either has been put hors de combat, or has succeeded in retiring beyond the range of the gun. The sighting arrangements of these Krupp anti-aircraft guns are carried out upon these lines. Beneath the barrel of the back-sight is an observing glass with an eye-piece for the artillerist, while above and behind the observing glass is another eye-piece, to be used in conjunction with the manipulation of the back-sight. The eye-piece of the observation glass is so made that it can be turned through a vertical plane in proportion as the angle of fire increases in relation to the horizontal. The determination of the distance from the objective and from the corresponding back-sight as well as the observation of the altitude is carried out with the aid of the telemeter. This again carries an observation glass fitted with an eye-piece which can be turned in the vertical plane in the same manner as that of the fore-sight. By means of this ingenious sighting device it is possible to ascertain the range and angle of fire very easily and speedily. The weight of the special Krupp anti-aircraft field-piece, exclusive of the protecting shield, is approximately identical with that of the ordinary light artillery field-piece. It throws a shell weighing 8.8 pounds with an initial velocity of about 2,066 feet per second. Although the German armament manufacturers were among the first to enter the field with an anti-aircraft gun of this character they were speedily followed by the French, who devised a superior weapon. In fact, the latter represented such a decisive advance that the German artillerists did not hesitate to appropriate their improvements in sundry essential details, and to incorporate them with their own weapons. This applies especially to the differential recoil system which is utilised in the small anti-aircraft guns now mounted upon the roofs of high buildings of cities throughout Germany for the express purpose of repelling aerial attack. The French system is admitted by the leading artillery technicians of the world to be the finest which has ever been designed, its remarkable success being due to the fact that it takes advantage of the laws of Nature. In this system the gun is drawn back upon its cradle preparatory to firing. In some instances the barrel is compressed against a spring, but in the more modern guns it is forced to rest against a cushion of compressed air contained within a cylinder. When first bringing the gun into action, the barrel is brought into the preliminary position by manually compressing the air or spring by means of a lever. Thereafter the gun works automatically. When the gun is fired the barrel is released and it flies forward. At a critical point in its forward travel the charge is fired and the projectile speeds on its way. The kick or recoil serves to arrest the forward movement of the barrel and finally drives it back again against the strong spring or cushion of compressed air within the cylinder to its normal position, when it is ready for the introduction of the next shell. The outstanding feature of this system is that the projectile is given a higher initial velocity than is possible with the barrel held rigid at the moment of discharge, because the shell is already travelling at the moment of firing. The fixed anti-aircraft guns such as are stationed upon eminences and buildings are of the quick firing type, the object being to hurl a steady, continuous stream of missiles upon the swiftly moving aeroplane. Some of the weapons throw a one-pound shell and are closely similar to the pom-pom which proved so effective during the South African war. Machine guns also have been extensively adopted for this duty by all the combatants, their range of approximately 2,000 yards and rapidity of fire being distinctly valuable when hostile aircraft descend to an altitude which brings them within the range of the weapon. The greatest difficulty in connection with this phase of artillery, however, is not so much the evolution of a serviceable and efficient type of gun, as the determination of the type of projectile which is likely to be most effective. While shrapnel is employed somewhat extensively it has not proved completely satisfactory. It is difficult to set the timing fuse even after the range has been found approximately, which in itself is no easy matter when the aircraft is moving rapidly and irregularly, but reliance is placed thereon in the hope that the machine may happen to be within the cone of dispersion when the shell bursts, and that one or more of the pieces of projectile and bullets may chance to penetrate either the body of the airman or a vital part of the mechanism. It is this uncertainty which has led to a preference for a direct missile such as the bullet discharged from a machine gun. A stream of missiles, even of rifle calibre, maintained at the rate of some 400 shots per minute is certain to be more effective, provided range and aim are correct, than shrapnel. But the ordinary rifle-bullet, unless the objective is within very close range, is not likely to cause much harm, at least not to the mechanism of the aerial vessel. It is for this reason that greater attention is being devoted, especially by the French artillerists, to the Chevalier anti-aircraft gun, a weapon perfected by a Swiss technician resident in Great Britain. It projects a formidable missile which in fact is an armour-piercing bullet 1/2- to 3/4-inch in diameter. It is designed for use with an automatic machinegun, which the inventor has devised more or less upon the well-known French system. The bullet has a high velocity--about 2,500 feet per second--and a maximum range of 6,000 to 8,000 feet at the maximum elevation. Should such a missile strike the motor or other mechanism of the vessel it would wreak widespread havoc, and probably cause the machine to come to earth. This arm has been designed for the express purpose of disabling the aeroplane, and not for the subjugation of the airman, which is a minor consideration, inasmuch as he is condemned to a descent when his craft receives a mortal wound. Attempts have been and still are being made to adapt an explosive projectile to this gun, but so far the measure of success achieved has not proved very promising. There are immense difficulties connected with the design of an explosive shell of this class, charged with a high explosive, especially in connection with the timing. So far as dependence upon percussive detonation is concerned there is practically no difficulty. Should such a missile strike, say, the motor of an aeroplane, or even the hull of the craft itself, the latter would be practically destroyed. But all things considered, it is concluded that more successful results are likely to be achieved by the armour-piercing bullet striking the mechanism than by an explosive projectile. The Krupp company fully realised the difficulties pertaining to the projectile problem in attacks upon aerial craft. So far as dirigibles are concerned shrapnel is practically useless, inasmuch as even should the bag be riddled by the flying fragments, little effective damage would be wrought--the craft would be able to regain its haven. Accordingly efforts were concentrated upon the perfection of two new types of projectiles, both of which were directed more particularly against the dirigible. The one is the incendiary shell--obus fumigene--while the other is a shell, the contents of which, upon coming into contact with the gas contained within the gas-bag, set up certain chemical reactions which precipitate an explosion and fire. The incendiary shells are charged with a certain compound which is ignited by means of a fuse during its flight. This fuse arrangement coincides very closely with that attached to ordinary shrapnel, inasmuch as the timing may be set to induce ignition at different periods, such as either at the moment it leaves the gun, before, or when it strikes the envelope of the dirigible. The shell is fitted with a "tracer," that is to say, upon becoming ignited it leaves a trail of smoke, corresponding with the trail of a rocket, so that its passage through the air may be followed with facility. This shell, however, was designed to fulfil a dual. Not only will it fire the gaseous contents out of the dirigible, but it has an explosive effect upon striking an incombustible portion of the aircraft, such as the machinery, propellers or car, when it will cause sufficient damage to throw the craft out of action. The elaborate trials which were carried out with the obus fumigene certainly were spectacular so as they went. Two small spherical balloons, 10 feet in diameter, and attached to 1,000 feet of cable, were sent aloft. The anti-aircraft guns themselves were placed about 5,100 feet distant. Owing to the inclement weather the balloons were unable to attain a height of more than 200 feet in a direct vertical line above the ground. The guns were trained and fired, but the one balloon was not hit until the second round, while the third escaped injury until the fifth round. When struck they collapsed instantly. Though the test was not particularly conclusive, and afforded no reliable data, one point was ascertained--the trail of smoke emitted by the shell enabled its trajectory to be followed with ease. Upon the conclusion of these trials, which were the most successful recorded, quick-firing tests in the horizontal plane were carried out. The best performance in this instance was the discharge of five rounds in eight seconds. In this instance the paths of the projectiles were simple and easy to follow, the flight of the shell being observed until it fell some 18,670 feet away. But the Krupp firm have found that trials upon the testing ground with a captive balloon differ very materially from stern tests in the field of actual warfare. Practically nothing has been heard of the two projectiles during this war, as they have proved an absolute failure. Some months ago the world was startled by the announcement that the leading German armament firm had acquired the whole of the interest in an aerial torpedo which had been evolved by the Swedish artillerist, Gustave Unge, and it was predicted that in the next war widespread havoc would be wrought therewith. Remarkable claims were advanced for this projectile, the foremost being that it would travel for a considerable distance through the air and alight upon the objective with infallible accuracy. The torpedo in question was subjected to exacting tests in Great Britain, which failed to substantiate all the claims which were advanced, and it is significant to observe that little has been heard of it during the present conflict. It is urged in certain technical quarters, however, that the aerial torpedo will prove to be the most successful projectile that can be used against aircraft. I shall deal with this question in a later chapter. During the early days of the war anti-aircraft artillery appeared to be a much overrated arm. The successes placed to its credit were insignificant. This was due to the artillerymen being unfamiliar with the new arm, and the conditions which prevail when firing into space. Since actual practice became possible great advances in marksmanship have been recorded, and the accuracy of such fire to-day is striking. Fortunately the airman possesses the advantage. He can manoeuvre beyond the range of the hostile weapons. At the moment 10,000 feet represents the extreme altitude to which projectiles can be hurled from the arms of this character which are now in use, and they lack destructiveness at that range, for their velocity is virtually expended. Picking up the range is still as difficult as ever. The practice followed by the Germans serves to indicate the Teuton thoroughness of method in attacking such problems even if success does not ensue. The favourite German principle of disposing anti-aircraft artillery is to divide the territory to be protected into equilateral triangles, the sides of which have a length of about six miles or less, according to the maximum effective range of the pieces at an elevation of 23 1/2 degrees. The guns are disposed at the corners of the triangles as indicated in Figs. 13-14. Taking the one triangle as an example, the method of picking up the range may be explained as follows. The several guns at the comers of the triangle, each of which can be trained through the 360 degrees in the horizontal plane, are in telephonic touch with an observer O stationed some distance away. The airman A enters the area of the triangle. The observer takes the range and communicates with the gunner B, who fires his weapon. The shell bursts at 1 emitting a red flame and smoke. The observer notes the altitude and relative position of the explosion in regard to the aircraft, while gunner B himself observes whether the shell has burst to the right or to the left of the objective and corrects accordingly. The observer commands C to fire, and another shell is launched which emits a yellow flame and smoke. It bursts at 2 according to the observer, while gunner C also notes whether it is to the right or to the left of the target and corrects accordingly. Now gunner D receives the command to fire and the shell which explodes at 3 throws off a white flame and smoke. Gunner D likewise observes whether there is any deviation to right or left of the target and corrects in a similar manner. From the sum of the three rounds the observer corrects the altitude, completes his calculations, and communicates his instructions for correction to the three gunners, who now merely train their weapons for altitude. The objective is to induce the shells hurled from the three corners of the triangle to burst at a common point 4, which is considered to be the most critical spot for the aviator. The fire is then practically concentrated from the three weapons upon the apex of a triangular cone which is held to bring the machine within the danger zone. This method of finding the range is carried out quickly--two or three seconds being occupied in the task. In the early days of the war the German anti-aircraft artillerymen proved sadly deficient in this work, but practice improved their fire to a marvellous degree, with the result that at the moment it is dangerous for an aviator to essay his task within an altitude of 6,000 feet, which is the range of the average anti-aircraft gun. The country occupied by a belligerent is divided up in this manner into a series of triangles. For instance, a machine entering hostile territory from the east, enters the triangle A-B-C, and consequently comes within the range of the guns posted at the comers of the triangle. Directly he crosses the line B-C and enters the adjacent triangle he passes beyond the range of gun A but comes within the range of the gun posted at D, and while within the triangular area is under fire from the guns B-C-D. He turns and crosses the line A-C, but in so doing enters another triangle A-C-E, and comes range of the gun posted at E. The accompanying diagram represents an area of country divided up into such triangle and the position of the guns, while the circle round the latter indicate the training arc of the weapons, each of which is a complete circle, in the horizontal plane. The dotted line represents the aviator's line of flight, and it will be seen that no matter how he twists and turns he is always within the danger zone while flying over hostile territory. The moment he outdistances one gun he comes within range of another. The safety of the aviator under these circumstances depends upon his maintaining an altitude exceeding the range of the guns below, the most powerful of which have a range of 8,000 to 10,000 feet, or on speed combined with rapid twisting and turning, or erratic undulating flight, rendering it extremely difficult for the gun-layer to follow his path with sufficient celerity to ensure accurate firing. At altitudes ranging between 4,000 and 6,000 feet the aeroplane comes within the range of rifle and machine-gun firing. The former, however, unless discharged in volleys with the shots covering a wide area, is not particularly dangerous, inasmuch as the odds are overwhelmingly against the rifleman. He is not accustomed to following and firing upon a rapidly moving objective, the result being that ninety-nine times out of a hundred he fails to register a hit. On the other hand the advantage accruing from machine-gun fire is, that owing to the continuous stream of bullets projected, there is a greater possibility of the gun being trained upon the objective and putting it hors de combat. But, taking all things into consideration, and notwithstanding the achievements of the artillerist, the advantages are overwhelmingly on the side of the aviator. When one reflects upon the total sum of aircraft which have been brought to earth during the present campaign, it will be realised that the number of prizes is insignificant in comparison with the quantity of ammunition expended. CHAPTER XVI. MINING THE AIR While the anti-aircraft gun represents the only force which has been brought to the practical stage for repelling aerial attack, and incidentally is the sole offensive weapon which has established its effectiveness, many other schemes have been devised and suggested to consummate these ends. While some of these schemes are wildly fantastic, others are feasible within certain limitations, as for instance when directed against dirigibles. It has been argued that the atmosphere is akin to the salt seas; that an aerial vessel in its particular element is confronted with dangers identical with those prevailing among the waters of the earth. But such an analogy is fallacious: there is no more similarity between the air and the ocean than there is between an airship and a man-of-war. The waters of the earth conceal from sight innumerable obstructions, such as rocks, shoals, sandbanks, and other dangers which cannot by any means be readily detected. But no such impediments are encountered in the ether. The craft of the air is virtually a free age in the three dimensions. It can go whither it will without let or hindrance so long as the mechanical agencies of man are able to cope with the influences of Nature. It can ascend to a height which is out of all proportion to the depth to which the submarine can descend in safety. It is a matter of current knowledge that a submarine cannot sink to a depth of more than 250 feet: an aerial vessel is able to ascend to 5,000, 8,000, or even 10,000 feet above the earth, and the higher the altitude it attains the greater is its degree of safety. The limit of ascension is governed merely by the physical capacities of those who are responsible for the aerial vessel's movement. It is for this reason that the defensive measures which are practised in the waters of the earth are inapplicable to the atmosphere. Movement by, or in, water is governed by the depth of channels, and these may be rendered impassable or dangerous to negotiate by the planting of mines. A passing ship or submarine may circumvent these explosive obstructions, but such a successful manoeuvre is generally a matter of good luck. So far as submarines are concerned the fact must not be over looked that movements in the sea are carried out under blind conditions: the navigator is unable to see where he is going; the optic faculty is rendered nugatory. Contrast the disability of the submarine with the privileges of its consort in the air. The latter is able to profit from vision. The aerial navigator is able to see every inch of his way, at least during daylight. When darkness falls he is condemned to the same helplessness as his confrere in the waters below. A well-known British authority upon aviation suggested that advantage should be taken of this disability, and that the air should be mined during periods of darkness and fog to secure protection against aerial invasion. At first sight the proposal appears to be absolutely grotesque, but a little reflection will suffice to demonstrate its possibilities when the area to be defended is comparatively limited. The suggestion merely proposes to profit from one defect of the dirigible. The latter, when bent upon a daring expedition, naturally prefers to make a bee-line towards its objective: fuel considerations as a matter of fact compel it to do so. Consequently it is possible, within certain limits, to anticipate the route which an invading craft will follow: the course is practically as obvious as if the vessel were condemned to a narrow lane marked out by sign-posts. Moreover, if approaching under cover of night or during thick weather, it will metaphorically "hug the ground." To attempt to complete its task at a great height is to court failure, as the range of vision is necessarily so limited. Under these circumstances the mining of the air could be carried out upon the obvious approaches to a threatened area. The mines, comprising large charges of high-explosive and combustible material, would be attached to small captive balloons similar to the "sounding balloons" which are so much used by meteorologists in operations for sounding the upper strata of the atmosphere. These pilot balloons would be captive, their thin wires being wound upon winches planted at close intervals along the coast-line. The balloon-mines themselves would be sent to varying heights, ranging from 1,000 to 5,000 feet, and with several attached to each cable, the disposition of the mines in the air in such an irregular manner being in fact closely similar to the practice adopted in the mining of a channel for protection against submarines and hostile ships. The suggestion is that these mines should be sent aloft at dusk or upon the approach of thick and foggy weather, and should be wound in at dawn or when the atmosphere cleared, inasmuch as in fine weather the floating aerial menace would be readily detected by the pilot of a dirigible, and would be carefully avoided. If the network were sufficiently intricate it would not be easy for an airship travelling at night or in foggy weather to steer clear of danger, for the wires holding the balloons captive would be difficult to distinguish. The mines would depend upon detonators to complete their work, and here again they would bear a close resemblance to sea-mines. By looping the mines their deadliness could be increased. The unsuspicious airship, advancing under cover of darkness or thick weather, might foul one of the wires, and, driving forward, would tend to pull one or more mines against itself. Under the force of the impact, no matter how gentle, or slight, one or more of the detonating levers would be moved, causing the mine to explode, thus bursting the lifting bag of the vessel, and firing its gaseous contents. An alternative method, especially when a cable carried only a single mine, would be to wind in the captive balloon directly the wire was fouled by an invading aerial craft, the process being continued until the mine was brought against the vessel and thereby detonated. Another proposed mining method differs materially in its application. In this instance it is suggested that the mines should be sent aloft, but should not be of the contact type, and should not be fired by impact detonators, but that dependence should be placed rather upon the disturbing forces of a severe concussion in the air. The mines would be floating aloft, and the advance of the airship would be detected. The elevation of the mines in the vicinity of the invading craft would be known, while the altitude of the airship in relation thereto could be calculated. Then, it is proposed that a mine within d certain radius of the approaching craft, and, of course, below it, should be fired electrically from the ground. It is maintained that if the charge were sufficiently heavy and an adequate sheet of flame were produced as a result of the ignition, an airship within a hundred yards thereof would be imperilled seriously, while the other mines would also be fired, communicating ignition from one to the other. The equilibrium of the airship is so delicate that it can be readily upset, and taking into account the facts that gas is always exuding from the bag, and that hydrogen has a tendency to spread somewhat in the manner of oil upon water, it is argued that the gas would be ignited, and would bring about the explosion of the airship. Another method has even been advocated. It is averred in authoritative circles that when the aerial invasion in force of Great Britain is attempted, the Zeppelins will advance under the cover of clouds. Also that the craft will make for one objective--London. Doubtless advantage will be taken of clouds, inasmuch as they will extend a measure of protection to the craft, and will probably enable the invading fleet to elude the vigilance of the aeroplane scouts and patrols. Under these circumstances it is suggested that balloon-mines should be sent aloft and be concealed in the clouds. It would be impossible to detect the wires holding them captive, so that the precise location of the lurking danger would not be divined by the invader. Of course, the chances are that the invading airship would unconsciously miss the mines; on the other hand the possibilities are equally great that it would blunder into one of these traps and be blown to atoms. An English airman has recently suggested a means of mining invading Zeppelins which differs completely from the foregoing proposals. His idea is that aeroplanes should be equipped with small mines of the contact type, charged with high explosives, and that the latter should be lowered from the aeroplane and be trawled through the atmosphere. As an illustration I will suppose that a hostile aircraft is sighted by a patrolling aeroplane. The pilot's companion in the latter immediately prepares his aerial mine, fixing the detonator, and attaching the mine to the wire. The latter is then dropped overboard, the wire being paid out from a winch until it has descended to the level of the hostile craft. The airman now manoeuvres in the air circling about the airship, dragging his mine behind him, and endeavouring to throw it across or to bring it into contact with the airship below. Naturally the latter, directly it observed the airman's object, would endeavour to elude the pursuing trawling mine, either by crowding on speed or by rising to a greater altitude. The aeroplane, however, would have the advantage both in point of speed and powers of climbing, while there is no doubt that the sight of the mine swinging in the air would exert a decisive moral effect upon those in the airship. Attempts to render the mine harmless by discharging it prematurely with the aid of rifle and machine-gun fire would, of course, be made by the crew of the airship, but the trawling mine would prove a very difficult target to strike. If such a missile were used against an airship of the proportions of a Zeppelin the mine would inevitably be trawled across the vessel sooner or later. Once the airship had been fouled, the aviator would merely have to drive ahead, dragging the wire and its charge across the gas-bag until at last one of the contact levers of the mine was moved by being dragged against some part of the vessel, when the mine would be exploded. In such operations the aviator would run a certain risk, as he would be more or less above the airship, and to a certain degree within the zone of the ultimate explosion. But there is no doubt that he would succeed in his "fishing" exploit within a very short time. This ingenious scheme has already been tested upon a small scale and has been found effective, the trawling bomb being drawn across its target and fired by contact within a few minutes. The experiment seems to prove that it would be simpler and more effectual to attack a hostile aircraft such as a Zeppelin in this manner than to drop free bombs at random. Moreover, we cannot doubt that the sight of a mine containing even ten or twelve pounds of high explosive dangling at the end of a wire would precipitate a retreat on the part of an airship more speedily than any other combative expedient. The advocate of this mine-trawling method, who is a well-known aviator, anticipates no difficulty in manoeuvring a mine weighing 30 pounds at the end of 300 feet of fine wire. Success depends in a great measure on the skill of the aviator in maintaining a constant tension upon the line until it falls across its objective. The process calls for a certain manifestation of skill in manoeuvring the aeroplane in relation to the airship, judgment of distance, and ability to operate the aeroplane speedily. The rapid ascensional capability of the airship, as compared with that of the aeroplane, is a disadvantage, but on the other hand, the superior mobility and speed of the aeroplane would tell decisively for success. Among the many wonders which the Krupp organisation is stated to have perfected, and which it is claimed will create considerable surprise, is the aerial torpedo. Many of the Krupp claims are wildly chimerical, as events have already proved, but there is no doubt that considerable effort has been expended upon this latest missile, for which the firm is said to have paid the inventor upwards of L25,000--$125,000. Curiously enough the projectile was perfected within gunshot of the British aerodrome of Hendon and is stated to have been offered to the British Government at the time, and to have met with a chilling reception. One fact, however, is well established. The inventor went to Germany, and submitted his idea to Krupp, by whom it was tested without delay. Upon the completion of the purchase, the great armament manufacturers did not fail to publish broadcast the fact that they had acquired a mysterious new terror of the skies. That was some three years ago, and in the interval the cleverest brains of the German firm have been steadily devoting their time and energies to the improvement of the missile, the first appearance of which was recorded, in a somewhat hazy manner, in the closing days of December. While the exact mechanism of this missile is a secret, the governing principles of its design and operation are known to a select few technicians in this country. Strange to say, the projectile was designed in the first instance in the interests of peace and humanity, but while engaged upon his experiments the inventor suddenly concluded that it would be a more profitable asset if devoted to the grim game of war. At the time the military significance of the airship and the aeroplane were becoming apparent; hence the sudden diversion of the idea into a destructive channel. This aerial torpedo is a small missile carrying a charge of high explosive, such as trinitrotoluene, and depends for its detonation upon impact or a time fuse. It is launched into the air from a cradle in the manner of the ordinary torpedo, but the initial velocity is low. The torpedo is fitted with its own motive power, which comes automatically into action as the missile climbs into the air. This self-contained energy is so devised that the maximum power is attained before the missile has lost the velocity imparted in the first instance, the result being that it is able to continue its flight in a horizontal direction from the moment it attains the highest point in its trajectory, which is naturally varied according to requirements. But there is no secret about the means of propulsion. The body is charged with a slow-burning combustible, in the manner of the ordinary rocket, whereby it is given a rapid rotary motion. Furthermore it is stated to be fitted with a small gyroscope in the manner of the torpedo used in the seas, for the purpose of maintaining direction during flight, but upon this point there is considerable divergence of opinion among technicians, the general idea being that the torpedo depends upon an application of the principle of the ordinary rocket rather than upon a small engine such as is fitted to the ordinary torpedo. The employment of a slow combustible ensures the maintenance of the missile in the air for a period exceeding that of the ordinary shell. It is claimed by the Germans that this projectile will keep aloft for half-an-hour or more, but this is a phantasy. Its maintenance of flight is merely a matter of minutes. The belated appearance of this much-lauded projectile and its restricted use suggest that it is unreliable, and perhaps no more effective than the aerial torpedo which appeared in the United States during the Spanish-American War, and proved a complete failure. An effective and reliable means of combating or frustrating a dirigible attack, other than by gun-fire or resort to the drastic remedy of ramming the enemy, has yet to be devised. CHAPTER XVII. WIRELESS IN AVIATION In a previous chapter the various methods of signalling between the ground and the airman aloft have been described. Seeing that wireless telegraphy has made such enormous strides and has advanced to such a degree of perfection, one naturally would conclude that it constitutes an ideal system of communication under such conditions in military operations. But this is not the case. Wireless is utilised only to a very limited extent. This is due to two causes. The one is of a technical, the other of a strategical character. The uninitiated, bearing in mind the comparative ease with which wireless installations may be established at a relatively small expense, would not unreasonably think that no serious difficulties of a technical character could arise: at least none which would defy solution. But these difficulties exist in two or three different fields, each of which is peculiarly complex and demands individual treatment. In the first place, there is the weight of the necessary installation. In the case of the dirigible this may be a secondary consideration, but with the aeroplane it is a matter of primary and vital importance. Again, under present conditions, the noise of the motor is apt to render the intelligent deciphering of messages while aloft a matter of extreme difficulty, especially as these are communicated in code. The engine noise might be effectively overcome by the use of a muffler such as, is used with automobiles, but then there is the further difficulty of vibration. This problem is being attacked in an ingenious manner. It is proposed to substitute for audible signals visual interpretations, by the aid of an electric lamp, the fluctuations in which would correspond to the dots and dashes of the Morse code. Thus the airman would read his messages by sight instead of by sound. This method, however, is quite in its infancy, and although attractive in theory and fascinating as a laboratory experiment or when conducted under experimental conditions, it has not proved reliable or effective in aeronautical operations. But at the same time it indicates a promising line of research and development. Then there are the problems of weight and the aerial. So far as present knowledge goes, the most satisfactory form of aerial yet exploited is that known as the trailing wire. From 300 to 700 feet of wire are coiled upon a reel, and when aloft this wire is paid out so that it hangs below the aeroplane. As a matter of fact, when the machine is travelling at high speed it trails horizontally astern, but this is immaterial. One investigator, who strongly disapproves of the trailing aerial, has carried out experiments with a network of wires laid upon and attached to the surface of the aeroplane's wings. But the trailing wire is generally preferred, and certainly up to the present has proved more satisfactory. The greatest obstacle, however, is the necessary apparatus. The average aeroplane designed for military duty is already loaded to the maximum. As a rule it carries the pilot and an observer, and invariably includes a light arm for defence against an aerial enemy, together with an adequate supply of ammunition, while unless short sharp flights are to be made, the fuel supply represents an appreciable load. Under these circumstances the item of weight is a vital consideration. It must be kept within a limit of 100 pounds, and the less the equipment weighs the more satisfactory it is likely to prove, other things being equal. The two most successful systems yet exploited are the Dubilier and the Rouget. The former is an American invention, the latter is of French origin. Both have been tested by the British Military Aeronautical Department, and the French authorities have subjected the French system to rigorous trials. Both systems, within their limitations, have proved satisfactory. The outstanding feature of the Dubilier system is the production of sine waves of musical frequency from continuous current, thus dispensing with the rotary converter. The operating principle is the obtaining of a series of unidirectional impulses by a condenser discharge, the pulsating currents following one another at regular intervals at a frequency of 500 impulses per second, which may be augmented up to 1,000 impulses per second. The complete weight of such an apparatus is 40 pounds; the electric generator, which is no larger than the motor used for driving the ordinary table ventilating fan, accounts for 16 pounds of this total. Under test at sea, upon the deck of a ship, a range of 250 miles has been obtained. The British Government carried out a series of experiments with this system, using a small plant weighing about 30 pounds, with which communication was maintained up to about 20 miles. In the French system the Reuget transmitter is employed. The apparatus, including the dynamo, which is extremely small, weighs in all 70 pounds. A small alternator of 200 watts and 100 volts is coupled direct to the aeroplane motor, a new clutch coupler being employed for this purpose. By means of a small transformer the voltage is raised to 30,000 volts, at which the condenser is charged. In this instance the musical spark method is employed. The whole of the high tension wiring is placed within a small space so as not to endanger the pilot, while the transformer is hermetically sealed in a box with paraffin. The aerial comprises a trailing wire 100 feet in length, which, however, can be wound in upon its reel within 15 seconds. This reeled antenna, moreover, is fitted with a safety device whereby the wire can be cut adrift in the event of an accident befalling the aeroplane and necessitating an abrupt descent. With this apparatus the French authorities have been able to maintain communication over a distance of 30 miles. In maintaining ethereal communication with aeroplanes, however, a portable or mobile station upon the ground is requisite, and this station must be within the radius of the aerial transmitter, if messages are to be received from aloft with any degree of accuracy and reliability. Thus it will be recognised that the land station is as important as the aeroplane equipment, and demands similar consideration. A wide variety of systems have been employed to meet these conditions. There is the travelling automobile station, in which the installation is mounted upon a motor-car. In this instance the whole equipment is carried upon a single vehicle, while the antenna is stowed upon the roof and can be raised or lowered within a few seconds. If motor traction is unavailable, then animal haulage may be employed, but in this instance the installation is divided between two vehicles, one carrying the transmitting and receiving apparatus and the generating plant, the other the fuel supplies and the aerial, together with spare parts. The motive power is supplied by a small air cooled petrol or gasoline motor developing eight horse-power, and coupled direct to a 2-kilo watt alternator. At one end of the shaft of the latter the disk discharger is mounted, its function being to break up the train of waves into groups of waves, so as to impart a musical sound to the note produced in the receiver. A flexible cable transmits the electric current from the generator to the wagon containing the instruments. The aerial is built up of masts carried in sections. The Germans employ a mobile apparatus which is very similar, but in this instance the mast is telescopic. When closed it occupies but little space. By turning the winch handle the mast is extended, and can be carried to any height up to a maximum of about 100 feet. The capacity of these mobile stations varies within wide limits, the range of the largest and most powerful installations being about 200 miles. The disadvantage of these systems, however, is that they are condemned to territories where the ground at the utmost is gently undulating, and where there are roads on which four-wheeled vehicles can travel. For operation in hilly districts, where only trails are to be found, the Marconi Company, has perfected what may be described as "pack" and "knapsack" installations respectively. In the first named the whole of the installation is mounted upon the backs of four horses. The first carries the generator set, the second the transmitting instruments, the third the receiving equipment, and the fourth the detachable mast and stays. The generator is carried upon the horse's saddle, and is fitted with a pair of legs on each side. On one side of the saddle is mounted a small highspeed explosion motor, while on the opposite side, in axial alignment with the motor, is a small dynamo. When it is desired to erect the installation the saddle carrying this set is removed from the horse's back and placed upon the ground, the legs acting as the support. A length of shaft is then slipped into sockets at the inner ends of the motor and dynamo shafts respectively, thus coupling them directly, while the current is transmitted through a short length of flexible cable to the instruments. The mast itself is made in lengths of about four feet, which are slipped together in the manner of the sections of a fishing rod, and erected, being supported by means of wire guys. In this manner an antenna from 40 to 50 feet in height may be obtained. The feature of this set is its compactness, the equal division of the sections of the installation, and the celerity with which the station may be set up and dismantled in extremely mountainous country such as the Vosges, where it is even difficult for a pack-horse to climb to commanding or suitable positions, there is still another set which has been perfected by the Marconi Company. This is the "knapsack" set, in which the whole of the installation, necessarily light, small, and compact, is divided among four men, and carried in the manner of knapsacks upon their backs. Although necessarily of limited radius, such an installation is adequate for communication within the restricted range of air-craft. Greater difficulties have to be overcome in the mounting of a wireless installation upon a dirigible. When the Zeppelin was finally accepted by the German Government, the military authorities emphasised the great part which wireless telegraphy was destined to play in connection with such craft. But have these anticipations been fulfilled? By no means, as a little reflection will suffice to prove. In the first place, a wireless outfit is about the most dangerous piece of equipment which could be carried by such a craft as the Zeppelin unless it is exceptionally well protected. As is well known the rigidity of this type of airship is dependent upon a large and complicated network of aluminium, which constitutes the frame. Such a huge mass of metal constitutes an excellent collector of electricity from the atmosphere; it becomes charged to the maximum with electricity. In this manner a formidable contributory source of danger to the airship is formed. In fact, this was the reason why "Z-IV" vanished suddenly in smoke and flame upon falling foul of the branches of trees during its descent. At the time the Zeppelin was a highly charged electrical machine or battery as it were, insulated by the surrounding air. Directly the airship touched the trees a short circuit was established, and the resultant spark sufficed to fire the gas, which is continuously exuding from the gas bags. After this accident minute calculations were made and it was ascertained that a potential difference of no less than 100,00 volts existed between the framework of the dirigible and the trees. This tension sufficed to produce a spark 4 inches in length. It is not surprising that the establishment of the electric equilibrium by contact with the trees, which produced such a spark should fire the hydrogen inflation charge. In fact the heat generated was so intense that the aluminium metallic framework was fused. The measurements which were made proved that the gas was consumed within 15 seconds and the envelope destroyed within 20 seconds. As a result of this disaster endeavours were made to persuade Count Zeppelin to abandon the use of aluminium for the framework of his balloon but they were fruitless, a result no doubt due to the fact that the inventor of the airship of this name has but a superficial knowledge of the various sciences which bear upon aeronautics, and fully illustrates the truth of the old adage that "a little learning is a dangerous thing." Count Zeppelin continues to work upon his original lines, but the danger of his system of construction was not lost upon another German investigator, Professor Schiitte, who forthwith embarked upon the construction of another rigid system, similar to that of Zeppelin, at Lanz. In this vessel aluminium was completely abandoned in favour of a framework of ash and poplar. The fact that the aluminium constituted a dangerous collector of electricity rendered the installation of wireless upon the Zeppelin not only perilous but difficult. Very serious disturbances of an electrical nature were set up, with the result that wireless communication between the travelling dirigible and the ground below was rendered extremely uncertain. In fact, it has never yet been possible to communicate over distances exceeding about 150 miles. Apart from this defect, the danger of operating the wireless is obvious, and it is generally believed in technical circles that the majority of the Zeppelin disasters from fire have been directly attributable to this, especially those disasters which have occurred when the vessel has suddenly exploded before coming into contact with terrestrial obstructions. In the later vessels of this type the wireless installation is housed in a well insulated compartment. This insulation has been carried, to an extreme degree, which indicates that at last the authorities have recognised the serious menace that wireless offers to the safety of the craft, with the result that every protective device to avoid disaster from this cause has been freely adopted. The fact that it is not possible to maintain communication over a distance exceeding some 20 miles is a severe handicap to the progressive development of wireless telegraphy in this field. It is a totally inadequate radius when the operations of the present war are borne in mind. A round journey of 200, or even more miles is considered a mere jaunt; it is the long distance flight which counts, and which contributes to the value of an airman's observations. The general impression is that the fighting line or zone comprises merely two or three successive stretches of trenches and other defences, representing a belt five miles or so in width, but this is a fallacy. The fighting zone is at least 20 miles in width; that is to say, the occupied territory in which vital movements take place represents a distance of 20 miles from the foremost line of trenches to the extreme rear, and then comes the secondary zone, which may be a further 10 miles or more in depth. Consequently the airman must fly at least 30 miles in a bee-line to cover the transverse belt of the enemy's field of operations. Upon the German and Russian sides this zone is of far greater depth, ranging up to 50 miles or so in width. In these circumstances the difficulties of ethereal communication 'twixt air and earth may be realised under the present limitations of radius from which it is possible to transmit. But there are reasons still more cogent to explain why wireless telegraphy has not been used upon a more extensive scale during the present campaign. Wireless communication is not secretive. In other words, its messages may be picked up by friend and foe alike with equal facility. True, the messages are sent in code, which may be unintelligible to the enemy. In this event the opponent endeavours to render the communications undecipherable to one and all by what is known as "jambing." That is to say, he sends out an aimless string of signals for the purpose of confusing senders and receivers, and this is continued without cessation and at a rapid rate. The result is that messages become blurred and undecipherable. But there is another danger attending the use of wireless upon the battlefield. The fact that the stations are of limited range is well known to the opposing forces, and they are equally well aware of the fact that aerial craft cannot communicate over long distances. For instance, A sends his airmen aloft and conversation begins between the clouds and the ground. Presently the receivers of B begin to record faint signals. They fluctuate in intensity, but within a few seconds B gathers that an aeroplane is aloft and communicating with its base. By the aid of the field telephone B gets into touch with his whole string of wireless stations and orders a keen look-out and a listening ear to ascertain whether they have heard the same signals. Some report that the signals are quite distinct and growing louder, while others declare that the signals are growing fainter and intermittent. In this manner B is able to deduce in which direction the aeroplane is flying. Thus if those to the east report that signals are growing stronger, while the stations on the west state that they are diminishing, it is obvious that the aeroplane is flying west to east, and vice versa when the west hears more plainly at the expense of the east. If, however, both should report that signals are growing stronger, then it is obvious that the aircraft is advancing directly towards them. It was this ability to deduce direction from the sound of the signals which led to the location of the Zeppelin which came down at Luneville some months previous to the war, and which threatened to develop into a diplomatic incident of serious importance. The French wireless stations running south-east to north-west were vigilant, and the outer station on the north-west side picked up the Zeppelin's conversation. It maintained a discreet silence, but communicated by telephone to its colleagues behind. Presently No. 2 station came within range, followed by Nos. 3, 4, 5, 6, and so on in turn. Thus the track of the Zeppelin was dogged silently through the air by its wireless conversation as easily and as positively as if its flight had been followed by the naked eye. The Zeppelin travellers were quite ignorant of this action upon the part of the French and were surprised when they were rounded-up to learn that they had been tracked so ruthlessly. Every message which the wireless of the Zeppelin had transmitted had been received and filed by the French. Under these circumstances it is doubtful whether wireless telegraphy between aircraft and the forces beneath will be adopted extensively during the present campaign. Of course, should some radical improvement be perfected, whereby communication may be rendered absolutely secretive, while no intimation is conveyed to the enemy that ethereal conversation is in progress, then the whole situation will be changed, and there may be remarkable developments. CHAPTER XVIII. AIRCRAFT AND NAVAL OPERATIONS When once the flying machine had indicated its possibilities in connection with land operations it was only natural that endeavours should be made to adapt it to the more rigorous requirements of the naval service. But the conditions are so vastly dissimilar that only a meagre measure of success has been recorded. Bomb-throwing from aloft upon the decks of battleships appeals vividly to the popular imagination, and the widespread destruction which may be caused by dropping such an agent down the funnel of a vessel into the boiler-room is a favourite theme among writers of fiction and artists. But hitting such an objective while it is tearing at high speed through the water, from a height of several thousand feet is a vastly different task from throwing sticks and balls at an Aunt Sally on terra firma: the target is so small and elusive. Practically it is impossible to employ the flying machine, whether it be a dirigible or an aeroplane, in this field. Many factors militate against such an application. In the first place there is a very wide difference between dry land and a stretch of water as an area over which to manoeuvre. So far as the land is concerned descent is practicable at any time and almost anywhere. But an attempt to descend upon the open sea even when the latter is as calm as the proverbial mill-pond is fraught with considerable danger. The air-currents immediately above the water differ radically from those prevailing above the surface of the land. Solar radiation also plays a very vital part. In fact the dirigible dare not venture to make such a landing even if it be provided with floats. The chances are a thousand to one that the cars will become water-logged, rendering re-ascent a matter of extreme difficulty, if not absolutely impossible. On the other hand, the aeroplane when equipped with floats, is able to alight upon the water, and to rest thereon for a time. It may even take in a new supply of fuel if the elements be propitious, and may be able to re-ascend, but the occasions are rare when such operations can be carried out successfully. In operations over water the airman is confronted with one serious danger--the risk of losing his bearings and his way. For instance, many attempts have been made to cross the North Sea by aeroplane, but only one has proved successful so far. The intrepid aviator did succeed in passing from the shore of Britain to the coast of Scandinavia. Many people suppose that because an airman is equipped with a compass he must be able to find his way, but this is a fallacy. The aviator is in the same plight as a mariner who is compelled from circumstances to rely upon his compass alone, and who is debarred by inclement weather from deciding his precise position by taking the sun. A ship ploughing the waters has to contend against the action of cross currents, the speed of which varies considerably, as well as adverse winds. Unless absolute correction for these influences can be made the ship will wander considerably from its course. The airman is placed in a worse position. He has no means of determining the direction and velocity of the currents prevailing in the atmosphere, and his compass cannot give him any help in this connection, because it merely indicates direction. Unless the airman has some means of determining his position, such as landmarks, he fails to realise the fact that he is drifting, or, even if he becomes aware of this fact, it is by no means a simple straightforward matter for him to make adequate allowance for the factor. Side-drift is the aviator's greatest enemy. It cannot be determined with any degree of accuracy. If the compass were an infallible guide the airman would be able to complete a given journey in dense fog just as easily as in clear weather. It is the action of the cross currents and the unconscious drift which render movement in the air during fog as impracticable with safety as manoeuvring through the water under similar conditions. More than one bold and skilful aviator has essayed the crossing of the English Channel and, being overtaken by fog, has failed to make the opposite coast. His compass has given him the proper direction, but the side-drift has proved his undoing, with the result that he has missed his objective. The fickle character of the winds over the water, especially over such expanses as the North Sea, constitutes another and seriously adverse factor. Storms, squalls, gales, and, in winter, blizzards, spring up with magical suddenness, and are so severe that no aircraft could hope to live in them. But such visitations are more to be dreaded by the lighter-than-air than by the heavier-than-air machines. The former offers a considerable area of resistance to the tempest and is caught up by the whirlwind before the pilot fully grasps the significant chance of the natural phenomenon. Once a dirigible is swept out of the hands of its pilot its doom is sealed. On the other hand, the speed attainable by the aeroplane constitutes its safety. It can run before the wind, and meantime can climb steadily and rapidly to a higher altitude, until at last it enters a contrary wind or even a tolerably quiescent atmosphere. Even if it encounters the tempest head on there is no immediate danger if the aviator keep cool. This fact has been established times out of number and the airman has been sufficiently skilful and quick-witted to succeed in frustrating the destructive tactics of his natural enemy. Only a short while ago in France, British airmen who went aloft in a gale found the latter too strong for them. Although the machine was driven full speed ahead it was forced backwards at the rate of 10 miles per hour because the independent speed of the aeroplane was less than the velocity of the wind. But a dirigible has never succeeded in weathering a gale; its bulk, area, and weight, combined with its relatively slow movement, are against it, with the result that it is hurled to destruction. All things considered, the dirigible is regarded as an impracticable acquisition to a fleet, except in the eyes of the Germans, who have been induced to place implicit reliance upon their monsters. The gullible Teuton public confidently believes that their Dreadnoughts of the air will complete the destruction of the British fleet, but responsible persons know full well that they will not play such a part, but must be reserved for scouting. Hitherto, in naval operations, mosquito water-craft, such as torpedo-boats, have been employed in this service. But these swift vessels suffer from one serious disability. The range of vision is necessarily limited, and a slight mist hanging over the water blinds them; the enemy may even pass within half-a-mile of them and escape detection. The Zeppelin from its position 1,000 feet or more above the water, in clear weather, has a tremendous range of vision; the horizon is about 40 miles distant, as compared with approximately 8 miles in the case of the torpedo-boat. Of course an object, such as a battleship, may be detected at a far greater range. Consequently the German naval programme is to send the Zeppelin a certain distance ahead of the battleship squadron. The dirigible from its coign of vantage would be able to sight a hostile squadron if it were within visual range and would communicate the fact to the commander of the fleet below. The latter would decide his course according to information received; thus he would be enabled to elude his enemy, or, if the tidings received from the aerial scout should be favourable, to dispose his vessels in the most favourable array for attack. The German code of naval tactics does not foreshadow the use of dirigible aircraft as vessels of attack. Scouting is the primary and indeed the only useful duty of the dirigible, although it is quite possible that the aerial craft might participate in a subsequent naval engagement, as, indeed, has been the case. Its participation, however, would be governed entirely by climatic conditions. The fact that the dirigible is a weak unit of attack in naval operations is fully appreciated by all the belligerents. The picture of a sky "black with Zeppelins" may appeal to the popular imagination, and may induce the uninitiated to cherish the belief that such an array would strike terror into the hearts of the foe, but the naval authorities are well aware that no material advantage would accrue from such a force. In the first place they would constitute an ideal target for the enemy's vessels. They would be compelled to draw within range in order to render their own attack effective, and promiscuous shooting from below would probably achieve the desired end. One or more of the hostile aircraft would be hit within a short while. Such disasters would undoubtedly throw the aerial fleet into confusion, and possibly might interfere with the tactical developments of its own friends upon the water below. The shells hurled from the Zeppelins would probably inflict but little damage upon the warships beneath. Let it be conceded that they weigh about 500 pounds, which is two-thirds of the weight of the projectile hurled from the Krupp 128-centimetre howitzer. Such a missile would have but little destructive effect if dropped from a height of 1,000 feet. To achieve a result commensurate with that of the 28-centimetre howitzer the airship would have to launch the missile from a height of about 7,000 feet. To take aim from such an altitude is impossible, especially at a rapidly moving target such as a battle-cruiser. The fact must not be forgotten that Count Zeppelin himself has expressed the opinion, the result of careful and prolonged experiments, that his craft is practically useless at a height exceeding 5,000 feet. Another point must not be overlooked. In a spirited naval engagement the combatants would speedily be obliterated from the view of those aloft by the thick pall of smoke--the combination of gun-fire and emission from the furnaces and a blind attack would be just as likely to damage friend as foe. Even if the aircraft ventured to descend as low as 5,000 feet it would be faced with another adverse influence. The discharge of the heavy battleship guns would bring about such an agitation of the air above as to imperil the delicate equilibrium of an airship. Nor must one overlook the circumstance that in such an engagement the Zeppelins would become the prey of hostile aeroplanes. The latter, being swifter and nimbler, would harry the cumbersome and slow-moving dirigible in the manner of a dog baiting a bear to such a degree that the dirigible would be compelled to sheer off to secure its own safety. Desperate bravery and grim determination may be magnificent physical attributes, ut they would have to be superhuman to face the stinging recurrent attacks of mosquito-aeroplanes. The limitations of the Zeppelin, and in fact of all dirigible aircraft, were emphasised upon the occasion of the British aerial raid upon Cuxhaven. Two Zeppelins bravely put out to overwhelm the cruisers and torpedo boats which accompanied and supported the British sea-planes, but when confronted with well-placed firing from the guns of the vessels below they quickly decided that discretion was the better part of valour and drew off. In naval operations the aeroplane is a far more formidable foe, although here again there are many limitations. The first and most serious is the severely limited radius of action. The aeroplane motor is a hungry engine, while the fuel capacity of the tank is restricted. The German military authorities speedily realised the significance of this factor and its bearing upon useful operations, and forth with carried out elaborate endurance tests. In numerable flights were made with the express purpose of determining how long a machine could remain in the air upon a single fuel supply. The results of these flights were collated and the achievements of each machine in this direction carefully analysed, a mean average drawn up, and then pigeon-holed. The results were kept secret, only the more sensational records being published to the world. As the policy of standardisation in the construction of aeroplanes was adopted the radius of action of each type became established. It is true that variations of this factor even among vessels exactly similar in every respect are inevitable, but it was possible to establish a reliable mean average for general guidance. The archives of the Berlin military department are crowded with facts and figures relating to this particular essential, so that the radius of action, that is the mileage upon a single fuel charge, of any class and type of machine may be ascertained in a moment. The consequence is that the military authorities are able to decide the type of aeroplane which is best suited to a certain projected task. According to the dossier in the pigeon-hole, wherein the results of the type are filed, the aeroplane will be able to go so far, and upon arriving at that point will be able to accomplish so much work, and then be able to return home. Consequently it is dispatched upon the especial duty without any feeling of uncertainty. Unfortunately, these experimental processes were too methodical to prove reliable. The endurance data were prepared from tests carried out in the aerodrome and from cross-country trials accomplished under ideal or fair-weather conditions. The result is that calculations have been often upset somewhat rudely by weather conditions of a totally unexpected character, which bring home vividly the striking difference between theory and practice. The British and French aviation authorities have not adopted such methodical standardisation or rule of thumb inferences, but rather have fostered individual enterprise and initiative. This stimulation of research has been responsible for the creation of a type of aeroplane specially adapted to naval service, and generically known as the water plane, the outstanding point of difference from the aeroplane being the substitution of canoes or floats for the wheeled chassis peculiar to the land machine. The flier is sturdily built, while the floats are sufficiently substantial to support the craft upon the water in calm weather. Perhaps it was the insular situation of the British nation which was responsible for this trend of development, because so far as Britain is concerned the sea-going aeroplane is in dispensable. But the salient fact remains that to-day the waterplane service of Great Britain is the most efficient in the world, the craft being speedy, designed and built to meet the rough weather conditions which are experienced around these islands, and ideal vessels for patrol and raiding duties. So far as the British practice is concerned the waterplane is designed to operate in conjunction with, and not apart from, the Navy. It has been made the eyes of the Navy in the strictest interpretation of the term. In any such combination the great difficulty is the establishment of what may be termed a mobile base, inasmuch as the waterplane must move with the fleet. This end has been achieved by the evolution of a means of carrying a waterplane upon, and launching it from, a battleship, if necessary. For this purpose a docking cradle or way has been provided aft where the aeroplane may be housed until the moment arrives for its employment. Several vessels have been devoted to this nursing duty and are known as parent ships to the waterplane service. All that is requisite when the time arrives for the use of the seaplane is to lift it bodily by derrick or crane from its cradle and to lower it upon the water. It will be remembered that the American naval authorities made an experiment with a scheme for directly launching the warplane from the deck of a battleship in the orthodox, as well as offering it a spot upon which to alight upon returning from a flight, while Wing-Commander Samson, R.N., D.S.O., the famous British airman, repeated the experiment by flying from a similar launching way installed upon H.M.S. Hibernia. But this practice has many shortcomings. So far as the British and French navies are concerned, the former process is preferred. Again, when the waterplane returns from a flight it is admitted that it is simpler, quicker, and safer for it to settle upon the water near the parent ship and to be lifted on board. As a sea-scout the waterplane is overwhelmingly superior to the dirigible as events have conclusively proved. Its greater mobility and speed stand it in excellent stead because it is able to cover a larger area within a shorter space of time than its huge and unwieldy contemporary. Furthermore, it is a difficult target to hit and accordingly is not so likely to be brought down by hostile fire. There is another point in its favour. The experience of the war has proved that the numerically inferior enemy prefers to carry out his naval operations under the cover of the mist and haze which settle upon the water, and yet are of sufficient depth to conceal his identity and composition. Such mists as a rule comprise a relatively thin bank of low-lying vapour, which while enveloping the surface of the water in an impenetrable pall, yet permits the mast-heads of the vessels to stand out clearly, although they cannot be detected from the water-level or even from the control and fighting tops of a warship. A scouting waterplane, however, is able to observe them and note their movement, and accordingly can collect useful information concerning the apparent composition of the hidden force, the course it is following, its travelling speed, and so forth, which it can convey immediately to its friends. The aeroplane has established its value in another manner. Coal-burning vessels when moving at any pronounced speed invariably throw off large quantities of smoke, which may be detected easily from above, even when the vessels themselves are completely hidden in the mist. It was this circumstance which revealed the presence of the British squadron in the affair of the Bight of Heligoland. The German airman on patrol duty from the adjacent base on the island of Heligoland detected the presence of this smoke, above the low-lying bank of fog, although there were no other visible signs of any vessels. Fully cognisant of the fact that the German Fleet was at anchor in a safe place he naturally divined that the smoke proceeded from a hostile squadron, evidently bent upon a raid. He returned to his headquarters, conveyed the intelligence he had collected to his superior officers, upon receipt of which a German cruiser squadron was sent out and engaged the British vessels to its own discomfiture. But for the airman's vigilance and smartness there is no doubt that the British squadron would have accomplished a great coup. This incident, however, served to reveal that the aerial scout is prone to suffer from over-keenness and to collect only a partial amount of information. Upon this occasion the German watchman detected the presence of the British torpedo-boat and light cruiser force. Had he continued his investigations and made a wider sweep he would have discovered the proximity of the British battle-cruiser squadron which routed the German force, the latter having acted on incomplete information. While the low-lying sea-fog is the navigator's worst enemy, it is the airman's greatest friend and protection. It not only preserves him against visual discovery from below, but is an excellent insulator of sound, so that his whereabouts is not betrayed by the noise of his motor. It is of in calculable value in another way. When a fog prevails the sea is generally as smooth as the pro verbial mirror, enabling the waterplanes to be brought up under cover to a suitable point from which they may be dispatched. Upon their release by climbing to a height of a few hundred feet the airmen are able to reach a clear atmosphere, where by means of the compass it is possible to advance in approximately the desired direction, safe from discovery from below owing to the fog. If they are "spotted" they can dive into its friendly depths, complete their work, and make for the parent ship. Low-lying sea-fogs are favourable to aerial raids provided the scout is able to catch sight of the upper parts of landmarks to enable him to be sure of the correctness of his line of flight-in cases where the distance is very short compass direction is sufficiently reliable-because the bank of vapour not only constitutes a perfect screen, but serves as a blanket to the motor exhaust, if not completely, at least sufficiently to mislead those below. Fogs, as every mariner will testify, play strange tricks with the transmission of sound. Hence, although those on the vessels below might detect a slight hum, it might possibly be so faint as to convey the impression that the aviator was miles away, when, as a matter of fact, he was directly overhead. This confusion arising from sound aberration is a useful protection in itself, as it tends to lure a naval force lying in or moving through the fog into a false sense of security. The development of the submarine revealed the incontrovertible fact that this arm would play a prominent part in future operations upon the water: a presage which has been adequately fulfilled during the present conflict. The instinct of self-preservation at once provoked a discussion of the most effective ways and means of disguising its whereabouts when it travels submerged. To this end the German naval authorities conducted a series of elaborate and interesting experiments off the island of Heligoland. As is well known, when one is directly above a stretch of shallow water, the bottom of the latter can be seen quite distinctly. Consequently, it was decided to employ aerial craft as detectives. Both the aeroplane and the dirigible took part in these experiments, being flown at varying heights, while the submarine was maneouvred at different depths immediately below. The sum of these investigations proved conclusively that a submarine may be detected from aloft when moving at a depth of from 30 to 40 feet. The outline of the submerged craft is certainly somewhat blurred, but nevertheless it is sufficiently distinct to enable its identity to be determined really against the background or bottom of the sea. To combat this detection from an aerial position it will be necessary inter alia to evolve a more harmonious or protective colour-scheme for the submarine. Their investigations were responsible for the inauguration of the elaborate German aerial patrol of harbours, the base for such aerial operations being established upon the island of Heligoland. So far the stern test of war as applied to the science of aeronautics has emphasised the fact that as a naval unit the dirigible is a complete failure. Whether experience will bring about a modification of these views time alone will show, but it is certain that existing principles of design will have to undergo a radical revision to achieve any notable results. The aeroplane alone has proved successful in this domain, and it is upon this type of aerial craft that dependence will have to be placed. CHAPTER XIX. THE NAVIES of THE AIR Less than three years ago the momentous and spectacular race among the Powers of Europe for the supremacy of the air began. At first the struggle was confined to two rivals--France and Germany--but as time progressed and the importance of aerial fleets was recognised, other nations, notably Great Britain, entered the field. Germany obtained an advantage. Experiment and research were taken up at a point which had been reached by French effort; further experiments and researches were carried out in German circles with secret and feverish haste, with the result that within a short time a pronounced degree of efficiency according to German ideals had been attained. The degree of perfection achieved was not regarded with mere academic interest; it marked the parting of the ways: the point where scientific endeavour commanded practical appreciation by turning the success of the laboratory and aerodrome into the channel of commercial manufacture. In other words, systematic and wholesale production was undertaken upon an extensive scale. The component parts were standardised and arrangements were completed with various establishments possessed of the most suitable machinery to perfect a programme for turning out aeronautical requirements in a steady, continuous stream from the moment the crisis developed. The wisdom of completing these arrangements in anticipation is now apparent. Upon the outbreak of hostilities many German establishments devoted to the production of articles required in the infinite ramifications of commerce found themselves deprived of their markets, but there was no risk that their large plants would be brought to a standstill: the Government ordered the manufacture of aeroplane parts and motors upon an extensive scale. In this manner not only were the industrial establishments kept going, but their production of aeronautical requirements relieved those organisations devoted to the manufacture of armaments, so that the whole resources and facilities of these could be concentrated upon the supply of munitions of war. In France the air-fleet, although extensive upon the outbreak of war, was somewhat heterogeneous. Experiment was still being pursued: no type had met with definite official recognition, the result being that no arrangements had been completed for the production of one or more standard types upon an elaborate scale comparable with that maintained by Germany. In fact some six months after the outbreak of war there was an appreciable lack of precision on this point in French military. Many of the types which had established their success were forbidden by military decree as mentioned in a previous chapter, while manufacturing arrangements were still somewhat chaotic. Great Britain was still more backward in the new movement. But this state of affairs was in a measure due to the division of the Fourth Arm among the two services. A well-organised Government manufactory for the production of aeroplanes and other aircraft necessities had been established, while the private manufacturers had completed preparations for wholesale production. But it was not until the Admiralty accepted responsibility for the aerial service that work was essayed in grim earnest. The allocation of the aerial responsibilities of Great Britain to the Admiralty was a wise move. Experience has revealed the advantages accruing from the perfection of homogeneous squadrons upon the water, that is to say groups of ships which are virtually sister-craft of identical speed, armament, and so on, thus enabling the whole to act together as a complete effective unit. As this plan had proved so successful upon the water, the Admiralty decided to apply it to the fleet designed for service in the air above. At the time this plan of campaign was definitely settled Great Britain as an aerial power was a long way behind her most formidable rival, but strenuous efforts were made to reduce the handicap, and within a short while the greater part of this leeway had been made up. Upon the outbreak of war Great Britain undoubtedly was inferior to Germany in point of numbers of aircraft, but the latter Power was completely outclassed in efficiency, and from the point of view of PERSONNEL. The British had developed the waterplane as an essential auxiliary to naval operations, and here was in advance of her rival, who had practically neglected this line of experiment and evolution, resting secure in the assurance of her advisers that the huge dirigibles would be adequate for all exigencies on the water. Indeed, when war was declared, all the Powers were found more or less wanting so far as their aerial fleets were concerned. If Germany's huge aerial navy had been in readiness for instant service when she invaded Belgium, she would have overcome that little country's resistance in a far shorter time and with much less waste of life. It was the Belgians who first brought home to the belligerents the prominent part that aircraft were destined to play in war, and the military possibilities of the aeroplane. True, the Belgians had a very small aerial navy, but it was put to work without delay and accomplished magnificent results, ascertaining the German positions and dispositions with unerring accuracy and incredible ease, and thus enabling the commander of the Belgian Army to dispose his relatively tiny force to the best advantage, and to offer the most effective resistance. Great Britain's aerial navy, while likewise some what small, was also ready for instant service. The British Expeditionary force was supported by a very efficient aerial fleet, the majority of the vessels forming which flew across the Channel at high speed to the British headquarters in France so as to be available directly military preparations were begun, and the value of this support proved to be inestimable, since it speedily demoralised the numerically superior enemy. France, like Germany, was somewhat dilatory, but this was attributable rather to the time occupied in the mobilisation of the Fourth Arm than to lack of energy. There were a round 1,500 aeroplanes ostensibly ready for service, in addition to some 26 dirigibles. But the fleet was somewhat scattered, while many of the craft were not immediately available, being in the shops or in dock for repairs and overhaul. During the period of mobilisation the so-called standing military force was augmented by about 500 machines which were acquired from private owners. The aeroplane factories were also, overhauled and re-organised so as to be in a position to remedy the inevitable wastage, but these organisation efforts were somewhat handicapped by the shortage of labour arising from the call to arms. France, moreover, imperilled her aerial strength by forbidding the use of 558 machines which were ready for service. Germany's aerial fleet was of similar proportions to that of her Gallic neighbour, but curiously enough, and in strange contrast, there appeared to be a lack of readiness in this ramification of the Teuton war machine. The military establishment possessed about 1,000 machines--active and reserve--of which it is estimated 700 were available for instant service. During the period of mobilisation a further 450 machines were added to the fleet, drawn for the most part from private owners. So far as the dirigibles were concerned 14 Zeppelins were ready for duty, while others were under construction or undergoing overhaul and repair. A few other types were also in commission or acquired during mobilisation, bringing the dirigible force to 40 machines all told. But the greatest surprise was probably offered by Russia. Very little was known concerning Russian activities in this particular field, although it was stated that large orders for machines had been placed with various foreign manufactories. Certain factories also had been established within the Empire, although the character of their work and its results and achievements were concealed from prying eyes. In Russia, however, an appreciable number of private aeroplanes were in operation, and these, of course, were placed at the disposal of the authorities the moment the crisis developed. The British and French aeroplane manufacturers had been busy upon Russian orders for many months previous to the outbreak of hostilities, while heavy shipments of component parts had been made, the assembling and completion of the machines being carried out in the country. It is generally believed that upon the outbreak of war Russia had a fleet of 800 aeroplanes in hand, of which total 150 were contributed from private sources. Even the dirigible had not been overlooked, there being nearly 20 of these craft attached to the Russian Army, although for the most part they are small vessels. In comparison with the foregoing large aerial navies, that of Great Britain appeared to be puny. At the moment Great Britain possesses about 500 machines, of which about 200 are waterplanes. In addition, according to the Secretary of the Admiralty, 15 dirigibles should be in service. Private enterprise is supported by the Government, which maintains a factory for the manufacture of these craft. During the two years preceding the outbreak of war the various Powers grew remarkably reticent concerning the composition and enlargement of their respective aerial fleets. No official figures were published. But at the same time it is a well-known fact that during the year 1913 France augmented her flying force by no fewer than 544 aeroplanes. Germany was no less energetic, the military acquisition in this branch, and during the self-same year, approaching 700 machines according to the semi-official reports published in that country. The arrangements concluded for the manufacture of additional craft during the war are equally remarkable. The principal factory in Germany, (now devoting its energies to the production of these craft, although in happier days its normal complement of 4,000 men were responsible for the production of another commercial article) possesses facilities for turning out 30 complete aeroplanes per week, according to the statement of its managing director. But it is averred that this statement is purposely misleading, inasmuch as during the first fortnight of the campaign it was producing over 50 aeroplanes per week. It must be remembered that Germany is responsible for the supply of the majority of such craft for the Austrian armies, that country purchasing these vessels in large numbers, because in the early days of the conflict it was notoriously weak in this arm. Since the declaration of war strenuous efforts have been made to remedy this state of affairs, particularly upon the unexpected revelation of Russia's aerial strength. It is computed that upon the outbreak of war the various Powers were in the position to show an aggregate of 4,980 aircraft of all descriptions, both for active service and reserve. This is a colossal fleet, but it serves to convey in a graphic manner the importance attached to the adrial vessel by the respective belligerents. So far as Germany is concerned she is sorely in need of additional machines. Her fleet of the air has lost its formidable character, owing to the fact that it has to be divided between two frontiers, while she has been further weakened by the enormous lengths of the two battle-fronts. Russia has been able to concentrate her aerial force, which has proved of incalculable value to the Grand Duke Nicholas, who has expressed his appreciation of the services rendered by his fliers. The French likewise have been favoured by Fortune in this respect. Their aerial navy is likewise concentrated upon a single frontier, although a pronounced proportion has been reserved for service upon the Mediterranean sea-board for co-operation with the fleet. France suffers, however, to a certain degree from the length of her battle-line, which is over 200 miles in length. The French aerial fleet has been particularly active in the Vosges and the Argonne, where the difficult, mountainous, and densely wooded country has rendered other systems of observation of the enemy's movements a matter of extreme difficulty. The Germans have laboured under a similar handicap in this territory, and have likewise been compelled to centre a considerable proportion of their aerial fleet upon this corner of the extended battlefield. It is in this region that the greatest wastage has been manifest. I have been informed by one correspondent who is fighting in this sternly contested area, that at one time a daily loss of ten German machines was a fair average, while highwater mark was reached, so far as his own observations and ability to glean information were concerned by the loss of 19 machines during a single day. The French wastage, while not so heavy upon the average, has been considerable at times. The term wastage is somewhat misleading, if not erroneous. It does not necessarily imply the total loss of a machine, such as its descent upon hostile territory, but includes damage to machines, no matter how slight, landing within their own lines. In the difficult country of the Vosges many aeroplanes have come to earth somewhat heavily, and have suffered such damage as to render them inoperative, compelling their removal from the effective list until they have undergone complete overhaul or reconstruction. Upon occasions this wastage has been so pronounced that the French aviators, including some of the foremost fliers serving with the forces, have been without a machine and have been compelled to wait their turn. I am informed that one day four machines, returning from a reconnaissance in force, crashed successively to the ground, and each had to be hauled away to the repair sheds, necessitating withdrawal from service for several days. Unfortunately the French, owing to their decision to rule out certain machines as unsuited to military service, have not yet perfected their organisation for making good this wastage, although latterly it has been appreciably reduced by greater care among the aviators in handling their vessels. The fast vessels of the French aerial fleet have proved exceptionally valuable. With these craft speeds of 95 and 100 miles or more per hour have been attained under favourable conditions, and pace has proved distinctly advantageous, inasmuch as it gives the French aviators a superiority of about 40 per cent over the average German machine. It was the activity and daring of the French fliers upon these high speed machines which induced the German airmen to change their tactics. Individual effort and isolated raiding operations were abandoned in favour of what might be described as combined or squadron attack. Six or eight machines advancing together towards the French lines somewhat nonplussed these fleet French mosquito craft, and to a certain degree nullified their superiority in pace. Speed was discounted, for the simple reason that the enemy when so massed evinced a disposition to fight and to follow harassing tactics when one of the slowest French machines ventured into the air. It is interesting to observe that aerial operations, now that they are being conducted upon what may be termed methodical lines as distinct from corsair movements, are following the broad fundamental principles of naval tactics. Homogeneous squadrons, that is, squadrons composed of vessels of similar type and armament, put out and follow roughly the "single line ahead" formation. Upon sighting the enemy there is the manoeuvring for position advantage which must accrue to the speedier protagonist. One then, witnesses what might almost be described as an application of the process of capping the line or "crossing the 'T.'" This tends to throw the slower squadron into confusion by bending it back upon itself, meanwhile exposing it to a demoralizing fire. The analogy is not precisely correct but sufficiently so to indicate that aerial battles will be fought much upon the same lines, as engagements between vessels upon the water. If the manoeuvres accomplish nothing beyond breaking up and scattering the foe, the result is satisfactory in as much as in this event it is possible to exert a driving tendency and to force him back upon the lines of the superior force, when the scattered vessels may be brought within the zone of spirited fire from the ground. Attacks in force are more likely to prove successful than individual raiding tactics, as recent events upon the battlefield of Europe have demonstrated more or less convincingly. An attack in force is likely to cause the defenders upon the ground beneath to lose their heads and to fire wildly and at random, with the result that the airmen may achieve their object with but little damage to themselves. This method of attacking in force was essayed for the first time by the British aerial fleet, which perhaps is not surprising, seeing that the machines are manned and the operations supervised by officers who have excelled in naval training, and who are skilled in such movements. No doubt this practice, combined with the daring of the British aviators, contributed very materially to the utter demoralisation of the German aerial forces, and was responsible for that hesitancy to attack a position in the vicinity of the British craft which became so manifest in the course of a few weeks after the outbreak of hostilities. One of the foremost military experts of the United States, who passed some time in the fighting zone, expressed his opinion that the British aerial force is the most efficient among the belligerents when considered as a unit, the French flier being described by the same authority as most effective when acting individually, owing to personal intrepidity. As a scout the French aviator is probably unequalled, because he is quick to perceive and to collect the data required, and when provided with a fast machine is remarkably nimble and venturesome in the air. The British aviators, however, work as a whole, and in the particular phases where such tactics are profitable have established incontestable superiority. At first the German aerial force appeared to possess no settled system of operation. Individual effort was pronounced, but it lacked method. The Germans have, however, profited from the lessons taught by their antagonists, and now are emulating their tactics, but owing to their imperfect training and knowledge the results they achieve appear to be negligible. The dirigible still remains an unknown quantity in these activities, although strange to relate, in the early days of the war, the work accomplished by the British craft, despite their comparatively low speed and small dimensions, excelled in value that achieved by the warplanes. This was particularly noticeable in matters pertaining to reconnaissance, more especially at night, when the British vessels often remained for hours together in the air, manoeuvring over the hostile lines, and gathering invaluable information as to the disposition and movements of the opposing forces. But it is probably in connection with naval operations that the British aerial fleet excels. The waterplanes have established their supremacy over the naval dirigible in a striking manner. British endeavour fostered the waterplane movement and has carried it to a high degree of perfection. The waterplane is not primarily designed to perform long flights, although such may be carried out if the exigencies demand. The practice of deputing certain vessels to art as "parent ships" to a covey of waterplanes has proved as successful in practice, as in theory. Again, the arrangements for conveying these machines by such means to a rendezvous, and there putting them into the water to complete a certain duty, have been triumphantly vindicated. At the time this idea was embraced it met with a certain degree of hostile criticism: it was argued that the association of the two fighting, machines would tend towards confusion, and impair the efficiency of both. Practice has refuted this theory. The British aerial raids upon Cuxhaven and other places would have been impossible, and probably valueless as an effective move, but for the fact that it was possible to release the machines from a certain point upon the open sea, within easy reach of the cooperating naval squadron. True, the latter was exposed to hostile attack from submarines, but as results proved this was easy to repel. The aircraft were enabled to return to their base, as represented by the rendezvous, to be picked up, and to communicate the intelligence gained from their flight to the authorities in a shorter period of time than would have been possible under any other circumstances, while the risk to the airmen was proportionately reduced. The fact that the belligerents have built up such huge aerial navies conclusively proves that the military value of the Fourth Arm has been fully appreciated. From the results so far achieved there is every indication that activity in this direction will be increased rather than diminished. 
40170	----	Transcriber's note: Text in italics has been marked with underscores (_text_). Further Transcriber's Notes will be found at the end of this text. THE ROMANCE OF AIRCRAFT [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ SEAPLANES NC-1, NC-3 AND NC-4 OF THE U. S. NAVY STARTING THE TRANS-ATLANTIC FLIGHT FROM ROCKAWAY] [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ THE NC-4 ON ITS VICTORIOUS TRANS-ATLANTIC FLIGHT, SIXTY MILES AT SEA. THE SHADOW IS MADE BY A STRUT OF THE PHOTOGRAPHERS' PLANE] THE ROMANCE OF AIRCRAFT BY LAURENCE YARD SMITH _WITH SIX DIAGRAMS AND THIRTY-THREE ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS_ LONDON GRANT RICHARDS, LTD. ST. MARTIN'S STREET MDCCCCXIX PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA BY THE PROSPECT PRESS CONTENTS PART I CHAPTER PAGE I THE CONQUEST OF THE AIR 3 II "A B C'S" OF A BALLOON 14 III EARLY BALLOON ADVENTURES 20 IV THE PARACHUTE 28 V BALLOONING IN THE GREAT WAR 36 PART II I DEVELOPMENT OF THE DIRIGIBLE 47 II FORERUNNERS OF THE ALLIED DIRIGIBLES 60 III DIRIGIBLES IN THE WORLD WAR 68 PART III I EARLY EXPERIMENTS WITH HEAVIER-THAN-AIR MACHINES 77 II FIRST PRINCIPLES OF AN AIRPLANE 91 III THE PIONEERS 99 IV THE AIRPLANE IN THE WORLD WAR 128 V SOME OF THE PROBLEMS THE INVENTORS HAD TO SOLVE 150 VI FAMOUS ALLIED AIRPLANES 170 VII GERMAN AIRPLANES IN THE WORLD WAR 189 VIII HEROES OF THE AIR 205 IX THE BIRTH OF AN AIRPLANE 223 X THE TRAINING OF AN AVIATOR 232 XI THE FUTURE STORY OF THE AIR 244 READING LIST 256 INDEX 259 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Seaplanes NC-1, NC-3 and NC-4 of the U. S. Navy starting the trans-Atlantic flight from Rockaway. The NC-4 on its victorious trans-Atlantic flight, sixty miles at sea _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE Montgolfier experiment at Versailles, 1783 10 The first cross-channel trip 11 Diagram showing the main features of the spherical balloon 16 Cocking's parachute 30 A German Zeppelin 31 Inflating a service balloon on the field 40 Army balloon ready to ascend 41 Giffard's airship 54 Santos-Dumont rounding the Eiffel Tower 55 Baldwin U. S. "Dirigible No. 1" 66 The British Army "Baby" dirigible 67 Cross section of the gas bag of the _Astra-Torres_, showing method of car suspension 70 "The Blimp," C-1, the largest dirigible of the American Navy 72 The balloon of the _U. S. S. Oklahoma_ 73 Diagram showing the essential parts of an airplane 95 Wright starting with passenger 98 An early Farman machine prior to start 99 Wright machine rising just after leaving the rail 114 An early Wright machine, showing its method of starting from a rail 114 The propeller department in one of the great Curtiss factories 115 A photograph of northern France taken at a height of three thousand feet 138 An airplane view of the city of Rheims, showing the cathedral 139 Diagram of an internal combustion engine cylinder, showing principle on which it works 157 This photograph shows the relative size of the giant Caproni bombing plane and the French baby Nieuport, used as a speed scout 170 The Spad, the pride of the French air fleet 171 A Handley-Page machine tuning up for a flight 182 The launching of a Langley, a giant bombing airplane 183 Side view of a Sopwith triplane 187 An American built Caproni airplane 188 This Curtiss triplane has a speed of one hundred and sixty miles an hour 189 A giant Gotha bombing plane brought down by the French 198 German Fokker plane captured by the French 199 Captain Eddie Rickenbacker 218 The first bag of mail carried by the U. S. Aero Mail Service 219 A photograph made ten thousand feet in the air, showing machines in "V" formation at bombing practise 242 A group of De Havilland planes at Bolling Field near Washington 243 PART I THE ROMANCE OF AIRCRAFT CHAPTER I THE CONQUEST OF THE AIR On a beautiful afternoon in the latter part of the eighteenth century--June 5, 1793--a distinguished company of Frenchmen were gathered in the public square of the little village of Annonay, not far from Lyons. They had come there by special invitation of the brothers Stephen and Joseph Montgolfier, respected owners of a paper manufactory in the little town. It was whispered that the brothers had a great surprise in store for them, a remarkable discovery. Yet all their curious gaze could make out was a great linen bag, that swung, like a huge limp sail, from a rope that was suspended between two high poles. By means of this seemingly helpless piece of fabric the brothers Montgolfier proposed to accomplish the conquest of the air. Those who ventured near to this strange object perceived at its base a wide circular opening, sewed fast to a wooden ring. The ring hung directly over a deep pit, in which had been heaped fuel for a bonfire,--straw and wood and chopped wool. At a given signal one of the brothers applied a torch to the mass and in an instant the flames shot up. A dense column of smoke arose through the neck of the bag. The latter gradually began to fill, spreading out in all directions, until, before the astonished gaze of the spectators, it assumed the shape of an enormous ball, that overshadowed the square, and that pulled and wrestled feverishly at the restraining ropes. From the ranks of the onlookers a great shout of applause went up. The keepers let go the ropes, and the globe, like a live creature, freed from its bonds, rose triumphantly before their eyes. Up, up, higher and higher it went, so fast that they could scarcely follow it. For a moment it was hidden behind a patch of cloud, then it reappeared again, still ascending, until it rode majestically in the heavens, seven thousand feet above their heads! The shouts and cries of the onlookers were deafening. Like wildfire the news spread from house to house of the little French village. Grave old legislators who had witnessed the surprising spectacle forgot their dignity and tossed their hats in air. Women, seeing the unusual object from a distance, fell on their knees to pray, thinking it a sign in the heavens, that portended, who knew what? Man's age-old dream of conquering the air was now, for the first time, an accomplished fact. Those who stood in the little public square of Annonay on that auspicious afternoon long ago, watching the first Montgolfier globe on its victorious ascent, knew that it could be but a very short time indeed until men would be able to explore at will the dim regions of the upper air. Meanwhile picture the consternation and terror among a group of humble peasants, who were tilling the fields a short distance from the spot where the famous Montgolfier balloon was launched. Suddenly in the sky there appeared a great black moon, which slowly and ominously descended toward the earth. The village priest himself led forth a little band of his stout-hearted followers to attack this dread instrument of the Evil One. With pitchforks and scythes they rushed upon the unfortunate balloon as it lighted gently on the ground, heaving this way and that with every puff of breeze that blew against it. With courage born of fear they prodded and beat the unfortunate monster. When the gas had finally escaped through the great gashes in its sides, and nothing remained but a disordered heap of tatters and shreds, the proud "conqueror of the skies" was tied fast to a horse's tail, and the terrified creature galloped off with it into the open country. But the news of the Montgolfier brothers' discovery spread throughout the length and breadth of France and the civilized world. The French king ordered a special demonstration at Versailles, before himself and the Royal family. On this occasion a wicker basket was swung from the richly ornamented balloon. In order to test the safety of travel in the skies there were placed in it a sheep, a cock and a duck. A fire was lit beneath the base of the balloon and it was filled with heated air. It rose with its strange cargo to a height of 1500 feet, traveled along peacefully two miles with the breeze and descended slowly into a near-by wood. There two gamekeepers, hurrying to the scene, were amazed to find its occupants calmly feeding, apparently unaffected by their voyage. This incident gave the experimenters renewed courage and enthusiasm. A gallant Frenchman, Pilâtre de Rozier, volunteered to be the first man to make the ascent into the skies. A new and stronger machine was constructed, this time oval in shape instead of round, 74 feet high and 48 feet in diameter. At the bottom was a huge circular opening, 15 feet across. Just beneath this there was swung from iron chains an open grate, on which the fire was built by means of which the balloon was inflated. This grate hung down into a wicker basket or "gallery," in which the occupant stood, heaping fuel upon the fire. For of course, as soon as the fire died down, the heated air in the balloon commenced slowly to escape, and the whole thing sank to earth. Pilâtre de Rozier was not at first permitted to set himself free and go voyaging unguarded into the upper air. Who knew whether this air above the clouds was fit to breathe?--who, for that matter, knew whether there actually _was_ air at any distance above the surface of the earth? It was considered the better part of valor to try the experiment the first few times with the balloon tied firmly to the ground, with strong cables which only permitted it to rise some eighty or ninety feet. Even with these precautions a good deal of apprehension was felt regarding the healthfulness of the sport. But a sigh of relief was breathed by those who had the undertaking in charge when the bold de Rozier insisted that never in his life before had he known any experience so pleasurable as this of rising far above the housetops and of feeling himself floating, gently and peacefully, in a region of noiseless calm. Impatient of this mild variety of aerial adventure, de Rozier finally won permission to make a "free" ascent, and he and his friend, the Marquis d'Arlandes, made a number of daring voyages in the Montgolfier fire balloon. Assuring their friends that no harmful results could come to them from ascending into the clouds, they loosed the ropes and went merrily sailing away until far out of sight. So long as they kept the fire in the grate burning the balloon remained aloft, and floated along in the direction in which the wind bore it. When they wished to descend they had merely to put out the fire, and as the heated air gradually escaped, the balloon sank gently to earth. But the dangers of this sort of aerial adventure were very great indeed, and it required the most remarkable heroism on the part of de Rozier to undertake them. A chance spark from the grate might at any moment set fire to the body of the balloon, and bring it, a flaming firebrand, to earth. De Rozier understood this, and on his very first voyage carried along in the gallery of the balloon a bucket of water and a sponge. It was late in November of 1893 that he and d'Arlandes floated over Paris,--de Rozier heaping fuel upon the grate and tending the fire which kept the balloon afloat. Suddenly d'Arlandes heard a slight crackling noise high in the balloon. Looking up he caught a sight which turned him cold with horror,--a tiny licking flame far above his head. He seized the wet sponge and reached up to extinguish it. But another and yet another appeared, little tongues of fire, eating away at the body of the balloon. As each showed its face water was dashed upon it. From below the balloon could be seen peacefully journeying across the city. But far above, in its basket, de Rozier and d'Arlandes were coolly beating off the danger that hung over them like a Sword of Damocles. Not until they had been in the air twenty-five minutes, however, did they put out the fire in the grate and allow themselves to sink to earth. These early experiments of the Montgolfiers and de Rozier fired the imaginations of scientific men in every part of the world, and it was only a very short time before a safer and more reliable type of balloon than the fire balloon was developed. Stephen Montgolfier's invention was based on the idea that smoke and clouds rise in the atmosphere. "If," said he to himself, "it were possible to surround a cloud with a bag which did not permit it to escape, then both would ascend." Of course this was a rather childish explanation of the cause of a balloon ascension, but it was the best that the Montgolfiers or any of their learned friends knew at that early day. Now it was only a little while before this that an Englishman had discovered the gas which is now known as hydrogen, but which was then called "inflammable air." This gas, of which the Montgolfiers apparently knew nothing, is exceedingly light, and therefore rises very quickly in the air. The year before the Montgolfier balloon was invented, this Englishman, Cavallo, tried to fill small bags with hydrogen gas, on the theory that they would rise in the atmosphere. He failed merely because he did not hit upon the proper material of which to construct his bags. The fabric he chose was porous, and the gas escaped through it before the balloon could rise. Cavallo did, however, succeed in blowing hydrogen into ordinary soap bubbles, which arose with great velocity and burst as they struck the ceiling. The problem of the material to be used in balloon construction had been fairly well solved by the Montgolfiers. Their balloons were of linen fabric, varnished and lined with paper, to render them as nearly as possible air-tight. This set the philosophers of Paris thinking how they might construct a globe which could be successfully inflated with hydrogen. The brothers Roberts and M. Charles made the first hydrogen balloon. It was fashioned of very fine silk, varnished with a solution of gum elastic. This made it impossible for the hydrogen to leak through. The balloon was filled through an opening in the neck, which was fitted with a stopcock, so that the gas could be poured in or allowed to escape at will. The funds for constructing this first hydrogen balloon had been raised by popular subscription, and the whole French people were alive with enthusiasm over the success of the experiment. Even at that early day France was the ardent champion of aerial conquest. The day set for its ascension was the 27th of August, 1783. By the night of the 26th it had been partially filled with gas. It was tied to a cart, and long before daylight, started its journey to the Field of Mars. Throngs of spectators crowded every avenue. From the roof tops thousands of eager men, women and children peered down upon it through the darkness. Every window in every building was crowded with faces. A strong military guard surrounded it, riding on horseback and carrying flaring torches. All day long multitudes crowded and jostled each other impatiently at the point where the ascension was to take place. At five o'clock in the afternoon the sudden booming of artillery fire gave notice to the hundred thousand waiting that the great event was on. Released from its bonds the balloon shot up, and in two minutes it was over 3,000 feet above the heads of the watchers. Still it continued steadily to rise, until finally it was lost to sight by the heavy storm clouds through which it had cut its passage. [Illustration: MONTGOLFIER EXPERIMENT AT VERSAILLES, 1783] [Illustration: THE FIRST CROSS-CHANNEL TRIP] The spectators were overjoyed, as on that first occasion when the Montgolfier balloon rose into the skies. It was pouring rain, but they did not seem to notice it as they cheered themselves hoarse at the second great air victory. The balloon, likewise, was undiscouraged by the rain. Far above the clouds, where all was quiet sunshine, it journeyed peacefully along for fifteen miles, and descended in an open field. The first two important chapters in the history of ballooning had now been written. Looking back, we are filled with gratitude to the French, whose courage, intelligence, and boundless enthusiasm made possible the conquest of the skies. In other countries, of course, experiments were also in progress, though they lacked to a great extent the popular backing which helped the French efforts to bear such splendid results. In London, an Italian, Count Zambeccari, constructed a hydrogen balloon of oil silk, 10 feet in diameter and _gilded_, so that in the air it was dazzling to look upon. A few months after the three Frenchmen launched their hydrogen balloon in Paris, this gorgeous affair was sent up in London, in the presence of thousands of spectators. One month later still, the city of Philadelphia witnessed the first ascension of a hydrogen balloon in the New World. It carried a carpenter, one James Wilcox, as passenger. "What is the use of a balloon, anyway?" Benjamin Franklin was asked when in Paris at the time of the Montgolfier experiments. "What is the use of a baby?" the great American replied, smiling. Perhaps he had some inkling of the remarkable future in store for the science of aeronautics, then in its infancy! The first really notable ascent in a hydrogen balloon after the early efforts was that of a Frenchman, M. Blanchard, who rose from Paris in 1784, accompanied by a Benedictine monk. Before they had got far above the ground a slight accident brought the balloon bumping down again. The monk, thoroughly scared, abandoned his seat, and M. Blanchard ascended alone. This balloon was fitted out with wings and a rudder, by which it was hoped to steer its course, but they proved useless, and its occupant had to allow himself to drift with the wind. He reached a height of 9600 feet, remaining in the air an hour and a quarter. Suffering from the extreme cold which is experienced so high in the atmosphere, and almost overcome with numbness and drowsiness, he was at length compelled to descend. In England at about this time, Vincent Lunardi accomplished a free ascent in the presence of the Prince of Wales. But again it was the Frenchman, M. Blanchard, who succeeded in making the first _long_ balloon voyage. In January, 1785, he and Dr. Jeffries, an American physician, sailed across the English Channel from Dover. It was a perilous adventure, with the ever present danger of falling into the sea. Half way across they found themselves descending. Then began a constant throwing out of ballast in a race with time and the wind. When the bags of sand they had brought for the purpose were exhausted they hurled overboard bottles, boxes, pieces of rope, even their compass and the apparatus of the balloon. They were still falling when in the distance they caught sight of the dim outline of the French coast, and in a last effort to keep afloat they began dropping articles of clothing over the basket's edge. Suddenly, however, the balloon began to mount. They floated in over the land, coming to earth safely not far from Calais. Pilâtre de Rozier at once set about to imitate M. Blanchard's feat, and to avoid the danger of falling he constructed a hydrogen balloon with a fire balloon below it, so that by heaping on fuel he could force it to rise whenever he noticed a tendency to fall. In this ingenious contrivance he attempted to fly the Channel. At a height of 3,000 feet both balloons were seen to burst into flames, and de Rozier fell. So the gallant Frenchman who was first to explore the skies came to his unfortunate end. His death cast a gloom over the many aeronautic enthusiasts of France, England and America. But his splendid pioneer exploits had borne their fruit in a permanent and growing interest in the navigation of the air. The science of aeronautics marched on, and new and important schemes were invented for conquering the skies. CHAPTER II "A B C'S" OF A BALLOON Why does a balloon rise in the atmosphere?--is the very natural question we are apt to ask as we read the story of these early balloon experiments. The Montgolfier brothers themselves could probably not have answered it, for they claimed that some marvelous secret properties existed in "Montgolfier smoke." Stephen Montgolfier seems to have had the idea of "holding a cloud captive in a bag," since he had observed that clouds rise in the air. The real explanation can best be understood by a simple experiment. Throw a stone into a pool of water and it will sink, because it is "heavier than water": that is, it weighs more in proportion to its volume than the same quantity of water weighs. But throw into the same pool a piece of cork and it will rise, because it is lighter in proportion to its volume than water. This truth was long ago expressed as a law by the old Greek philosopher Archimedes, who said: "_Every body immersed in a liquid loses part of its weight, or is acted upon by an upward force equal to the weight of the liquid it displaces._" In the case of the cork, the weight of the water it displaces is greater than the weight of the cork, and consequently the upward force acting upon it is sufficient to lift it to the surface of the pool; but with the stone it is different: the water it displaces weighs _less_ than the stone, and therefore the upward force acting upon it is not sufficient to prevent it from sinking. Now all this applies just as well to a body in the atmosphere as it does to the body immersed in water. The air in this case corresponds to the liquid. Therefore any object placed in the air which weighs less in proportion to its volume than the atmosphere, is bound to rise. Every object we see about us, including ourselves, which is not fastened down to earth, would, if it were not "heavier than air," go flying off toward the skies. Imagine a balloon all ready to be inflated, that is, ready to be filled with gas. The bag or "envelope" hangs limp and lifeless. Together with the basket, ropes, etc., which are attached to it, it probably weighs several hundred pounds, yet because its _volume_ is so small it displaces very little air. Now we commence to inflate the balloon. As the gas rushes in, the envelope commences to swell; it grows larger and larger, displacing a greater volume of air every moment. When fully inflated it displaces a volume of air much greater in weight than itself. This weight of displaced air acts upon it with a resistless upward force, sufficient to lift it into the clouds. The moment its straining bonds are loosed, it rises with great velocity. Of course, the lighter the gas that is used to inflate the balloon, the less weight will be added by it to the total weight of the structure,--although a lighter gas adds just as much to the volume as a heavier one would do. If two balloons of exactly the same weight before inflation are filled, one with the comparatively heavy coal gas which weighs 1/2 oz. per cubic foot, and the other with the very light hydrogen, which weighs 1/10 oz. per cubic foot, it is easy to see that the hydrogen-filled balloon will rise much faster and have a greater lifting power. It is a simple matter to calculate what size balloon will be required to lift one, two or three passengers and a given weight of cargo, for we know that the balloon envelope must be large enough when filled with gas, to displace a greater weight of air than its own weight, together with the weight of the basket, equipment, passengers and cargo. Once a balloon has been inflated and begun to ascend it would, if unchecked, continue rising indefinitely until it reached a point in the greatly rarefied upper air where it was exactly displacing its own weight, or, as science puts it, was "in equilibrium with the air." But this is usually not desirable, and so in all modern balloons arrangement is made for lessening the volume of the envelope and so decreasing the upward pressure. This is managed from the basket by pulling a cord which connects with a valve at the top and thus allows some of the gas to escape. There is also a valve in the neck of the balloon which opens automatically when the pressure becomes too great, or which can be operated by a cord. In addition to these two, balloons to-day have what is known as a "_ripping panel_," or long slit closed over with a sort of patch or strip of the envelope material. In case it becomes necessary to make a quick descent, the ripping panel may be torn open by pulling the cord which connects with this ripping strip. A wide rent is thus produced in the envelope and the gas escapes very rapidly. As the balloon becomes deflated (that is, loses its gas), it grows smaller, displaces less and less air, and so sinks to the earth. [Illustration: DIAGRAM SHOWING THE MAIN FEATURES OF THE SPHERICAL BALLOON] The accompanying diagram gives a very good idea of the main features of the spherical balloon. The envelope is usually made of strong cotton diagonal cloth, cut in pear shaped gores and varnished with a solution of rubber in order to prevent the gas from leaking through. At the bottom it ends in the long _neck_,--through this the balloon is inflated by joining it securely to a gas pipe which leads to the main supply of gas. Over the envelope there is spread a strong _net_ made of heavy cord. From the net hang the stout _leading lines_. The leading lines in turn are attached to a strong wooden _hoop_, and from this hoop the car is suspended by ropes which are called _car lines_. The cords that connect with the upper and lower valves and the ripping panel hang down into the car and may be operated by the occupants, or crew. Unless the balloon is held captive it is supplied also with a _trail rope_. This is a very heavy cable which is allowed to hang down from the car during an ascent. When descending, as the trail rope reaches the ground the balloon is relieved of a portion of its weight and becomes more buoyant. This makes its descent more gradual, for as it is relieved of one pound of weight of the dragging trail rope, it gains a slight tendency to rise again which counteracts the severity of its downward motion. The free balloon also has a _grapnel_ or anchor for use in landing. The _car_ or _basket_ of the balloon is usually made of woven willow and bamboo, which insures strength and lightness. This brief description of the spherical balloon is intended to give the reader an idea of the essential features of any balloon. In modern warfare the captive balloon has proved its usefulness for purposes of observation, but the old spherical type is passing out. Balloons of many shapes and sizes, all designed for greater stability, are taking its place. Among these the "kite" or "sausage" balloon is by far the best known. Partly a kite and partly a balloon, with its long sausage-shaped body, its air-rudder or small steering ballonet attached to its stern, it possesses considerable "steadiness" in the air. The kite balloon is used over the trenches to direct artillery fire and to report movements of the enemy: and it is likewise used over the sea, as a guide to direct the movements of the fleet in an attack, and as a sentinel on the look-out for enemy ships or submarines. CHAPTER III EARLY BALLOON ADVENTURES No sooner had the news of the remarkable balloon exploits of de Rozier and Blanchard spread throughout the nations, than people of all classes became interested in the future of ballooning. There were those who regarded it as the great coming sport, and there were also those who, like the French military authorities, saw in this new invention a possible weapon of war whose development they dared not neglect. It was only a short time before the French had an army training school for aeronauts, and a number of military service balloons. The romance of ballooning had captured the imaginations of great masses of people and they proved their eagerness to back up the efforts of sportsmen balloonists with the necessary funds to carry on the many aeronautic projects which were suggested. We have already mentioned Chevalier Vincent Lunardi, the young Italian who was the first to accomplish a voyage in a balloon in England. The English people had read with ever increasing curiosity and impatience the stories of the French balloonists. What was their delight when this young Italian, poor but clever, proposed to give them an exhibition of their own. He had little difficulty in obtaining permission for a start to be made from London. The next step was to obtain funds by popular subscription for the construction of the balloon. For a time money flowed freely into the coffers; but a Frenchman named Moret came into the limelight as a rival of Lunardi and announced a balloon ascent some little time before that planned by his opponent. The demonstration promised by Moret never came off, his balloon refused utterly to take to the air, and the indignant spectators went home, feeling that they had been cleverly hoodwinked out of the price of admission. Their wrath naturally turned upon the unfortunate Lunardi, and it was only with difficulty and after much discouragement that he actually succeeded in carrying his undertaking to completion. Finally, however, he had his balloon built. The King had withdrawn his permission for a flight from the grounds of the Chelsea hospital, but he succeeded in securing another starting place, and announced that he was ready to demonstrate what the balloon could do. Vast crowds gathered to witness the spectacle. The balloon itself was gorgeous to behold. It looked like a mammoth Christmas-tree ball, of shining silk, in brilliant stripes of red and blue. It was filled with hydrogen gas, and as it gradually took form before their eyes, the people shouted with excitement and eagerness. It was a pleasant September afternoon in the year 1784. When all was in readiness, Lunardi, no less eager and excited than the masses who had gathered to witness his exploit, climbed into the car. The cords were loosed and in a few moments the balloon, in its gala dress, was soaring far in the sky. Lunardi enjoyed his flight immensely. After traveling along without a mishap for a considerable time, he decided to come down, but once he had touched the earth he was seized by the desire to soar again. Putting out some of his ballast he allowed the balloon to arise once more into the sky. Finally in the late afternoon he came to earth for the second time, landing in a field and greatly terrifying the simple country folk who were at work there. He was cold and hungry after his long journey in the rarefied upper air, but happy at the remarkable triumph he had achieved. Henceforth ballooning would not be regarded with derision and unbelief in England. The English nation was as wild with joy as the French had been at the early balloon ascents. Lunardi was lionized and became the favorite of the hour; his presence was demanded everywhere and he was royally entertained by the foremost people of the realm. The British Isles became, from this time on, the scene of many a thrilling adventure with the balloon. It was only a few years later that Charles Green, the most famous of all the early English aeronauts, began his voyages in the _Great Nassau_, the balloon whose name is even to-day a tradition. In it he started out, one fall day in the year 1836, carrying provisions for a long voyage, but with no idea where the winds would carry him. The great balloon passed out over the British Channel and in again over the coast of France. Day faded into twilight and twilight into the blackness of night, but still it continued steadily on its way. Through the darkness Green and the friends who accompanied him in the large car of the balloon peered anxiously over the side, trying to guess where they were being blown. Finally after an all night ride, the dawn began to break, and in the morning the great balloon was brought to earth on German territory. Green had accomplished the longest balloon trip of his day. In the years that followed he made many voyages, but none that won for him more renown than this one. Since the days when Blanchard accomplished the first trip across the British Channel, and the fearless de Rozier sought to imitate him, a number of aeronauts had made interesting voyages between France and England. One of the most adventurous was that of Mr. C. F. Pollock, in July, 1899. Accompanied by a friend, Mr. Pollock ascended early one afternoon, and after a picturesque and beautiful trip across the English countryside, sailed out over the sea. Behind them rose the white cliffs of the English coast, while before them gathering clouds hung like a curtain, through which they peered anxiously. Suddenly the balloon began to fall, and, fearful lest they should land in the rough waters of the channel, they began throwing overboard the sand which they had carried along as ballast. By means of this they succeeded in rising once more to a height of seven or eight thousand feet. It was early evening. Far below the sea had ceased to roar. They floated along in a realm of silence where nothing was visible through the veil of mist. At length the veil was broken by the dim outline of the French coast. On and on they drifted yet seemed to draw no closer to it. There it remained, always ahead of them, tantalizing and provoking. Their ballast was almost gone, and they had unpleasant visions of landing in the water within view of their goal. So calmly and evenly did the balloon move forward that it was practically impossible for its occupants to tell whether it was moving at all. As they peered ahead uncertainly, searching the sea for a vessel by which they might gauge their progress, they felt themselves once more commencing to sink. In another few minutes the rest of the sand had been thrown overboard. There was nothing left with which to check the falling of the balloon, which surely and ominously continued. The French coast was still many miles away. Almost in despair the two aeronauts cast about them for something which could be hurled over the side to lighten the weight of the balloon. As a last measure they decided upon the anchor. In another moment they had tossed it into the sea. Relieved of so great a weight the balloon shot up with lightning speed. The coast was drawing closer, but after its first swift ascent the balloon commenced to sink again and the aeronauts almost gave up hope of actually reaching shore. But just about eight o'clock they discovered to their great relief that the cliffs that marked the coast were below them. In another few minutes they had sailed in over the land. They opened the valve of the balloon and effected a descent in a field, where they were soon surrounded by an admiring circle of French peasants. It was only about ten years after the pioneer voyages of de Rozier that the balloon was actually used on the battlefield, for in 1794 the French employed it against the Austrians at Mayence and at Charleroi. Under the fire of the Austrians who sought to prevent him from ascending, the French Captain Coutelle rose in an observation balloon at Mayence to a height of over a thousand feet. At that height he was beyond the range of the Austrian guns and could sit at ease watching their movements and preparations, at the same time dropping communications to the officers below. By his pluck he made possible a French victory, although the Austrians, much chagrined at their own lack of observation balloons, declared that this sort of warfare was unfair. It may surprise Americans to know that balloons were used to good purpose for observation work in our own Civil War, and that they assisted the army of the North to keep an eye on the movements of Confederate troops around Richmond. They were once more employed by the French during the siege of Paris in 1870 and 1871, when 66 balloons left the city at various times, bearing messages, passengers, and flocks of carrier pigeons, which were used for delivering return messages. One plucky Frenchman dropped thousands of messages from his balloon upon the German soldiers, warning them of France's determination to fight to the bitter end. The incident reminds us somewhat of similar ones in the Great War, when the Allied aviators bombed the cities of Germany with proclamations. The first notable employment of the balloon by the British army occurred during the Boer War. During the siege of Ladysmith captive balloons were used to good purpose for observation and they were likewise made use of during a number of battles and under heavy fire. The French again employed them during the wars in Madagascar. Balloons had by the end of the nineteenth century become an important adjunct of every great army, and had proved themselves indispensable. Strange to relate they have never been driven from the field, and although we have to-day the swift dirigible and the still swifter airplane, there are certain military duties which they can perform best. While the balloon was thus becoming a recognized instrument of war it was likewise gaining in favor among sportsmen. In all the great nations Aero Clubs were formed and races and contests began to be announced. In 1906 Gordon Bennett made the offer of a Challenge Cup for the longest trip by balloon. The contestants were to start from Paris. On September 30th, 1906, sixteen balloons arose from the Tuileries Gardens and started on their way. An American, Lieutenant Frank P. Lahm, carried off the cup, accomplishing a total distance of 401 miles and landing in Yorkshire. The second race for the Gordon Bennett cup was held in America, and was won by a German. The third was held in 1908 in Germany. The winner, Colonel Schaeck, made a dangerous descent upon the sea near the coast of Norway, where he was rescued by a fishing boat. Several other contestants had perilous adventures. The American balloon _Conqueror_ exploded in mid-air, much to the excitement of the thousands of spectators who had gathered to witness the start of the race. Instead of crashing to earth, however, as they had expected, it sank down gently, the upper part of the envelope forming a parachute. The aeronauts made an amusing landing on a housetop, little the worse for their sudden drop of several thousand feet. Another American balloon landed in the branches of a tree, while several of the remaining contestants came down in the sea and were rescued. On the whole it was a thoroughly exciting race, and the news of it aroused intense enthusiasm for the sport of ballooning in many lands. CHAPTER IV THE PARACHUTE The story of the parachute is inevitably linked in memory with that of the balloon. Those who look back a few years can remember when exhibition balloons were in their heyday, and the sensation the parachutist used to create as he leapt from on high and came flying recklessly through the air. For a breathless moment or two the parachute remained folded, and when, finally, its umbrella-like form spread out protectingly above the hero, a thrill of relief ran through the anxious crowd of spectators. In the early days of ballooning the parachute was looked on as a sort of life belt the aeronaut might don in the event of a serious accident to his craft in mid-air. Many experimenters gave their attention to developing it for this purpose; but when it was found that the balloonist actually needed no protection, since the balloon itself would "parachute" to earth after an explosion, interest in the matter waned. To-day the parachute has come once more into prominence because of the heroic work it performed in connection with the kite balloon and with the airplane in the war, and so our concern in it has revived. Many stories reached us from the front, of artillery spotters who jumped to safety when their observation balloons were unexpectedly attacked by enemy airplanes. It has actually become the "life-belt of the air." More often in the early days of ballooning it was a source of grave danger to the plucky aeronaut who sought to try it out and improve it, and its history includes the record of several sad accidents. It was in the very year that the balloon was invented that a Frenchman, M. Le Normand began experimenting with a contrivance resembling an umbrella, with which he jumped from the branches of a tree, and sank gently to earth, the parachute saving him from injury. Successful as his first attempt was it seems that he afterward lost his nerve, and later attempts were made with animals placed in a basket below the parachute and dropped to earth from a considerable height. Blanchard, the famous balloonist, became interested in the idea of the parachute, and made a number of very interesting experiments. While making a public ascent in a balloon at Strasbourg, he dropped over the side of his balloon a dog with a parachute attached to him. The spectators were greatly pleased when the little creature came to earth quite unharmed, and public interest in the contrivance as a means of saving life was aroused. In 1793 Blanchard himself undertook to make a parachute descent. He was not wholly successful, for before he reached the earth the apparatus gave way and he crashed down heavily, fortunately escaping with nothing worse than a broken leg. In spite of his injury he did not give up the idea of the parachute as a "life belt" for the aeronaut, and looked forward to the time when it should be so improved that it could be relied upon to bring the aeronaut to earth uninjured if any accident should make it necessary for him to escape from his balloon in mid-air. However it was again a Frenchman, M. André Garnerin who accomplished the first descent by parachute from a great height without injury. His parachute was attached to a balloon. At a height of several thousand feet in the air, he freed himself and descended gradually, alighting gently upon the earth. That was in 1797 and five years later he gave a public demonstration of his parachute in England. This time he was not so successful, for his apparatus broke before he reached the ground and he received a number of injuries by his fall. The parachute actually saved a life, however, in 1808, when the aeronaut R. Jordarki Kuparanto, whose balloon caught fire in mid-air during a demonstration at Warsaw, leapt over the side with his parachute and came to earth unharmed. [Illustration: COCKING'S PARACHUTE] The parachute which Garnerin and the early aeronauts used in their experiments was fashioned to resemble an umbrella. As the aeronaut descended and the swift current of air caused by the fall rushed up under this canopy, it tended to hold it in the air much as the wind supports a kite, and thus the force of the descent was broken. In the year 1837 an Englishman named Cocking, who had been studying the principles of the parachute, came forward with an idea which differed greatly from this. The parachute he invented resembled an umbrella that had been blown inside out by the wind,--it was in other words an inverted cone, with a basket for the aeronaut hung from the cone's apex. The upper rim of the cone was made of tin to strengthen it, and the sides were of cloth. [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ A GERMAN ZEPPELIN] Cocking was very enthusiastic over his invention, for he believed that his inverted parachute would descend more smoothly through the air than the old kind, which, while it supported the aviator, had a tendency to rock and pitch in the air after the manner of a kite. He sought an opportunity of giving his idea a public trial, but experienced aeronauts advised him not to do so, as they did not trust the safety of his apparatus. However, he insisted, and he finally persuaded the famous aeronaut Green to take him up. On July 24th, 1837, the famous experiment was made. Green ascended in the great Nassau balloon, with Cocking's parachute suspended beneath it. Thousands of spectators had gathered to watch the ascent, but as the balloon was carried away by the breeze it was finally lost to their view, and so they were spared witnessing the accident which followed. Green had been greatly worried over the safety of the parachute and had refused to free it from his balloon, but this difficulty Cocking had overcome by arranging a contrivance which permitted him to free himself when he thought the proper moment had arrived for his experiment. Finally, at a height of about 5000 feet, he called good-by to Green and let himself go. Relieved of his weight the balloon bounded up with great swiftness, and it was some time before it recovered its equilibrium. Meanwhile the parachute fell earthward with tremendous speed, rocking from side to side, until finally, unable to stand the strain any longer it went to pieces in the air, and the unfortunate parachutist came crashing to the ground. He died a few moments later. Cocking's death cast a gloom over parachute enthusiasts, and for some time the contrivance fell into disfavor. But the real reason for its disuse was that balloonists found they needed no "life belt," as the balloon itself, if for any reason an explosion should occur, would sink gently to earth, the upper portion of the envelope forming a natural parachute. So for a number of years the parachute was little heard of, except as a "thriller" at country fairs. In this connection it was always fairly popular. It was usually a folding umbrella parachute that the performer used on such occasions. As he leapt from the balloon he dropped straight down during a few terrifying seconds. Then to the relief of the spectators the parachute slowly and gracefully opened like a huge canopy over his head. From that moment his fall was checked and he sank gracefully and slowly to the earth. With the coming of the Great War the day of the parachute was revived. Greatly improved in construction it came into its true and important rôle as the "life-belt" of the aeronaut. The life of the balloon observer in war times is a precarious one. His balloon is not free but is held captive by heavy cables reaching to the ground below. Hour after hour he sits watching the situation over the enemy's lines by means of a telescope. In the balloon basket he has a telephone which connects with the ground station, and thus he is able to send constant instructions to the artillery, enabling them to hit their objectives, as well as to keep the officers informed of the general situation. But his stationary position makes him an easy target for enemy bombs and bullets. At any moment he may find himself attacked by a squadron of airplanes. At the first indication of danger his comrades on the ground begin hauling his balloon down, and this precaution may possibly save his life. But often the emergency is very great. The aeronaut, attacked, unexpectedly and with no means of defending himself, has but one chance of saving his life, and that is to spring with his parachute from the balloon. Thus the parachute was instrumental in saving many lives during the Great War, and in peace times it will probably be further developed for use in connection with the airplane as well as the balloon. Here the great difficulty lies in the fact that the pilot is strapped in his seat, and that he would not have time, in case of an accident in mid-air, to unstrap himself and attach a parachute device to his body. This might be overcome by having an apparatus already attached, so that all he would have to do would be to free himself from his seat and leap over the side. Here again he would run a very great danger of being instantly killed, as unless he maneuvered his control levers just right before taking the leap, he would probably be hit by his own machine. The idea has been suggested of a parachute arrangement to be attached to the upper wing of the airplane itself. This parachute would remain closed except in case of accident, when a lever operated by the pilot would cause it to open and carry the airplane safely to the ground. But the plan has never been worked out and it is impossible to say at this early date whether it would prove of much real benefit. In cases of engine failure the aviator can very often glide down safely to the earth; while in wartime, there is always the possibility that if the wings of the airplane were damaged by enemy fire the parachute also might be impaired. An interesting use of the parachute was made by bombing airplanes and Zeppelins during the Great War. The pilots of these craft dropped flares or lights attached to parachutes, and by means of these they succeeded in locating their objectives and at the same time in "blinding" the operators of searchlights and anti-aircraft guns. Just what the future of the parachute will be it is hard to predict. If there are to be future wars it will no doubt play an important part in them in the saving of human life. The next few years will probably see the advent of huge aerial liners, built somewhat on the design of the Zeppelin. These great airships will travel in regular routes across the important countries of the world, bearing heavy cargoes of merchandise and large numbers of passengers. And we can easily imagine that in that day every traveler in the air will be supplied with a parachute as the ocean traveler of to-day is provided with a life-belt. Thus the simple little parachute will have performed its useful mission in the triumphal progress of aeronautics. CHAPTER V BALLOONING IN THE GREAT WAR If you went down New York Bay during wartime you probably saw at the entrance of the harbor a United States cruiser stationed, with a "kite" balloon attached to it, standing sentinel against enemy submarines or aircraft. From their positions high in the basket, the observers could see far below the surface of the water, for the higher one rises in the air the clearer the depths of the water become to the vision. They had powerful glasses and by means of them could see far out over the water, where at any moment a periscope might have shown its face. The observers in that sentinel balloon could spot a submarine while it was still a long way off. A telephone connection reaching from the basket to the ship below made it possible for them to report a danger instantly, and soon the news would be traveling by wireless to the waiting destroyers and chasers. This was probably the most important war duty that was being performed by a balloon on this side of the Atlantic. But over in Europe the kite balloon did valiant service above the trenches. The coming of the heavier-than-air machine, with its powerful motor, its bird-like body, its great speed and lifting power, seemed at first to have driven the balloon from the field as an implement of war. And in fact, in the early days of the World War the airplane was almost exclusively employed by the Allies for scouting over the lines, watching enemy movements, directing artillery fire, and keeping the general staff informed of the strategic situation. It was the Hun who first discovered that many of these duties could be far more efficiently performed by the "kite" or "sausage" balloon--the drachen balloon, as the Germans called it. This was not originally a German invention. It was first proposed in 1845 by an Englishman named Archibald Douglas, but his experiments did not meet with success and the undertaking was allowed to drop. Two Prussian officers, Major von Parseval and Captain von Sigsfeld, seizing upon the idea of the kite balloon as of great military importance, set themselves to developing it. In 1894 they produced the first drachen balloon, and it was this that gave the German army at the outbreak of the war one of its greatest advantages over the Allies. The chief requirement for any observation balloon is that it shall rest in the air absolutely steady and motionless, so that the observer may not be interrupted in his study of the enemy's territory. The spherical balloon is apt to sway and roll with every puff of wind. The "kite" balloon therefore is a great improvement. Long and sausage-shaped, it combines the features of a kite and a balloon. Set at an angle to the wind, it is supported partly by the gas with which the main envelope is inflated, and partly by the action of the breeze blowing against its under surface, exactly as a kite is held in the air. A smaller balloon, or steering ballonet, as it is called, is attached to the stern of the kite balloon and acts as a rudder. This ballonet is not inflated with the gas. It hangs limp while the balloon ascends, but the breeze quickly rushes into its open end beneath the main envelope and fills it out. This air-rudder, as it catches the breeze, acts as a steadier for the balloon. The main envelope has also an air chamber or section at the rear, which is partitioned off, and which is not filled with gas but is kept inflated by the action of the breeze; while on either side of the rudder there are two small rectangular sails, which help resist any motion of the breeze which might cause the balloon to sway. Before the war the other large powers had made no attempts to imitate the German "drachen," although they had every opportunity of observing and studying it, and it seems very likely they actually underestimated its military importance. But when the war began, Germany surprised the Allies by the efficiency of these observation posts in the air. The fact that they were captive gave them certain advantages over the airplane for particular lines of work. They were able to direct artillery fire and keep the general staff informed of the situation over the lines. High in the air these lookouts could spot the tiniest change in the map. Provided with the finest instruments for observing, and connected with the artillery station or the headquarters by telephone, they could send in momently reports of the progress of the battle. While the airplane was circling the sky to watch the effects of the last artillery fire, and had to get back to the ground before it could give full instructions to the gunners, the man in the basket of the kite balloon with a telephone in his hand, could report every second just where the last shell struck, whether the shooting was too high or too low, and how to vary the aim to get closer to the target. He was the eye of his battery. The story of how the French military authorities at Chalais Meudon succeeded in obtaining plans for the first French military kite balloon was one of the carefully guarded secrets of the war. In the spring of 1915 the manufacture of kite balloons was well under way in France. In record time whole battalions of them were ready for service on land and on sea. They played a gallant rôle in the Dardanelles in connection with the British fleet. Soon afterward they were employed over the trenches in France. The military kite balloon's first and chief aim is the directing of artillery fire. This it can do better than the airplane, which travels at high speed and must constantly circle or fly backward and forward in order to keep close to and be able to watch the target that is being aimed at. But the observer in the balloon basket sits practically motionless, while with the aid of a powerful telescope he watches the results of the firing. Before him he has a map on which he can plot the location of the target, and through a telephone connection he can advise the men in the ground station how to vary the range. Think how much easier it is for him to explain to the men below by word of mouth the results of his observations, than for the observer in an airplane, soaring through the sky, to send that same message in a few brief words by means of wireless. As a matter of fact the kite balloon at the front usually carries two observers in its basket: one to work directly with the artillery and the other to do general look-out work. The first has his eye on the target which the men below are trying to hit, and watches for the explosions of shells fired by his battery. But his comrade lets his gaze roam all over the horizon. He sees the movements of enemy troop trains, the massing of men and supplies, the flashes of the enemy's batteries. Should some objective of great importance loom up in the distance, such as a convoy of ammunition, the word is passed instantly to the battery below, and the guns are trained on it. [Illustration: INFLATING A SERVICE BALLOON ON THE FIELD] After the work in connection with the batteries, the second great rôle of the observation balloon is to keep the commanding officer at headquarters informed of the movements of the enemy, the effects of the firing and the general situation. The men in a balloon of this sort must know the territory very intimately, so that they can spot the tiniest change. It is their duty to discover concealed batteries and other objects behind the enemy's lines which may help the Divisional staff to lay its plans. And remember that they have no landmarks to go by. Out in that dread region of battle not a tree nor a mound has been left to vary the dull monotony of the brown earth, swept clean by the constant rain of shells. So it requires sharp eyes to distinguish the carefully camouflaged batteries of the enemy. [Illustration: ARMY BALLOON READY TO ASCEND] Of course the observation balloon at the front has to be carefully protected, for it furnishes a good target for the bombs from enemy aircraft. Every kite balloon has its detachment of defending airplanes, which circle round it in wide circles, on the lookout for approaching bombing planes of the enemy. Anti-aircraft guns also stand guard against the danger. Nevertheless the observer's life is a perilous one, the more so because he is a fixed target, unable to shift his position. A story is told of the heroism of Emile Dubonnet, the wealthy French sportsman, who was observing for the French "75's" near Berry-au-Bac when he was attacked by two German taubes. Appearing suddenly out of the clouds, they swooped down upon him, hovering over his balloon and dropping shells, which fortunately missed their aim. The taubes were so near to the balloon that the French were forced to stop firing lest they hit their own man. Coolly Dubonnet continued his observations of the enemy's territory, telephoning the results of their fire to the French batteries below him, until a couple of French planes arrived on the scene and drove the taubes back to their lines. So severe is the strain of constant scanning of the enemy's territory through high powered glasses that it was found necessary to draw the observation balloon down about every two hours in order to change observers. At dawn the first balloons were sent up. All day long, except for the brief intervals when observers were changed, they stood there in the sky. Often far into the night they continued to play their silent rôle in the great drama of war. Some of the observers in fact became so experienced that they were able to do almost as good work at night as by day. It is said that enemy guns so camouflaged that they are not visible by day not infrequently show up in the darkness. The kite balloon is connected with the earth by means of a strong steel cable, which winds onto an immense reel. To send the balloon up, the reel is turned and the cable is played out; when it is necessary to draw the balloon to earth once more, the cable is again wound about the reel. An electric motor is attached to the reel and turns it in one direction or the other. Through the center of the cable runs the telephone wire which connects the observer in the basket with the battery with which he works. The observer is equipped with a parachute for use in case of sudden danger. This parachute has straps like those of a man's suspenders which hold it to his back. When he springs from the balloon the parachute quickly opens and lands him gently and safely on the ground. The kite balloon itself has been greatly improved since it was first constructed by the Germans. One of its greatest disadvantages lay in the great drag upon the cable, which when the wind was very high caused such an excessive strain that it was dangerous to use the balloon. The German "drachen" was badly "streamlined," that is to say, its shape offered great resistance to the wind. This resistance was increased by the rush of air into the open mouth of the steering ballonet. An attempt to improve the design of the kite balloon was made by an American firm, the Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company of Akron, Ohio. They constructed a balloon which in general outline resembled the German "drachen," but which had not the steering ballonet or rudder at the stern. In its place they substituted large flat fins at the stern, and these, while they offered less resistance and thus reduced the strain or tug of the balloon upon its cable, did not hold the balloon absolutely steady in the air, as the steering ballonet had done. In order to give great steadiness the Goodyear people designed a tail like that of a kite, consisting of a number of very small inverted parachutes. These as they caught the breeze produced a resistance which steadied the balloon after the manner of the air rudder. The Goodyear kite balloon was not an unqualified success, and it remained for Captain Cacquot of the French army to produce the most satisfactory design. His was an almost perfect streamline model. Long and sausage-shaped like the German "drachen," it has, in place of the steering ballonet, three small ballonets at the stern which are in reality inflated fins. They are filled with air which is fed to them by a mouth or opening underneath the main envelope. These inflated fins, while acting as a rudder to hold the balloon steady in the air, do not offer the resistance that was caused by either the flat fins of the Goodyear model or the open-mouthed steering ballonet of the old type. Thus the French streamline balloon came to be the accepted model of the Allied nations, and proved itself an efficient arm of the service during the war. Ballooning in itself will probably never be the sport that it once was, for the coming of the swift motor-driven dirigible and the still swifter airplane has made the old wind-driven vessel a hopelessly obsolete contrivance. It is therefore all the more interesting to know that the captive balloon, developed to highest form of efficiency, gave good service in the war against Germany and made itself a reliable and valuable servant of our armies, accomplishing its mission in a particular field in which neither the airship nor the airplane was able to compete with it successfully. PART II CHAPTER I DEVELOPMENT OF THE DIRIGIBLE No sooner had the Montgolfiers and their colleagues constructed their earliest balloon models than scientific men and the general public, aroused by the possibilities of navigating the heavens, set themselves to devising schemes for steering aircraft. For of course the one great faculty which the balloon lacked was the ability to choose its own course. Once it arose into the air it was carried along in the direction and at the speed of whatever wind happened to be blowing. Interest in the problem waxed so hot that there was scarcely a banker, farmer or grocer of those early days who did not have his private theory concerning the steering of balloons. Many learned essays on the subject were written, and many foolish solutions were advanced, among them that of harnessing a flock of birds to the balloon, with reins for guiding them. But the idea every one thought most likely was that of oars, sails and a rudder. Now there are several very good reasons why this method, adapted from sailing vessels, is useless when it comes to a balloon. In the first place, no sooner has the balloon risen to its maximum height into the atmosphere than it is caught in an air-current and carried along at exactly the same rate of speed as that at which the air itself is moving. To the occupants it seems to be hanging motionless in a dead calm, where there is no breeze blowing. Since its motion and that of the surrounding air are exactly equal, there is of course no resisting pressure against a sail, which simply hangs dead and lifeless. To "row" in the air, on the other hand, would require oars of enormous size or else moving at a tremendous speed and a superhuman strength would be needed for moving them. Stop to think of the great velocity and power of the wind and then try to imagine the strength that would be necessary to row against this tide. These facts, however, did not occur to the early experimenters, and balloons equipped with sails and oars were actually constructed. In order that they might present less resistance to the air, they were made egg-shaped, or long and cylindrical, sometimes with pointed ends, and this, at least, was an advance. Another step in the right direction was the suggestion of paddle wheels, projecting from each side of the car, and beating the air as they revolved. This was coming very close to the correct solution, that of a revolving propeller. But unfortunately at this early date the mechanical sciences were in their infancy, and although soon afterward the idea of a screw propeller did come up, the inventors were handicapped by the fact they knew of no other power than "hand-power" with which to drive it. The man who might almost be called the father of the modern dirigible balloon was the French General Meusnier, an officer in the army and a man of great scientific and technical skill. Meusnier just proposed that air-bags or ballonets as they are now called be placed inside the balloon proper. By pumping air into these the balloon envelope could be filled out again when it had become partly deflated by loss of gas, for one of the great problems was to maintain the _shape_ of the balloon after a quantity of gas had escaped. This was a good idea, but unfortunately its first public trial almost resulted in a tragedy. One Duke de Chartres ordered a balloon of this sort to be built for him by the brothers Robert, Parisian mechanics. Accompanied by the Roberts themselves and another man he ascended in it in July, 1784. The balloon was fish-shaped and was equipped with oars and a rudder. No sooner had it started on its upward journey than it was caught in a violent swirl of air which tore away the oars. The opening in the neck of the balloon became closed over by the air bag inside, and there was no outlet for the gas, which expanded as the balloon rose. Undoubtedly a terrific explosion would have occurred, but the Duke, with great presence of mind, drew his sword and cut a slash ten feet long in the balloon envelope. He saved his own life and that of his comrades. The gas, escaping through the rent, allowed the balloon to settle slowly to earth, without injury to its occupants. But the spectators did not understand the emergency, and the Duke was covered with ridicule for his supposed cowardice. The idea of the air-bags, however, was a useful one, and in later experiments worked well. Meusnier gave a great deal of earnest study and experiment to the dirigible balloon, and he originated a design which was far ahead of his day. He decided on an elliptical or "egg" shape for the envelope, with small air bags inside it, and he suggested using a boat shaped car, which would offer less resistance to the air than the old round basket. The car was attached to the balloon by an absolutely rigid connection, so that it could not swing backward as the balloon drove ahead. Halfway between the car and the envelope he placed three propellers, and these, for want of any form of motor, were driven by hand pulleys. Meusnier's design for a dirigible was the cleverest and most practical of its day, but owing to the cost, it was never actually carried out. In 1793, General Meusnier was killed at Mayence, fighting against the Prussians. After his death, little was heard of the dirigible balloon for another fifty years. Except perhaps for the novelty balloons at the country fair, the science of aeronautics slept. The next appearance of the dirigible in history was in 1852, when the work of the Frenchman Giffard attracted widespread attention. In 1851, Giffard had constructed a small steam engine, of about three horsepower, and weighing only 100 pounds. He thought it could be used for driving a balloon, and with the aid of a couple of friends he set to work building an airship, which was somewhat the shape of a cigar, pointed at the ends. It was 144 feet long and 40 feet in diameter at its thickest part, and it held 88,000 cubic feet of gas. Over the envelope was spread a net from which a heavy pole was suspended by ropes. At the end of this pole, or keel, as Giffard called it, was a triangular sail which acted as a rudder. Twenty feet below the pole hung the car, in which was the steam motor and propeller. With this new means of driving the propeller, the dirigible began to show signs of proving a success, although as yet it could not develop any very great speed. One reason was that the engine was too heavy in proportion to the power it generated. Giffard's airship under the most favorable conditions could only go at from four to five miles an hour, when there was no wind. One of the problems Giffard had to solve was that of preventing an explosion of the gas escaping through the neck of the balloon, as it came in contact with the heat of the engine. To avoid this, he placed a piece of wire gauze, similar to that used in safety lanterns, in front of the stokehole and the smoke of the furnace was allowed to escape through a chimney at one corner of the car, pointing downwards. Giffard's second airship, of somewhat different design, was destroyed by an accident on its very first trip. He at once began working on a design for a giant airship, which was to be 1,970 feet long, and 98 feet in diameter at the middle. The motor was to weigh 30 tons, and he estimated that the airship would fly at 40 miles an hour. He worked out the scheme in every detail, but owing to the expense the dirigible was never made. The first "military dirigible" ever built was that constructed by Dupuy de Lôme for the French government during the siege of Paris, and tried out in 1872. Its propeller was driven by a crew of eight men, a very curious proceeding, since the steam engine had been successfully tried. A dirigible which was almost modern in design was meanwhile being constructed by Paul Haenlein in Germany, and made its appearance in 1872. It was long and cylindrical, with pointed ends, the car placed close to the balloon envelope, to give a very rigid connection. Its really noteworthy feature was the gas engine, replacing the steam engine that Giffard had used as a means of driving the propeller. The gas for the engine was taken from the balloon itself and the loss was made good by pumping air into the air-bags. The balloon envelope held 85,000 cubic feet of gas, and of this the engine consumed 250 cubic feet an hour. This dirigible, on trial trips, attained a very fair speed, which would have been greater had hydrogen gas been used in the envelope instead of ordinary gas. But lack of funds prevented further experiment, and Haenlein had to abandon his attempts. Ten years now passed before the next notable effort at dirigible construction. The delay was probably due to the fact that no suitable driving power was yet known. In 1882 the famous French aeronauts Gaston and Albert Tissandier constructed an airship somewhat similar to Giffard's models, but containing an electric motor. But although this dirigible cost £2,000 or almost $10,000 to build, it had the same fault as all that preceded it; it could not develop speed. The problem of finding an engine of sufficiently light weight and high power was a difficult one, which has not to-day been wholly solved. The public generally had begun to think of the dirigible balloon as impractical and impossible, when in 1884 came the startling news that two French officers, named Renard and Krebs, had performed some remarkable feats in a balloon of their own design. An electric motor of 8-1/2 horsepower drove the propeller. Several details of this dirigible are extremely interesting. The axis on which the propeller blades were fixed could be lifted in order to prevent them from being injured in case of a sudden drop. A trail rope was also used so as to break the shock which might result from a sudden fall. At the back between the car and the balloon was fixed the rudder, of unusual design, consisting of two four-sided pyramids with their bases placed together. Renard and Krebs christened their dirigible "La France," and on August 9, 1884, they gave it its first public tryout near Chalais, with great success. They traveled some distance against the wind, turned and came back covering a distance of about 5 miles in 23 minutes. Never before had a balloon been able to make a trip and return to the place of its ascension. But in spite of the success of Renard and his comrade, construction of dirigibles in France paused for sometime, and it was in Germany that the next attempts were made. In 1880, a cigar-shaped dirigible, equipped with a benzine motor was demonstrated in Leipsic. It had been built the year before by Baumgarten and Wölfert. At its sides it had "wings" or sails and three cars were suspended from it instead of one. This airship met with a serious accident on its very first trip. A passenger in one of the cars destroyed the balance, the whole thing toppled over and crashed to the earth, the occupants miraculously escaping injury. Not long afterward Baumgarten died. Wölfert constructed a new dirigible of his own design containing a benzine motor in which he ascended from the Tempelhofer Feld, near Berlin, in June, 1897. Wölfert had neglected to provide against contact of the gas escaping from the envelope with the heated fumes from the engine. An explosion took place in mid-air, and the machine fell to earth in a mass of flames, killing Wölfert and the other occupant. [Illustration: GIFFARD'S AIRSHIP] Next in the long series of attempts came that of an Austrian named David Schwartz, who designed a dirigible with one entirely new feature: a rigid aluminum envelope. This balloon had a petrol engine. It was tried out in Berlin in 1897, but an accident to the propellers brought it crashing to the ground. Its occupant jumped for his life and barely escaped killing. Up to this time there is little to record in dirigible history but a long series of valiant attempts and failures, punctuated all too frequently by grewsome disasters. But the nineteenth century was drawing to a close, the twentieth century with its era of mechanical triumphs was at hand, and the time was ripe for those champions of the dirigible to appear who should make it a potent factor in modern warfare. [Illustration: SANTOS-DUMONT ROUNDING THE EIFFEL TOWER] Almost at the same time there stepped into the limelight of public interest two men, representing Germany and France, whose names are now famous in the aeronautic world. In 1898 there appeared in Paris a young Brazilian named Santos-Dumont, who began constructing a series of dirigibles whose success astounded the authorities. In exactly the same year Count von Zeppelin, in Germany, formed a limited liability company for the purpose of raising funds for airship construction. His first dirigible balloon was the longest and biggest that had ever been built. Although the envelope was not, like Schwartz's dirigible, of solid aluminum, it was practically rigid, for it was made by stretching a linen and silk covering over an aluminum framework. Zeppelin's first airship had two cars, with a motor in each, giving about 30 horsepower. On its trial trips it made a better speed than had yet been attained. With the experience he had gained Zeppelin set to work on a new design. It was five years before he secured enough funds for its construction, but it was finally ready in 1905. The most important improvement was in the motors, which were as light in weight as those of the first dirigible but had a greatly increased power. As before, there were two cars, with an 80 horsepower motor in each. Even this airship, in spite of its greater speed, was not an unqualified success, for it was discovered that it had too great a lifting power, so that when launched it rose at once to a height of about 1500 feet, and was impossible to operate at a lower level. Santos-Dumont, meanwhile, in Paris, had been performing feats of aeronautics which had made him the acknowledged "hero of the air." Santos-Dumont was probably far from being the scientific student of balloon construction that Zeppelin was, but while his dirigibles did not attain a great speed or represent a tremendous advance in actual theory, his public performances served one great purpose, they aroused the ardor and enthusiasm of the whole French people and of many in other countries for the sport of ballooning. Santos-Dumont had great wealth, and a sportsman's courage. He constructed in all 14 dirigibles, each time seizing upon the experience he had gained and incorporating it into a new model, casting aside the old. Santos-Dumont's airships were altogether different from those of Zeppelin. While Zeppelin's had an inner framework to maintain the shape of the envelope, Santos-Dumont depended entirely on the linen air bags, placed inside the balloon, which as it became flabby through loss of gas, could be pumped full of air to hold the envelope in place. His balloons were either long and cylindrical with pointed ends, "cigar-shaped," or else "egg-shaped," with ends rounded. In spite of all the curious accidents that beset this young Brazilian on his early trips, in the vicinity of Paris, he was never once deterred from his efforts. He almost lost his life several times in his first airship, but he profited by the mistakes of construction in building the second. His dirigibles increased in size as he installed in each successive model a more powerful and consequently heavier motor, requiring greater lifting power. In his third balloon Santos-Dumont ascended from the Champ de Mars in Paris and circled the Eiffel Tower amid the cheers of thousands of onlookers, finally descending in an open field outside Paris. Public interest was now thoroughly aroused. A prize of £4,000 was offered by Monsieur Deutsch to the aeronaut who could circle the Eiffel Tower and return to the starting-point at Saint Cloud within half an hour. Santos-Dumont attempted this with his 4th and 5th machines, but it was not until he built his 6th model that he finally accomplished it. The Brazilian government sent him a gold medal and an additional £5,000 with which to build new balloons. Number 9 was the most popular of all Santos-Dumont's machines. He became the idol of the French public, whom he was always surprising with his spectacular and unlooked-for adventures. During the races at Longchamps he descended on the race course, stayed to view the performance, then mounted in his car and rode away. He amazed the passersby by alighting before his own front door in Paris where he left his airship while he went and ate breakfast. He sailed up opposite the grandstand when President Loubet was reviewing the French troops, fired a salute, and as unexpectedly departed. Santos-Dumont's power of escape from death seems almost uncanny but it was due to his coolness in facing any situation. In the majority of his airships he used a petroleum motor, and with this there is considerable danger of the petroleum in the reservoir catching fire. On one occasion a fire did start, but he succeeded in extinguishing it with his panama hat. Among all his mishaps, including that of falling into the Mediterranean Sea, he never really had a serious explosion. Another young Brazilian, however, named Severo, was killed in a dirigible of his own construction, when the petroleum in the engine caught fire. He ascended in May, 1902, in a balloon which he called the _Pax_. His car was seen suddenly to burst in flames, a violent explosion followed, and the whole thing crashed to earth. Santos-Dumont placed his last three dirigibles at the disposal of the French military authorities. Actually he had not developed a type suitable for military use. But his public performances had aroused intense popular interest and had succeeded in opening the eyes of the French authorities to the possibilities of the airship in time of war. His remarkable aerial feats had attracted the attention in particular of two Frenchmen of his own fine metal and courage, who from this time forth left no stone unturned to excel him in his achievements. CHAPTER II FORERUNNERS OF THE ALLIED DIRIGIBLES It is to the two French brothers Lebaudy that France and the Allies owe the credit for the development of the big military dirigible such as is used in the present War. These brothers were wealthy and full of enthusiasm for aeronautics. From a distance they had watched the achievements of Santos-Dumont and they determined to expend every possible effort to excel him in the construction of dirigibles. In 1899 they commissioned an experienced engineer named Jouillot to make a study of the problem, to discover if possible why previous experimenters had failed to produce a model of satisfactory speed and power, and to draw up designs for an airship which should correct the faults of those already known. It took two years before a finger could be lifted toward the actual building, but finally in 1901 the work of constructing the first Lebaudy airship commenced. It was ready for a tryout in November, 1902. The envelope was of bright yellow calico: it was cigar-shaped, 187 feet long and 32 feet in diameter. The envelope was fastened at the bottom to a rigid floor-work of steel tubing and from this the car was suspended. The dirigible was fitted with a 40 horse power benzine motor; and its total weight, including a supply of benzine, water and ballast, was two and one-half tons. During the next year this dirigible made at least 30 trips, at very fair speed. Meanwhile the builders were studying it in every detail, working out ideas for improvements and drawing up plans for their next model. In 1904 they built their second airship. It was somewhat longer than the first and about the same shape, but the pointed end at the rear had been rounded off. Calico was again used for the covering of the envelope, and it was made absolutely air-tight by coating it inside and out with rubber. Besides the main valve there were safety valves in the envelope for allowing the gas to escape when the pressure became too great. The envelope was also provided with two small windows, so that the inside of the balloon could be easily inspected. It had sails to give it greater stability, and two movable sail-like rudders, placed together at a V-shaped angle. The driver could alter the position of the sails and the rudder according to the wind. The car of this Lebaudy airship was boat-shaped with a flat bottom. To diminish the shock in case of a fall steel tubing was placed in a slanting position beneath it in a pyramid arrangement, the point facing downwards. The car was set very close to the envelope or body of the airship, and carried the 40 horse power benzine engine. At the front of the car was an electrically worked camera, a 1,000,000 candle power acetylene projector providing lighting by night. Many improvements were later added to this second dirigible which was christened the _Lebaudy_. The interest of the French Minister of War was aroused and he appointed a commission from the Balloon Corps to follow the progress of the experiments. Every one now began to look upon the dirigible as a factor to be reckoned with in the event of a war. The Lebaudy brothers offered their airship to the French government, and after it had accomplished a series of tests to prove its value as an instrument of war, it was accepted, and became a model for later airship construction. Germany was not far behind, for already Count von Zeppelin's second airship had proved itself a success, and plans were being laid for a third. From this time on the two European nations destined to become powerful adversaries in the World War, though working along somewhat different lines, kept almost neck and neck in their struggle for air supremacy. The French military balloon department began at once the work of constructing an airfleet with the _Lebaudy_ as a model and with the engineer Jouillot as chief adviser, this work went forward with great rapidity. The _Lebaudy_ was followed in design pretty closely, but a few changes were made which experience had suggested. For one thing the balloon envelope was rounded at the front and pointed at the rear, exactly the reverse of the Lebaudy model, as this arrangement was thought to offer less resistance to the air. It had an internal air-bag or ballonet whose capacity was one-fifth that of the envelope. This ballonet was of course empty on the ascent. It was calculated that the balloon could reach a height of about a mile. To descend, gas would then be allowed to escape, and, in order to keep the envelope fully inflated, air would be pumped into the ballonet. This first type of dirigible actually constructed by the French army was called the _Patrie_. It was 197 feet long and carried a benzine motor of from 30 to 40 horse power, which drove the two double-bladed steel propellers. As in the case of the _Lebaudy_, the _Patrie_ was protected from injury by a strong steel framework, coming to a point below the car. In case of a sudden drop, this point would strike the ground first and ward off the blow from the car, and the propellers. Good as this plan _seemed_, it did not always work. The _Patrie_, after many successful journeys, met with an accident to her motor, escaped her guard of soldiers and drifted off alone. She crossed the English Channel and fell in Ireland, breaking off her propeller. Before she could be captured she rose again into the air, drifted out over the sea and was never again heard from. M. Deutsch, who had done so much to encourage the efforts of Santos-Dumont, stepped forward in the emergency and offered the French government his airship the _Ville de Paris_. This had been designed for him by an engineer named Tatin. It was 200 feet long, made of German Continental Rubber Fabric, and, like the _Patrie_, had an internal air-bag of one-fifth its capacity. In one important respect it was different from those that preceded it. At its stern it had eight small cylinders, or ballonets, filled with gas, which added greatly to its stability, though they detracted from its speed by causing a considerable resistance to the air. While the car of the _Patrie_ was about 16 feet long, this new airship had a car measuring 115 feet, and the propeller was at the _front_, so that as it revolved it _drew_ rather than _pushed_ the car through the air. A propeller of this sort is termed a "tractor," and figures to-day in many models of aircraft. During these years of experiment in France, England and America had looked on in comparative idleness. In 1902 England did indeed possess one small airship, designed by Colonel Templer of the Army Balloon Department, and christened the _Nulli Secundus_ (_Second to None_). She was "sausage shaped:" rounded at the front and pointed at the stern with a peculiar rudder design. Her car was boat-shaped and her propellers were aluminum, both revolving in the same direction, which gave her a curious tendency to "somersault." In spite of their "baby" dirigible's rather pretentious title, the military authorities, and the English public in general, evidently took slight store in the infant prodigy, for from 1902 to 1908, she only came out of her shed for a few short trips. In 1908 she was completely remodelled, and emerged for a trial trip. But neither the government nor the public seemed interested in Colonel Templer's schemes. The valiant little pioneer ship of England's airfleet went back to her sheds, resigning herself to obscurity. Our own country, which in many other lines has led the world in its mechanical skill and enterprise, did not have a single army dirigible till as late as 1908, when it gave out a contract for an airship which was built by Captain Thomas S. Baldwin. The motor was designed and built by a young mechanic in Hammondsport, N. Y., who for several years had been manufacturing motors for automobiles. His name was Glenn Curtiss and he afterward became one of the world's most famous aviators. United States Army Dirigible No. 1 was long and cylindrical, pointed at both ends, and covered with Japanese silk, vulcanized with rubber. The water-cooled Curtiss motor was a 20 horse power, and the wooden propeller was of the "tractor" type, placed in the front of the car. Germany, while America and England stood idle, had been rapidly forging ahead. By 1908 Count von Zeppelin had constructed his third and fourth models, and his public demonstrations had aroused the whole German people to unbounded enthusiasm. The Crown Prince made a trip in Zeppelin No. 3 and its originator was decorated with the Order of the Black Eagle. The German Association for an Aerial Fleet was formed, and within a short time over a million dollars had been contributed by the people for the purpose of building dirigibles. Zeppelin No. 4 was destroyed by an accident, but Zeppelin No. 3 was recalled into the national service and in 1909 given the official title of _S.M.S. Zeppelin I_. From this time on dirigible construction in Germany went forward with the greatest speed. Two other names became prominent in the enterprise: those of Major von Parseval and Major von Gross. The "Parseval" design resembled more the French, for it was covered with "Continental fabric," was long and cylindrical, rounded at the front and pointed at the stern, with a large internal air ballonet. The car was suspended from two steel cables or trolleys, which it could slide along, altering its position and the "balance" of the whole airship. The "Gross" type of airship resembled the _Lebaudy_ and the _Patrie_, with its boat-shaped car hung from a steel platform attached to the bottom of the envelope. Out of this brief story of the development of the early airship models of all the nations, we can, if we look carefully, see certain definite types of dirigibles emerging. The experimenters had to solve this problem: What shall we do when owing to loss of gas the balloon envelope begins to get flabby? For of course a flabby, partially filled envelope would flop from side to side, destroying the balance of the airship and checking its speed. [Illustration: BALDWIN U. S. "DIRIGIBLE NO. 1"] The German inventors settled the problem by making the envelope _rigid_, either with a solid covering or with a covering of fabric stretched over an inner framework. Thus the _rigid type_ of airship was evolved. The French inventors solved the same problem by placing inside the envelope a large _empty_ bag of fabric, into which air could be pumped when necessary to fill the balloon out and hold the envelope firm. The air could not be pumped directly into the envelope itself as it would produce an explosive mixture with the gas already there. From this method of dealing with difficulty, the _non-rigid_ type of dirigible was evolved. [Illustration: THE BRITISH ARMY "BABY" DIRIGIBLE] But the _non-rigid_ dirigible presented a new difficulty: how could the car be suspended from it in such a way that it would not swing? For only with a rigid connection between the car and the envelope could the greatest speed be obtained. The _Lebaudy_ solved this problem by attaching to the base of the envelope a rigid steel flooring, from which the car could then be suspended by an immovable connection. And so was evolved the _semi-rigid_ type of airship. In recent years another solution of this problem of preventing the car from swinging has been employed to some extent: By making the car almost as long as the envelope, the connecting cables by which the car is suspended hang almost perpendicular, and there is not the same tendency to swerve as with cables slanting down to a comparatively small car. This type of airship is called the _demi-semi-rigid_. These then are the four general classes of dirigibles which were used in the Great War. CHAPTER III DIRIGIBLES IN THE WORLD WAR When in August, 1914, the sinister black cloud of a world war appeared on the horizon, only the Hun was prepared for the life and death struggle in the air. His formidable fleet of super-Zeppelins had not their match in the world, and his program of airship construction was being pushed forward with the utmost speed and efficiency. France had the largest fleet of dirigibles among the Allied nations. They were of the semi-rigid type, of only medium size and slow speed. They could not hope to compete on equal terms with the swift and powerful German airships. Great Britain was far worse off than France, for her airship fleet practically did not exist. The army had only two large modern dirigibles and a few very small vessels like the old _Nulli Secundus_, of little practical value. The navy had no airships at all. Italy had a few good medium sized vessels, and four large dirigibles were in process of building. Russia, too, had several airships purchased from the other countries, of various makes and types, but she lacked experienced aeronauts with which to operate them. Both France and England had already made extensive plans for the building of dirigibles, but few of the ships ordered were near to completion in 1914. Only the Prussian was ready for hostilities; his airships gave him a great strategic advantage. By means of them he gained information about the movements of Allied troops and munitions; directed his artillery, bombed Allied positions, and went his way, for the most part unchallenged. His naval airships were likewise a terrible menace. One of them, in the early part of the war, received an iron cross for its work in connection with a German submarine, in an attack on three British cruisers. Every one knows of Germany's record in the bombing of cities and towns by means of Zeppelins. In the first days of the war the Allies had no anti-aircraft guns and very few airplanes with which to protect themselves, and so Germany went unmolested while she waged her war against defenseless civilians, women and children. The spirit of the Allies, however, could not be daunted. England put her few small dirigibles on duty over the English Channel, where they served as patrols against submarines. For this work airships are very effective, since it is a curious fact that from their height in the atmosphere it is possible to see far below the surface of the water. So during the first tragic weeks, when France and Belgium were pouring out their life-blood to check the onward sweep of the Hun, these tiny aircraft stood guard over the Channel across which the "contemptible little army" of Britain was being hurried on transports to meet the invader. Like the contemptible little army itself they proved a factor to be reckoned with. Such aerial scouts now form a large arm of the British, French and American navies. Soon after the war began they were constructed in large numbers to serve as patrols against submarines. In the language of the air, these little dirigibles are known as _Blimps_. The _Blimp_ was first developed for use in the war by the British Naval Air Service, but the United States soon saw its advantage as a means of patroling and guarding our harbors and coastline, and so she set to work to manufacture this type of dirigible in large numbers. To-day it is the chief dirigible of our aerial fleet. In some important ways it has the advantage over the airplane in combating the submarine. For the airplane can only remain in the air while it keeps going at high speed. Just as soon as its engines are stopped it commences to descend. But the dirigible can sail out over the harbor, shut off its power and remain motionless in the air for hours, while its observer keeps a constant lookout for enemy undersea craft. When speed is necessary its powerful motor makes it a fast flying craft, sometimes considerably faster than the airplane. For the airplane must often travel against the wind, while the dirigible simply rises until it reaches a current of air moving in the desired direction, when it has the combined power of the wind and its engine to drive it forward. [Illustration: CROSS SECTION OF THE GAS-BAG OF THE _ASTRA-TORRES_, SHOWING METHOD OF CAR SUSPENSION] The U. S. A. _Blimp_ is about 160 feet long, rounded in front and tapering to a pointed stern. Its stability and balance are increased by five "fins" at its stern; and it has also four rudders. The car, which is exactly like the ordinary airplane body, has two seats, for pilot and observer, suspended directly from the base of the envelope by wire cables. The _Blimp_ carries a 100 horse power Curtiss aviation motor, and is equipped with wireless for exchanging messages. The French have a small airship very much like the _Blimp_ which they use for scout duty. It is called the _Zodiac_, and before the war was designed as a private pleasure car. Because of the fact that it could be easily packed and transported from place to place it was drafted into the service early in the war. Naturally, if an airship has to be kept inflated when not in use it is a constant target for the enemy's gunfire; and a small dirigible which can be packed up in an hour when not needed and readily inflated when the call for action comes is a very much safer proposition. There are several sizes and slightly different shapes of the _Zodiac_, but the shape of the envelope in all of them is very similar to the _Blimp_, tapering toward the stern with fins to give stability. A large sail-like rudder is set beneath the stern of the ship. Probably the most interesting thing about the _Zodiac_ is the car which in most models has a very long wooden framework. This framework, or girder, by its length distributes the weight along the whole length of the envelope. The car, in which the pilot and observer sit, is set in this girder. [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ THE "BLIMP," C-1, THE LARGEST DIRIGIBLE OF THE AMERICAN NAVY] Nothing is more interesting to note in modern airships than the simplification of the method of car suspension. In the early airships the car was hung from the envelope by a large number of cables, which either connected with a network that fitted over the envelope, or else, in a semi-rigid dirigible, to the platform or keel at the base of the balloon. Now of course all these cables offered a great resistance to the air and were an enemy to speed. Just as the question of speed affected the shape of the envelope, until to-day we have the streamline balloon, tapering to the rear, and just as it made the question of a rigid or non-rigid envelope so important, it likewise finally did away with complicated connections between the envelope and the car. [Illustration: _Copyright International Film Service, Inc._ THE BALLOON OF THE U. S. S. OKLAHOMA] From the point of view of car suspension one of the most interesting of the modern French airships is the _Astra-Torres_. This is a dirigible of the non-rigid type. Canvas partitions are stretched across the interior of the envelope in such a manner as to form a triangle, its apex facing downwards. The sides of this triangle are strengthened by cables and from its apex hang the cables which support the car. The air resistance produced by the cables is therefore very slight, since only two lines are exposed. Among the aerial war fleets of the Allied nations, the French offers by far the greatest field for study, since it possesses many different types of dirigibles. The _Astra_ and the _Astra-Torres_ are perhaps the chief representatives of the non-rigid design, and are generally considered the most successful of the French airships. The _Astra_ is the older model, and, like the _Zodiac_, has the long wooden framework or car girder, hung directly to the base of the envelope and distributing to all parts of it the weight of the car. It can be recognized by this and by its stabilizers or small inflated gas bags around the stern of the envelope. The _Astra_ is of medium size, varying in length from 199 to 275 feet. The _Astra-Torres_ is very much longer, those of the 1914 type measuring 457 feet from nose to stern. From the exterior, this airship has a peculiar three-lobed appearance. It tapers very slightly to the stern and is pointed at both ends, but it has not the _Astra's_ inflated stabilizers. Another French airship of non-rigid design is the _Clement-Bayard_. It is similar in design and in size to the _Astra_, but without the inflated stabilizers. Rounded slightly at the nose, the envelope tapers to a sharp-pointed stern. The _Lebaudy_ is the chief example of a French semi-rigid airship. The envelope is long and cylindrical, pointed at the nose and rounded at the stern, where it is fitted with stabilizing "fins." The base of the envelope is fitted to a long keel, which ends at the rear in a rudder and fins. From this keel the car is suspended by strong cables, and beneath the car extends a conical structure of steel tubes, with points falling downward. These serve as a protection in case of a sudden landing. In front of the car and on each side of the keel are planes similar to those of an airplane, which help to give balance to the ship. Among airships of the Allies, the French _Speiss_ furnishes an example of the purely rigid design. Constructed on the plan of the German Zeppelin, its envelope has an inner wooden framework which holds it in place. The _Speiss_ is a large dirigible, measuring about 450 feet. It carries two cars, and in each is a two-hundred horse power motor, giving it great speed. PART III CHAPTER I EARLY EXPERIMENTS WITH HEAVIER-THAN-AIR MACHINES For many centuries before the ascension of the first Montgolfier balloon, which, as we have seen, marked the beginning of aerial flight, men had dreamed of a different method of conquering the skies,--in fact, the very natural one suggested by the flight of birds. To build artificial wings was the ambition of many an old-time scientist. Yet practicable as the idea seemed, its working out was, as a matter of fact, beset with difficulties. The Montgolfier balloon rose in the air because it was _lighter_ than air,--just as a piece of cork rises in water because it weighs less in proportion to its volume than the water. But a man equipped with wings is a fairly heavy object; where is the force that is to lift him and carry him soaring into the sky? Unfortunately the early experimenters in aeronautics were not men who had had the long training in keen observation nor the groundwork of mechanical knowledge which would have fitted them for their task of devising a flying machine. They were dreamers and philosophers, often with very clever ideas about how man might succeed in flying. But the exact science of mechanics was yet unborn, and it was not until the nineteenth century, with its great advance in this direction, dawned, that the time was ripe for any measure of success. Still, in many old pictures and medieval manuscripts there are curious examples of the ideas of these old philosophers, designs which were never actually tried out, but which show the longing of men, even in those days, for the great adventure of sailing above the clouds. All these strange theories of the middle ages were hampered by the superstition that there was some "magic" connected with the power of birds to fly. Cameras were unheard of, or it would have been a simple matter to have recorded on paper the actual motions of the bird's wings in order to study their significance. The astounding ease with which these little winged creatures were able to float across the heavens was indeed baffling; it was difficult to determine just how it was accomplished. Any one who watches the flight of a seagull realizes that here is an accomplished aeronaut, able to balance himself with perfect ease in the atmosphere, to mount upward on flapping wings, or, taking advantage of a rising air current which can support him, to float motionless with wings extended. All this requires an unusual amount of skill, particularly in balancing. Drop a piece of paper and watch how it turns and tumbles at every angle before it reaches the floor. That is just what a bird or an airplane has a tendency to do, and it takes a perfect system of control and a skilled pilot indeed, to keep it right side up. The first idea, of course, for a heavier-than-air machine, was that of a pair of wings to be _attached directly to the human body_, and to be worked with the arms. As early as 1480 Leonardi da Vinci drew up a design for an apparatus of this sort. And the idea was not a bad one: it would have worked all very well had it not been for one small fact which the philosophers overlooked, that man is not provided with the powerful shoulder muscles such as the bird possesses for moving his wings. Altogether, it was not until the nineteenth century that any real progress toward flight in a heavier-than-air machine was made. It came when experimenters began to investigate the definite laws of air resistance and air pressure which control the action of a bird just as they do the action of a kite. As a matter of fact, a bird, or an airplane, is nothing more than a complicated kite, controlled by an intelligence within itself, rather than by an operator standing on the ground and guiding it by means of a cord. [Illustration: Kite] Every one knows that a kite, if placed at an angle to the wind, will be carried upward. The reason for this can be seen from a very simple diagram. The pressure of the wind would, if unhindered, push the kite into a horizontal position. But the string prevents the angle of the kite from altering, and since the pressure on its lower surface is greater than that on its upper, it naturally rises. This is just what happens when the bird sets his wings at such an angle to the wind that he is lifted into the sky. It is also the principle which governs the airplane or glider, whose planes are kept at a definite angle to the air current. The bird can of course readjust the angle of his wings when he has risen high enough, or when he meets a current of air moving in a different direction, and in the same way the elevating plane of a modern airplane can be lifted or deflected at the will of the flyer, to produce an upward or a downward motion. The first man to study seriously the effects of air pressure on plane surfaces was an Englishman named Sir George Cayley, who in 1810 drew up plans for a flying machine somewhat resembling the modern monoplane. In 1866 Wenham patented a machine which involved an ingenious idea, that of several parallel planes ranged above each other, instead of the single surface, as of the bird's wing. Wenham believed that the upward pressure of the wind, acting on all these surfaces would give a far greater lifting power, as well as a greatly increased stability, for the machine could not be so easily overturned. Here was the principle of the modern biplane and triplane in its infancy. Yet the idea of strict "bird-form" was more appealing to the imagination, and the experimenters who came after Wenham did not adopt his suggestions. The man who may truly be said to have given the airplane its first real start in life, was a German named Otto Lilienthal. His figure is a very picturesque one in the long story of the conquest of the air. Lilienthal was a very busy engineer, but from boyhood he had had a consuming interest in the problems of flight, and as he traveled about Germany on his business undertakings he cast about in his mind incessantly for some plan of wings which would support the human body and carry it up into the air. He finally began a very systematic study of the wings of birds with the result that he made some unusual and important discoveries. While the men who had preceded him had attempted only flat wings in their plans for flying machines, Lilienthal decided that the wings should be arched, like those of a bird, heavier in front, with an abrupt downward dip to the front edge, and then sloping away gradually to the rear where their weight was comparatively slight. When still quite a young man he began building kites with planes curved in this manner. To his surprise and joy he found that they rose very rapidly when set to the breeze. They even seemed to move forward slightly in the air, as though they had a tendency to fly. Like a bird resting on a current of air with wings motionless, these little toy wings were carried along gracefully on the breeze. Lilienthal was jubilant. A man equipped with wings like these, he said to himself, would have no difficulty at all in flying. Lilienthal was not a rich man and it was many years before his opportunity to test his ideas with a real flying machine came. When by hard toil at his profession he had accumulated a comfortable fortune, he turned at last to his beloved study. He had often watched the baby birds in their efforts to fly, and he knew it would be a long time before he attained any skill with wings, but he was absolutely confident that with much practise and perseverance he could actually learn to fly like the birds. So he constructed for himself a pair of bird wings, arched exactly like those which he had studied. They were arranged with a circular strip of wood between them for his body. Here he hung, with his arms outstretched on each side, so that he could operate the wings. The difficulties Lilienthal had looked for he experienced in large measure. It was no easy thing to attempt to fly in this crude apparatus, but day after day he went out upon the road, turned to face the breeze as he had seen the baby birds do, ran swiftly a short distance, and then inclined the wings upward so that they might catch the current of air. For a long time he was unsuccessful, but imagine his joy when he actually did one day feel himself lifted off his feet, carried forward a few feet and set down. It was scarcely more than a tiny jump, but Lilienthal knew he had commenced to fly. From that time on his efforts were ceaseless. He succeeded in being lifted a number of feet off the ground and carried for some distance. But try as he would he could not get high in the air. He realized that what he lacked was any form of motive power, and for want of a better, determined to make use of the force of gravity to start him through the air at greater speed. Accordingly he had built for him a hill with a smooth incline, and from the top of this he jumped in his flying machine. The wings he had first constructed he had since improved on, adding two tail planes at the rear which gave greater stability and decreased the tendency to turn over in the air. As he sprang from the hilltop in this curious apparatus, he turned the wings upward slightly to catch the breeze, which supported him exactly as if he had been a kite while he glided out gracefully and finally came gently to earth. This spectacle of a man gliding through the air attracted large crowds. People assembled from far and wide to behold the flying man, and his achievements were greeted with wild cheering. On his huge winged glider he floated calmly over the heads of the astounded multitude, often landing far behind them in the fields. In the difficult matter of balancing himself in mid-air he became exceedingly skilful. Every slight gust of wind had a tendency to overturn him, but Lilienthal constantly shifted the weight of his body in such a manner as to balance himself. As he gained confidence he began practising in stronger winds. His great longing was to soar like a bird up into the sky, and so when he felt a rising air current, he inclined his wings slightly upward to take advantage of it. Often he did rise far above the hilltop from which he had sprung, but he never succeeded in actually flying like a bird. His glider had not the motive power to drive it against the breeze with sufficient velocity to send it up into the air, and his wings were but crude imitations of the wonderful mechanism on which the bird soars into the sky. Undaunted by his failure he set to work on a double set of wings, very similar to a modern biplane. He thought these would have greater lifting power, but when he came to try them he found them exceedingly unwieldy and hard to control. For where the biplane has an intricate control system, Lilienthal relied entirely upon his own body to operate his glider. Lilienthal became more and more reckless in his gliding efforts, and in 1896, while gliding in a strong wind, he lost control of his winged contrivance and came crashing to the earth from a great height. When the horrified spectators rushed to the spot, they found the fearless pioneer flier dead beneath the wreck of his machine. What Lilienthal had done for the cause of aviation, however, would be hard to estimate. He had drawn the attention of thinking people the world over to his experiments. He had pointed the way to the real solution of the problem of flying: that of studying and imitating the birds; and he had discovered the form of plane which on airplanes to-day is well known to give the greatest lifting power: that of an arched surface, deeply curved in front and sloping gradually back to its rear edge where its thickness is very slight. Moreover, his attempts at flight had presented a challenge to engineers and scientists--a challenge which was quickly to bear fruit. An Englishman named Percy S. Pilcher had followed the work of Lilienthal with the deepest interest, and he now determined to begin a series of experiments on his own account. Like Lilienthal he realized that it would be useless to attempt a motor driven airplane until the principles of glider construction were fully understood. A glider is simply an airplane without an engine, and Lilienthal succeeded in giving it a certain motive power by starting from a high point, so that the force of gravity could draw him forward and downward. Pilcher adopted an even more original scheme for making his glider "go." He treated it exactly as if it had been a huge kite, fastening a rope to it and having it pulled swiftly by a team of horses, until it had gained sufficient momentum to carry it up in the air. The moment it began to rise, Pilcher, who hung between the two large wings much as Lilienthal had done, detached himself from the rope and went soaring into the air like a kite, attempting to balance himself and prevent his glider from overturning. But he had not the experience that long and careful practise had given to Lilienthal, and before he had made very many flights in his glider, he fell and met his death. In 1896 an Australian, Hargrave, experimented with kites in order to discover a glider form which possessed both lifting power and stability. He was the originator of the familiar "box-kite," which flies so steadily even in a strong breeze. Hargrave connected four very large kites of this sort by a cable, swung a rope seat beneath them and succeeded in making ascents without fear of accident. Chanute, a Frenchman, now devised a biplane glider with which he succeeded in making brief flights of a few seconds. The way was now paved for the coming of two great pioneers in the history of aviation. Wilbur and Orville Wright were owners of a small bicycle shop in Dayton, Ohio. They were men with an innate mechanical skill and with the same dogged persistence and indifference to physical hardships which might have brought success to Lilienthal if he had had the time to devote to his experiments. The Wright brothers had read with fascination accounts of the gliding efforts of Lilienthal. They determined to set to work to solve the problem of human flight. For two years they read and studied everything that had been written upon the subject, and then finally they felt ready to make a trial of a glider of their own construction. They had made up their minds that Chanute's idea of the biplane was most practicable, and so the machine which they built was not strictly bird form, but had two long planes extending horizontally and parallel to each other, attached by wooden supports. The operator or flier lay face downward in the center of the lower plane. Their glider was too large to be operated with the arms as Lilienthal's had been, and so they had to devise some new method for controlling and balancing it in the air. This they managed by the use of small auxiliary planes, which were operated by levers and ropes. In front of the two large planes was a small horizontal plane which could be raised or lowered. When raised to catch the wind it gave the glider an upward motion which carried it into the air, bringing the large planes to an angle with the wind where they could continue the climbing process. One of the great difficulties of the early gliders was their tendency to turn over sidewise. Lilienthal counteracted this whenever he felt one side of his glider falling by shifting his weight toward the highest wing and thus pulling it down. This crude method was impossible in the Wright biplane. The brothers set themselves to seeking a solution from the balancing methods of birds, and right here they made a discovery which was of the greatest importance to the progress of the airplane. The bird when he feels one of his wings falling below the level of the other, simply droops the rear portion of the wing which is lowest, forming a cup or curve at the back which catches the air as it rushes under. This increased pressure of air forces the wing up again until in a second the bird has regained his balance. Imitating this method, the Wright brothers constructed the planes of their glider in such a manner that a cord fastened to the rear sections of each plane could be pulled to draw the rear edge downward. If the left side of their machine became lower than the right it was a simple matter to pull down the left halves of the rear edges of the two planes, and so catch the air currents which would force that side upward. This ingenious scheme of obtaining sidewise or "lateral" balance is used in a modified form in airplanes to-day, and is known as "wing-warping." The brothers chose the coast of North Carolina as the best place for their first attempts to fly, for there the breezes were usually not too strong. After a good deal of difficulty they learned not only to glide, as Lilienthal had done, but also to soar some distance into the air. They had so far no means of turning around, but this was remedied by fastening at the rear of the two large planes a small vertical plane which could be moved from side to side and which served to turn the glider. There were three achievements in airplane construction which so far could be placed to the credit of the Wrights. One was the _elevating plane_ by means of which an upward or downward motion of the glider was obtained. The second was the ingenious _wing-warping device_, for securing stability. The third was the _rudder_, which enabled the pilot to turn around in mid-air. Not satisfied with what they had already accomplished, the brothers now turned their attention to constructing a motor suitable for use in a flying machine. This had to be exceedingly light and at the same time strong, and some means had to be discovered for converting its power into motion. The first engine they built was a four-cylinder petrol, and it was used to revolve two wooden propellers acting in opposite directions. The blades of these propellers as they churned the air, gave "thrust" to the airplane exactly as the propellers of a ship drive it through the water. In this new model airplane the flier no longer lay face downward as in the old glider, but sat on a bench between the planes, from which he controlled the action of the engine, the elevating plane, the rudder and the wing warping arrangement by means of levers and cords. It was in the memorable year of 1903 that this first real airplane was flown by the Wrights. They continued to work steadily upon the problems of design and construction, and after many trials in the next two years, they succeeded by 1905 in building an airplane which would actually fly a number of miles. They determined to offer their precious secret to some government, and decided on France, which has always been the patron of aviation. But the French government, after an investigation did not accept their offer, and so, disappointed, but still dogged, they retired into silence for a period of several years. In 1908, when their inventions had been patented in every country, they began a series of public demonstrations of their remarkable machine, Orville in America and Wilbur in France. By that time, unfortunately, other pioneers had stepped forward to claim honors in the field which they first had explored, but the Wright biplane easily outstripped its contemporaries. Their wonderful demonstration flights made them heroes, acclaimed by millions, and their achievements aroused immediate and intense interest in aeronautics. CHAPTER II FIRST PRINCIPLES OF AN AIRPLANE It is almost humorous that man, who for centuries had nourished the secret ambition of acquiring wings, should have found his dream imperfectly realized in the twentieth century by riding in a kite. For that is all an airplane actually is. Yet a "kite" which is no longer tied to earth by a cord and which is equipped with a motor to drive it forward at a great speed has one decided advantage over the old-fashioned sort. The paper kite had to wait for a favorable breeze to catch it up and bear it aloft. We saw in the last chapter how the push of the air against the underneath side of the kite caused it to rise. If instead of the air current pushing against the kite, the kite had pushed against the air, exactly the same result would have been attained. A bird, flying in a dead calm, creates an upward pressure of air by his motion which is sufficient to support his weight. But the bird, as he flies forward against the air creates more resistance under the front portion of his body than under the rear, and this increased upward pressure would be sufficient to turn him over backward if his weight were not distributed more toward the front of his body, in order to counterbalance it. This fact can be easily illustrated with a piece of cardboard. Take a small oblong sheet of cardboard and mark a dot at its center. If the cardboard is of even thickness this dot will be the _center of its weight_. Now hold the cardboard very carefully in a horizontal position and allow it to drop. It should fall without turning over, for it is pressing down evenly on the air at all points. You might say it is creating an upward air pressure beneath it, which is evenly distributed. The _center_ of the supporting air pressure exactly coincides with the center of weight. If you have not held the cardboard in a precisely horizontal position this will not be true. The unequal air pressure will cause it to lose its balance and "upset." This is very much the sort of experiment that Lilienthal tried when he jumped from the top of a hill in his glider, and it is easy to imagine how much skill he must have required in balancing himself in order to prevent his crude contrivance from overturning. But now suppose that instead of dropping the piece of cardboard straight down, we give it a _forward push_ into the air. As the cardboard moves _forward_ it naturally creates more air resistance under the front than under the rear, and this unequal pressure will cause it to do a series of somersaults, before it reaches the floor. The same thing would happen to the bird or the airplane whose weight was evenly and equally distributed. Now since the air pressure is greater under the front of the cardboard, add a counterbalancing weight by dropping a little sealing wax at the center front. The dot that you made in the middle of the sheet is no longer its center of weight. The _center of weight_ has moved forward, and if it now corresponds to the _center of pressure_ the cardboard can be made to fly out and across the room without overturning. The whole problem of balancing a glider or an airplane is simply this one of making the center of weight coincide with the center of the supporting air pressure. Adding weight at the front of the glider is not the only way of doing this: perhaps the reader has already thought of another. Since the air pressure is caused by the weight of the cardboard and its forward motion, we could cut the sheet smaller at the front so as to lessen its air resistance there, or we could add a "tail" at the stern in order to create more air resistance at that end. Either of these plans would move the _center of pressure_ back until it corresponded with the _center of weight_, and so would complete the balance of our cardboard glider. In the bird's body all of these methods of obtaining balance are combined. His body and head taper to a point at the front in order to decrease the forward air resistance. The weight of his body is distributed more toward the front, thus counterbalancing any tendency to whirl over backward. His tail increases the stern resistance, thus helping to draw the center of pressure back to correspond to the center of weight. We begin to see some reasons why a man equipped with wings could never be taught to fly,--as well as how perfectly the form of the bird is planned to correspond to his mode of travel. No wonder the early experimenters with wings, finding themselves so utterly helpless and awkward, attributed the bird's ease and grace of carriage to "magic." [Illustration: DIAGRAM SHOWING THE ESSENTIAL PARTS OF AN AIRPLANE] The modern airplane is constructed with the most painstaking attention to this principle of _balance_. Next to it in importance is that of _wing construction_: that is, the size, shape and proper curve of the supporting planes. Here again the construction of the airplane follows very closely the general form of the bird. A large bird which flew very high would be found to have his wings arched high in front, where they would have considerable thickness, and sloping down very rapidly toward the rear, while their thickness rapidly diminished. This sort of wing has great lifting power, and it is the sort that is used on an airplane which is built to "climb" rather than to develop speed. As the arched wing cuts through the air it leaves above it a partial vacuum. Nature always tends to fill a vacuum, and so the airplane is drawn upward to fill this space. As the wings cut through the air a new vacuum is constantly created and so the airplane mounts higher and higher. The airplane is being carried upward by two forces: the air pressure beneath it and the vacuum above it which draws it up. The air pressure beneath it increases with the speed at which the airplane is traveling, and it has a tendency to press the wing into a more horizontal position, thus destroying its climbing properties. At the same time, when this happens, the thick front section of the wing presents a great "head resistance" which retards progress, and a very high speed becomes impossible. Wings of this type can never be used on an airplane which is intended to travel at high speed. They were used on the heavy bombing and battle planes of the Great War, for they are capable of lifting a very great weight. But on the scouting planes, where speed is essential, a totally different sort of surface was employed. Here the plane is very little arched and of almost even thickness, tapering only very slightly to the rear edge. It also tapers somewhat at the front, so as to lessen its "head resistance" as it cuts through the air. Such a surface creates little vacuum above it, and consequently has not a great lifting power. On the other hand it offers little "head resistance" and so permits a high speed. And right here it should be mentioned that a powerful motor does not in itself make a swift airplane, unless the wings are right,--for if the wings create a strong resistance _in front of the airplane_ they destroy speed as fast as the motor generates it. Remember that the lifting power of the airplane wing is made up of two factors. _First_, there is the resistance or the supporting air pressure created by the weight and speed of the wing; _second_, the arch of the wing creates a vacuum above it which tends to lift the airplane up. Now when for speed the arch is made very slight, the lifting power can still be increased by increasing the _area_ of the wing, thus adding to the upward pressure. Thus for certain war duties an airplane with very large, comparatively flat wings can develop both a very good lifting power and a very high speed. We have already mentioned the "head resistance" of the airplane wing. If the wing could strike the air in such a way as to sharply divide it into currents flowing above and below, there would be no head resistance. But the very arch of the wing in front gives it a certain amount of thickness where it strikes the air, so that instead of flowing above or below, a portion of the air is pushed along in front, retarding the progress of the airplane. This resistance is called by aviators the "drift." The best wing is the one which has the maximum lifting power with the minimum head resistance, or, to use technical language, the greatest "lift" in proportion to its "drift." Of course, not only the wing but all parts of the airplane offer resistance to the air. In order to reduce this total head resistance to the minimum, every effort is made to give the body or "fuselage" of the airplane a "streamline" form,--that is, a shape, such as that of a fish or a bird, which allows the air to separate and flow past it with little disturbance. For this purpose the fuselage of the airplane is usually somewhat rounded and tapering toward the ends, often "egg shaped" at the nose. The method of "wing warping" invented by the Wright brothers is still used on all modern airplanes to preserve lateral stability. The part of the wing which can be warped is called the _aileron_. There are two ailerons on every wing, one on each side at the rear, and they may be raised or drawn down by the action of a lever operated by the pilot. If the pilot feels that the left side of his machine is falling, he draws down the aileron on that side and raises the right hand aileron. The aileron which is lowered catches the air currents flowing beneath the wing on that side. At the same time the raised aileron on the right lessens the pressure under the wing on that side and so gives it a tendency to fall. In this way, in a fraction of a minute the wings are brought level again and lateral stability is restored. Whereas the old Wright biplane had an elevating plane in front of the main planes, most machines to-day have the elevating surfaces at the rear. By raising the "elevators" an upward motion is obtained, or by lowering them, a downward motion. [Illustration: WRIGHT STARTING WITH PASSENGER] Steering to right and left is accomplished by a rudder at the rear of the airplane body or "fuselage." This rudder may be turned to right or to left, working on a hinge. [Illustration: AN EARLY FARMAN MACHINE PRIOR TO START] CHAPTER III THE PIONEERS While the Wright brothers, lacking both funds and encouragement to continue their remarkable project, remained, from 1905 to 1908 in almost total obscurity--their wonderful flying machine packed away ignominiously in a barn,--in France a number of eager experimenters were working assiduously to outstrip them, and it was only by great good fortune that when Wilbur Wright arrived in France in 1908 he did not find himself beaten from the field. Actually the Wright machine was far in advance of the early French models, and although the French, with true spirit of sportsmanship, were quick to admit it when the fact was demonstrated, yet prior to 1908 they had no idea that such was the case, and were enthusiastically proud of their home-made models. Among the very first of the French pioneers of flight was that gallant little Brazilian, Santos-Dumont, whose exploits with the dirigible had done so much to popularize air sports. His name was a household word with the French, who literally lionized him. Impatient of the limited opportunities for adventure presented by the dirigible, Santos-Dumont cast about in his mind for some means of procuring a more agile steed on which to perform his aerial tricks. In 1904 he became deeply interested in the subject of gliding, and made up his mind to try a few gliding experiments of his own. Like everything else he had attempted his method of attacking this new problem was startlingly original. Lilienthal and the other gliders had all made their flights above the solid ground. Santos-Dumont liked the idea of rising from the water much better. He ordered built for him a glider of his own design for this particular purpose. On every clear day when the wind was favorable, the plucky little aeronaut was out, learning to use his new-found wings. His glider, which floated on the surface of the water, had to be towed swiftly for some distance by a boat in order to give it the initial speed which Lilienthal secured by taking advantage of the force of gravity in his downward jump from the hilltop. Once he felt his speed to be sufficient, Santos-Dumont gently inclined his wings upward to catch the air current. To the surprise of every one he was remarkably successful. He actually succeeded in soaring short distances, and after a series of efforts he acquired a fair amount of skill in the use of his glider apparatus. The next step was to attach some motive power to his flying machine. Before very long he had ready for trial a much more pretentious biplane glider, equipped with an 8 cylinder motor which drove a two-bladed aluminum propeller, and fitted with several original appliances to increase its soaring powers and its stability. In front was a curious arrangement resembling a box-kite, which was intended to fulfil the same purpose as the elevating plane which the Wright brothers placed in front of the two main planes of their machine. Santos-Dumont had experienced the same trouble as all the other gliders: the difficulty of keeping his machine in a horizontal position. The tiniest gust, blowing from one side or the other, was sufficient to cause it to lose its balance, and over it would topple sidewise. To overcome this obstacle the Wright brothers had adopted the ingenious method of wing-warping, imitated directly from the habits of birds. Santos-Dumont was not nearly of so scientific a turn of mind as the two great American pioneers. Without having gone so deeply into the subject, he determined to place upright planes between his main planes, to ward off gusts and increase the lateral stability. The idea was not a bad one, though far from being the best. In the summer of 1906 he flew with his glider successfully very short distances. In October of the same year he accomplished _a demonstration flight of 200 feet_ at Bagatelle, near Paris. At the present day when airplanes go soaring above our heads faster than express trains, making long, continuous cross-country flights, that journey of 200 feet seems humorous, but at the time it was the European record. It aroused a great deal of popular enthusiasm, for the French, with their vivid powers of imagination, were quick to see the possibilities in this new, heavier-than-air contrivance. At once the Brazilian set to work to outstrip this first achievement. This time his originality took an entirely new turn. Instead of the biplane type he decided on a monoplane, and he began laying out plans for a monoplane so tiny, yet so efficient, that it was destined to become famous. But it was several years before this miniature flier was ready, and so for a while the idol of the French public dropped almost completely out of sight. In the meantime others were up and doing in France. Henry Farman, who already had made his name famous in motor car racing, was the next to win popular acclaim for exploits in the air. Farman was known as a man of the most consummate daring, cool-headedness in emergency, and quick judgment. An Englishman by birth, he had resided all his life in France, where with his brother Maurice he had achieved an enviable reputation as a sportsman. Farman afterward designed and constructed airplanes of his own, but it was in one built by the Voisin brothers that he first took to the air. The Voisins were very ambitious indeed in their first airplane project. The machine which they built was both large and heavy, and possessed of many unscientific features. Like the Wrights' machine it had two large horizontal planes, in front of which was placed a small elevating plane, which could be inclined up or down to lift the airplane into the air or bring it to earth again. Unlike the Wright model it had a large "tail," or horizontal plane at the rear, intended to give it increased longitudinal stability. This feature represented an improvement. The Wrights had to keep their machine on the level by raising or lowering the front elevating plane in such a way as to counteract any pitching motion, but the tail of the Voisin biplane gave it a great deal more steadiness in the air. Fitted to the tail was a rudder, by which turning to right or left was accomplished. But the Voisin brothers had no wing-warping device on their large flier. Instead they used the upright curtains or planes between the main planes, which we have already seen on the machine designed by Santos-Dumont. Their airplane was equipped with an 8-cylinder motor, which turned a large propeller. In this large and unwieldy machine, weighing possibly 1400 pounds, Henry Farman made a short flight in a closed circuit in 1908. At the time it was the record flight in Europe, and the French people fondly imagined it was the best in the world. That same year Wilbur Wright arrived on French soil and showed them in a few astounding experiments what the Wright biplane could do. The successes of this tall, untalkative American, who had come over to France and with ease made the aerial adventures of Santos-Dumont and Farman seem like the first efforts of a baby learning to crawl, greatly as they surprised, and, perhaps, disappointed the French people, in the outcome had the result of spurring Frenchmen on to greater effort in the problem of airship design. Before the end of 1908 Henry Farman, in an improved Voisin, had wrested back the lost honors by flights which were longer than those made by Wilbur Wright. And other Frenchmen were hard at work. After building a number of machines and meeting with many accidents and failures, Blériot emerged in the summer of 1909 with a successful monoplane. At almost the same time the Antoinette monoplane made its appearance, and soon these two similar machines were pitted against each other in a famous contest. The London _Daily Mail_, with the intention of stimulating progress in aviation, put up a prize of £1000 for the first machine to fly the British Channel. In July, Blériot brought his monoplane to Calais; and Hubert Latham appeared as his antagonist, with an Antoinette machine. Both of the contestants were skilled pilots, and both were men of fearless daring. The feat which they were about to attempt required men with those qualities, for in these pioneer days of aviation it was not the easy task to fly the Channel which at first glance it might seem to be. Over the Channel the winds were almost always very severe, and they represented the greatest danger the airman had to face. The first airplanes had so small a factor of stability that it was almost impossible to fly them in even the gentlest breeze. The most intrepid aviators never once thought of attempting flight in unfavorable weather. To be overturned in crossing the Channel meant taking a big risk of death, and both Blériot and Latham realized that they were taking their lives in their hands in undertaking the trip. They had a long wait for calm weather, but on July 24th conditions seemed right for a start the next morning. Just at dawn Latham flew out across the sea and disappeared in the distance. Not very long behind him, Blériot, having tested with the utmost care every part of his little machine, climbed into the pilot's seat, and with a "Good-by" to the little group of mechanics and friends who stood about, sped away, hot on the trail. On and on flew Latham in his larger Antoinette monoplane, and the hope of victory began to loom big. Far out over the Channel however, his engine suddenly "went wrong," as engines in those days had a habit of doing, and the much feared thing happened: he began to fall. In a very few moments the plucky pilot was clinging to his airplane, as it floated for a few moments on the choppy sea. Before it could sink a vessel had hurried to the rescue, and Latham was hauled on board, disappointed, but safe. Blériot, meanwhile, was far from being sure of his course as he flew on steadily through the early morning haze. But his engine continued to run smoothly, and finally far ahead, the white cliffs of England began to emerge out of the distance. With joy in his heart the Frenchman flew proudly in over the land and brought his airplane to the earth in the vicinity of Dover Castle. He was greeted as a hero by the British and the glad message of his triumph was speeded back to Calais. Loth to be behindhand in airplane activities, America was also busily at work developing the heavier-than-air machine, and another famous name had by this time been added to that of the Wright brothers. By 1909 Glenn Curtiss with a group of distinguished co-experimenters had succeeded in constructing several very interesting flying machines. Curtiss' story is an interesting one. In 1900 he was the owner of a small bicycle shop in Hammondsport, New York. He had a mania for speed, having ridden in many cycling races, and it was he who first thought of attaching a motor to a bicycle for greater speed. He soon sprang into the limelight as a motorcyclist and a manufacturer of motorcycles. A small factory went up at Hammondsport, and achieved a reputation for the very good motors it turned out. Curtiss first became interested in flying through an order he received from Captain Thomas Scott Baldwin for a motor to be used in a dirigible balloon. He set to work on the problem of constructing a motor suitable for the purpose, and, as might be expected, he became fascinated with the possibilities of flight. Curtiss and Baldwin made some very interesting experiments with the dirigible. Then, in 1905, Curtiss made the acquaintance of Dr. Alexander Bell. The famous inventor of the telephone was engrossed in the study of gliding machines, and had been carrying on a series of experiments with kites by which he hoped to evolve a scientific airplane. To further these experiments he had called in as associates in the work two engineers, F. W. Baldwin, and J. A. D. McCurdy, while Lt. Thomas Selfridge of the U. S. Army was also greatly interested. Thus it came about that in the summer of 1907 this group of capable men formed what they were pleased to call the "Aerial Experiment Association," of which Curtiss was perhaps the moving spirit. The first machine built by the Association was christened the _Red Wing_, the second the _White Wing_; the third was called the _June Bug_, and it proved so successful a flier that on July 4th, 1908, it was awarded the _Scientific American_ trophy for a flight of one kilometer, or five-eighths of a mile. While, in France, Farman and the Voisin brothers, Latham and Blériot were pushing steadily along the rough road to aviation successes,--in America, the Wright brothers and Curtiss with his associates, were demonstrating to the public on this side of the water what flying machines could do. In fact, the airplane had definitely begun to assert its superiority as master of the air, and many eyes in all parts of the world were fixed on it and on the great future possibilities for which it stood. Everywhere, warm interest had been aroused, and, at least in France, the military importance of the heavier-than-air machine was coming to be realized. Now the time was ripe for the great public demonstration of the world's airplanes which took place at Rheims in August, 1909. The Rheims Meeting is probably the most memorable event in the history of aviation. It placed the work of a dozen or more earnest experimenters definitely in the limelight, and gave the chance for comparisons, for a summing up of knowledge on the subject of flight, and for a test of strength, which resulted in the mighty impetus to aerial progress which followed immediately afterward. Here at Rheims were gathered many famous flying men who already had made their names known throughout Europe and America. There were Farman, Latham, Paulhan, Blériot, Curtiss, and the three who flew Wright machines, the Comte de Lambert, Lefevre and Tissandier,--as well as many others, for there were thirty contestants in all. Many unusual feats delighted the spectators. Lefevre, a student of the Wrights, and up to that time unknown, amazed the assemblage by his wonderful aerial stunts. He circled gracefully in the air, making sharp, unexpected turns with the utmost skill, and winning round after round of applause. Curtiss and Blériot emerged as contestants for the speed prize over 10 kilometers, and after several breathless attempts in which records were made and broken, the honor was finally carried off by Blériot, who covered the distance of 10 kilometers (about 6-1/4 miles) in 7 minutes, 47.80 seconds. Curtiss replied by beating his famous opponent in the contest for the Gordon Bennett Cup, offered for the fastest flight over 20 kilometers; and Curtiss also was the winner of the 30 kilometer race. It was Farman, in a biplane of his own design, who surprised every one by his remarkable performance, and turned out to be the victor of the occasion. Flying for three hours without stopping, round the course, he covered 112 miles without the slightest difficulty, and was only forced to make a landing because of the rapidly approaching dusk. For his feat he was awarded the Grand Prize, and was hailed as the most successful of all the contestants. Finally Latham, in an Antoinette monoplane, proved he had the machine with the greatest climbing powers, and carried off the Altitude prize on the closing day of the meeting. Among those who looked on at the famous Rheims Meeting of 1909 there were none more keenly and intelligently interested than the representatives of the French military authorities. They had come for two reasons: to ascertain at first hand which were the best machines and to order them for the French Government; on the other hand, to encourage to the fullest extent possible all those men present who were earnestly working in the interests of aviation. France was ready and willing to spend money freely for this purpose, and the Rheims Meeting resulted in orders for machines of several makes. Some of these were regarded as having great possibilities from a military point of view; and others, though not looked on so favorably, were purchased as a sign of goodwill and support to future experiment. It was this far-seeing patronage which paved the way for France's later aerial triumphs, for it gave her a diversity of machines and a devoted coterie of workers all following original lines of experiment. Let us glance for a moment at the little group of machines which stood out by their merits most prominently at that Rheims Meeting of 1909, and which gave the greatest promise for the future. To-day they seem antiquated indeed, but for all their rather curious appearance they were the legitimate forefathers of our powerful modern airplanes. Among the biplanes, those especially worthy of note were the Farman, the Wright, and the Voisin; while the Blériot and Antoinette monoplanes gave a most excellent account of themselves. Farman, who had first learned to fly in a machine designed and built by the Voisin brothers, was far from satisfied with his sluggish, unmanageable steed and at once set to work on a design of his own. His one idea was to construct a biplane of light weight, speed and general efficiency. He did away with the box-kite tail of the Voisin model and substituted two horizontal tail planes with a vertical rudder fitted between them. Instead of the vertical planes or "curtains" between the main planes by which the Voisins attempted to preserve the lateral stability of their airplane, Farman adopted the "wing-warping" plan of the Wrights in a somewhat modified form. The Wright machine, it will be remembered, had wings whose rear portions were flexible, so that they could be drawn down at the will of the pilot. If the latter felt that the left side of his machine was falling he simply drew down or "warped" the rear edges of the wings on that side. The air rushing under the wing was blocked in its passage and the greater pressure thus created forced the wing upward on the left side until balance had been restored. Acting on this principle, Farman attached to the rear edges of the main planes at each side a flap, or as it is called to-day, an _aileron_, which worked on a hinge, so that it could be raised or lowered. Another novel feature of this first Farman biplane was its method of starting and landing. Below the planes had been placed two long wooden skids, and to these small, pneumatic tired wheels had been attached by means of strong rubber bands. In rising, the airplane ran along the ground on these wheels until it had acquired the momentum necessary to lift it into the air. When a descent was made, the force of contact with the ground sent the wheels flying upward on their flexible bands, and allowed the strong skids to absorb the shock. This underbody or _chassis_ was a distinct improvement on anything that had yet been devised, for it was light in weight and efficient. In one other important respect the Farman machine was superior to all those demonstrated at Rheims in 1909, and that was in its engine. Airplane engines up to this time had been nothing more or less than automobile engines built as light in weight as possible. But in France a new engine had made its appearance, designed especially for airplane needs. Hooted as a freak at the first, and rejected by experts as "impossible," it carried Farman round the course on his three hour flight without a hitch and made him the winner of the Grand Prize. This remarkable engine was the Gnome and the reason for its excellence lay in its unusual system of cooling. The overheating of his motor was a thorn in the flesh of many an early aviator. An engine which gave good service in an automobile would invariably overheat in an airplane because of the constant high speed at which it must run. Now motor car engines of whatever type, and whether water-cooled or air-cooled, had fixed cylinders and a revolving crankshaft. In the Gnome motor the cylinders revolved and the crankshaft was stationary. Flying through the air at tremendous speed they necessarily cooled themselves. This was the secret of the perfect running of the Farman biplane. Though Farman had been the first to recognize the merits of the Gnome and install it in his machine, he was not the last, for after the Rheims Meeting it rapidly became the favorite of practically all builders. Next to the Farman, the Wright machine was probably the best for all-around service of the many demonstrated at the great meeting. Its one greatest disadvantage was the fact that it had to be launched from a rail. It carried no wheels--merely skids for landing--and so to gain initial momentum it had to be placed on a small trolley which ran down a rail. Such a method of gaining speed was exceedingly complicated, and the question at once arises: What would the pilot do if forced to make a landing far from his starting point? Of course it would have been quite impossible for him to have risen into the air for a return trip, and his machine, though in perfect condition, would have to have been packed and carted back home. The Voisin biplane, though improved since Farman had piloted it in 1908, was still in 1909 an overly heavy, slow flying machine, more or less difficult to steer. It still had its "box-kite" tail and its upright curtains between the main planes. And it carried a rather weighty landing chassis built of hollow metal tubing, to which were attached pneumatic-tired bicycle wheels. Small wheels were also placed under the tail, to support it when running along the ground. The Blériot monoplane could have claimed the honors for _simplicity_. It had a body built up of light woodwork, over part of which fabric had been stretched. On either side of the body extended the two supporting planes, supported above and below by wires. In the front of the body was the engine and at the rear extremity a small stabilizing plane. At the ends of the stabilizing plane, on either side, were two small planes which could be moved up and down. They took the place of the front elevating plane employed on the other machines. Just behind the stabilizing plane was the vertical rudder, which turned to right or left. The wings of the Blériot had the Wright brothers' wing warping arrangement. The pilot sat just behind the engine, operating the controls. Larger in wing span and longer in body than the Blériot was the Antoinette monoplane. Like the Blériot it had its elevating planes at the rear, and carried its engine in the bow. Instead of the wing warping device it made use of movable flaps or _ailerons_ at the rear edges of the wings. Another idea had been incorporated in this machine for the purpose of maintaining lateral stability. Its wings, instead of extending in a horizontal position from the body were inclined slightly upward,--a plan which met with serious condemnation from the engineering experts. These five then, were the machines which claimed most attention in 1909, although many others,--as for instance the R. E. P. monoplane, built by M. Esnault-Pelterie, and the Breguet biplane--were flown at the famous meeting. The Rheims event had been hugely successful, and the news of the splendid achievements of the airplane spread like wildfire throughout the world. Smaller meetings were arranged for in other cities, and everywhere the great aviators were called for to give exhibition flights. In September Santos-Dumont came once more before the public with the tiniest monoplane in existence, a little machine which he called the _Demoiselle_, and in a series of experiments proved its remarkable capabilities. Santos-Dumont had been residing for some time at St. Cyr, where he had worked on his designs for the _Demoiselle_. One of his aviator friends, M. Guffroy, was also experimenting at Buc, five miles away. The two men agreed that the one who first completed an airplane should fly in it to the home of the other and collect £40. In 6 minutes and 1 second Santos-Dumont covered the five miles on the 14th of September and claimed his reward. Orville Wright at about this time was exhibiting his airplane in Berlin and winning new laurels before the Crown Prince and Princess of Germany. By the middle of October he was in France, and was present at the Juvisy Meeting, when the Comte de Lambert, leaving the course unexpectedly, made his sensational flight over Paris, circling round the Eiffel Tower at a height of 1,000 feet. Paris was filled with amazement and delight at the sight of an airplane soaring over the city. It was almost an hour before the Comte de Lambert, flying with the greatest ease, arrived once more at the course, to be overwhelmed with congratulations. [Illustration: WRIGHT MACHINE RISING JUST AFTER LEAVING THE RAIL] [Illustration: AN EARLY WRIGHT MACHINE, SHOWING ITS METHOD OF STARTING FROM A RAIL] On November 3rd, Henry Farman made a world's record of 144 miles in 4 hours, 17 minutes and 53 seconds, wresting from Wilbur Wright the coveted Michelin Cup. In December Blériot attempted an exhibition of his monoplane in Constantinople, but his machine lost its balance in the severe wind which was blowing and came crashing to earth. Though severely wounded, the great aviator recovered rapidly, justifying the oft-repeated superstition that he was possessed of a charmed life. [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ THE PROPELLER DEPARTMENT IN ONE OF THE GREAT CURTISS FACTORIES] Thus the year which had meant so much in the forward march of aviation drew to a close. Beginning at Rheims, the reputation of the heavier-than-air machine had spread in ever widening circles throughout all civilized lands. Most important of all, the military authorities of several nations had opened their eyes to tremendous importance of the airplane as an implement of warfare, and their realization of this fact was destined to bring about new and weighty developments within the next few years. Among the great European states only one nation slept while the rest were up and doing, and she saw the day when, with the shadow of war looming on the horizon, she had cause for bitter regrets. The beginning of 1910 saw the famous aviator Paulhan in the United States for a series of exhibition flights. On January 12th he made a world's record for altitude, climbing at Los Angeles to a height of 4,140 feet, in a Farman machine. In the Spring there occurred in England a memorable contest between Paulhan and a young flier who up to that time was unheard of, but who rapidly made a reputation for himself in aviation. The London _Daily Mail_, which had already done so much to arouse enthusiasm for the airplane in the British Isles, now offered a prize of £10,000 for the first cross-country flight from London to Manchester. There arose as England's champion Claude Grahame-White, and Paulhan with his Farman biplane was on hand to dispute the honors with him. The distance to be covered was about 183 miles, and the task seemed almost impossible, largely owing to the nature of the country over which the flight must be made. It was rough and hilly and thickly sprinkled with towns, making the task of a forced landing a very perilous one. Engines in 1910 were none too reliable and were apt to play strange tricks. To be forced to descend over a town or in rough country meant a chance of serious accident or death. Rough country moreover is apt to be windy country, with sharp, unlooked-for gusts blowing from unexpected quarters. It was these above all things which filled the airman's heart with dread, for he knew only too well the limited stability of his pioneer craft. Late in the afternoon of April 27th, Paulhan, whose biplane, in perfect repair, was awaiting him at Hendon, near London, ascertained that the wind was favorable, and at once rose into the air and started on his long trip. Grahame-White had assumed that it was too late in the day to make a start, and had left his machine, all ready for flight, at Wormwood Scrubbs, intending to make a start in the early morning. Shortly after six the news was brought to White that Paulhan was on his way, and he immediately rushed to his starting point and hurried after his rival. Paulhan had studied every inch of the ground and knew what conditions to expect. His earlier start gave him a great advantage, for he managed to get farther before nightfall, and also before any adverse winds arose. With darkness both pilots were forced to make landings, but Paulhan was far ahead, and the prospect of victory began to wane for the plucky young English flier. In the emergency he determined on a desperate attempt to overcome his handicap. Night flying then was a thing unheard of, but Grahame-White prepared to try it, however risky. At half past two in the morning, by the wan light of the moon he arose from the field where his machine had been landed and flew off into the murky night. Disappointment awaited the dauntless pilot, however. He had a stern struggle with the wind, his engine began to give trouble, and finally he was compelled to come to earth. Paulhan got away at dawn and being the more experienced pilot of the two, managed, after a sharp tussle with the wind, to arrive intact at his destination. He was greeted with wild enthusiasm and was indeed the hero of the day. But England was not without gratitude to her defeated airman, who in the face of enormous difficulties, had persisted so gallantly in his effort to uphold his country's honor in the records of aviation. Though official England was slow to recognize the airplane's claims, the British public showed keenest interest in all the exploits of their sportsmen of the air, and before long there was quite a fair-sized group of such men demanding attention. America also had a remarkable feat to record in the summer of 1910. The New York _World_ had offered a $10,000 prize for a flight down the Hudson River from Albany to New York. The difficulties were even greater than those of the London-Manchester contest, for here the airman had to fly the entire distance over a swift stream. The high hills on either side meant increased peril, for there were sure to be powerful wind gusts rushing out between the gaps in the hills and seeking to overturn the machine. If the engine should give out, there was no place to land except in the water itself, with slight chance of escape for either the pilot or his airplane. Nevertheless, Glenn Curtiss, whose accomplishments at the Rheims Meeting we have already witnessed, determined to try for the prize. His machine was brought from Hammondsport to Albany ready for a start, and on May 31, after a long wait for favorable atmospheric conditions, he was on his way. A special train steamed after him, carrying newspaper reporters and anxious friends, but he left it far in the distance while he flew swiftly down the Hudson. Villagers and boatmen waved and shouted to him as he passed. At one point he encountered an air "whirlpool" that almost sucked him down, but he succeeded in righting his machine and getting on his way again. Near Poughkeepsie he made a landing to obtain more fuel, and from there he flew straight on to his journey's end, reaching New York City and descending in a little field near Inwood. In July of 1910 came the second big Rheims Meeting, to show what unprecedented advances had been made in one short year. Almost 80 contestants appeared, as compared with the 30 of 1909. Machines were in every way better and some very excellent records were made. The Antoinette monoplane flew the greatest distance (212 miles), and also reached the greatest height; while a new machine, the Morane monoplane, took the prizes for speed. Meanwhile the French Army had been busy training aviators and securing new machines. In the Fall these were tried out at the Army Maneuvers in Picardy, and for the first time the world saw what military airplanes really could accomplish. In the sham warfare the army pilots flew over the enemy's lines and brought back astonishingly complete reports of the movements of troops, disposition of forces, etc. The French military authorities themselves, enthusiastic as they had been over the development of the airplane, had not anticipated such complete success. They were delighted with the results of their efforts, and a strong aerial policy was thereupon mapped out for France. England at this date possessed _one_ military airplane, and it was late before she awakened to the importance of aviation as a branch of warfare. Germany, Italy, Russia, and America were looking on with keen interest, but for a while France maintained supremacy over all in her aerial projects. By the end of the following year she had over 200 military machines, with a competent staff of pilots and observers. To follow the course of aviation achievement we must now go back to England, where in July, 1911, another big _Daily Mail_ contest took place. This time the newspaper had put up a prize of £10,000 to be won by flying what was known as the "Circuit of Britain." This had been marked out to pass through many of the large cities of England, Scotland and Ireland. There were seventeen entrants for the contest, which was won by a lieutenant of the French navy, named Conneau. Cross-country flights were growing longer and longer, keeping pace with the rapid strides in the development of the airplane. Still another contest during 1911 was the "Circuit of Europe," which lay through France, Belgium and England; while a flight from Paris to Rome and one from Paris to Madrid served to demonstrate the growing reliability of the aircraft. Money had always flowed freely from French coffers for this favorite of all hobbies. At the Rheims Meeting in October of 1911 the Government offered approximately a quarter of a million dollars in prizes for aerial feats and in orders for machines. Representatives from many countries visited the meeting to witness the tests of war airplanes. In the two years since the first Rheims Meeting many vast changes had taken place. Pilots no longer feared to fly in high winds; machines were reliable, strong and swift. A number made non-stop flights of close on to 200 miles, and showed as well remarkable climbing abilities. It was the Nieuport monoplane which led all others at this Rheims Meeting. To-day the name of Nieuport is familiar to every one, for the little scout machines carried some of the bravest pilots of France and America to victory in the air battles of the Great War. Even in 1911 the Nieuport monoplane was breaking all records for speed. Carrying both a pilot and a passenger it flew as fast as 70 miles an hour at Rheims. Another new machine that attracted attention was the Breguet biplane, a heavy general service machine weighing 2420 pounds and carrying a 140 h. p. Gnome motor. The Gnome had so far outdistanced all competitors that it had virtually become the universal motor for airplanes, and, many of those seen in 1911 were equipped with it. Since then vast improvements have been made in stationary engines but at that time they almost entirely failed to meet the requirements of light weight, high power and reliability. One development in the biplanes of 1911 cannot be passed over, for it bears a very interesting relation to their efficiency as war machines. Any one who has seen a photograph of one of the early biplanes must have been struck by the curious kite-like appearance it presented, due to the fact that it had no _body_ or fuselage, but only two large planes, connected by strong wooden supports, and usually with a seat for the pilot in the center of the lower plane. It was in the monoplane that a car or airplane body first made its appearance, and to it the wing surfaces of the monoplane were strongly braced with wires. Many of the biplanes of 1911 had adopted the idea and in consequence began to take on a more modern appearance. It was a thoroughly good idea, for by means of its greater stability and strength, protection for the pilot and general efficiency were obtained. Biplanes of this type now carried their engines in the fuselage bow with the pilot's seat just behind it, while instead of the _front_ elevating plane of the earlier models, the elevating surfaces were at the rear of the fixed tail plane. The Breguet was one of these progressive type biplanes of 1911. Constructed very largely of steel, it had a long, tapering body with its controlling planes--rudder and elevators--at the rear. Instead of a number of wooden supports between the planes the Breguet had exactly four reliable struts. Henry Farman developed a military biplane in 1911 which had one particularly new feature. Instead of the upper main plane being placed exactly above the lower it had been moved slightly forward or "staggered"--giving it an overhang in front. The idea was that this gave a greater climbing power and was helpful in making descents, though the point has never been satisfactorily proved. Until 1911 Germany had pinned her faith almost wholly to the Zeppelin as the unit for the aerial fleet which she had hoped to build up, and she had confidently expected it to prove its superiority to the heavier-than-air machine in the event of war. No funds had been spared to rush the work of designing and constructing these huge air monsters. Carefully and quietly the perfecting and standardizing of the Zeppelin under government supervision had moved forward, and German engineers had not been behindhand in designing engines particularly suitable to aircraft. While France was amusing herself with the clever little monoplanes and biplanes of the pioneer days--machines which could fly but a few yards at low altitude, Germany, possibly with the dream of world conquest tucked away in her mind, was sparing no expense to get ready her fleet of lighter-than-air craft. Imagine her chagrin when the feeble winged birds of 1908 and 1909 became the soaring eaglets of 1911, swiftly circling the sky, swooping, climbing and performing aerial tricks which made the larger and clumsier Zeppelin appear as agile as a waddling duck. Whatever the feelings of the German military authorities were on the subject, they wasted no time in crying over spilt milk, but at once began a policy of construction by which they hoped soon to outstrip their brainier French neighbors. As in everything German, _method_ was the characterizing feature of the airplane program they instituted. France had sought to encourage makers of all types of planes, and thus obtain a diversity of machines of wide capabilities. The plan did not appeal to Germany. From the very beginning she aimed at reducing everything to a fixed standard and then turning out airplanes in large numbers. When the War broke out it seemed for a time that she had been right, but it was not long before she looked with sorrow upon the sad lack of versatility of her fleet of standardized biplanes. They were hopelessly outdistanced and outmaneuvered by the small, fast fighting machines of the French, while they were by no means so strong as the heavy service planes the French could put into the air. Italy, Austria, Russia, America and Japan began also to make plans for the building of aerial fleets about 1911. The Italian Government relied at first on machines secured from France, or on those copied from French designs. Soon her own clever engineers began to be heard from and she was responsible for developing several of the powerful modern types. Russia would scarcely seem a country where aerial progress might be expected, yet she has given a good account of herself in aviation, and one of her machines, the giant _Sikorsky_ did splendid work on the several fronts during the war. I. I. Sikorsky, the inventor of the big Sikorsky machine was a little while ago merely a clever student at the Kieff Polytechnic. Like many other young men he dreamed of aerial conquest, but received little encouragement in carrying out his projects. At twenty-four, however, he became a student aviator, and almost immediately began work on original airplane designs. He succeeded in building a small monoplane which in some ways resembled the Blériot, except in its habits of flight. In these it was quite balky, refusing to fly except in short hops and jumps. Sikorsky's friends good-naturedly nicknamed it _The Hopper_. But the young student was not one wit daunted. He plugged along steadily at new designs, and in the autumn of 1910 he actually took to the air in a tractor biplane of his own construction. Several other machines of somewhat the same type followed, and his efforts finally won the attention of the great Russo-Baltic Works. They offered him financial assistance to carry on his study of the airplane problem. With this backing Sikorsky moved forward to sure success. In the meantime he had secretly prepared plans for an enormous airplane which at first he dared not divulge for fear of ridicule and disappointment. Finally he took courage and laid them before his friends at the Russo-Baltic Works. Whatever they may have thought of his wild scheme of air supremacy they consented to give it a tryout, and in the Spring of 1913 the first of the giant "Sikorsky" machines stood awaiting a flight. It was viewed with grave misgivings by a number of experts, but to their frank surprise it took to the air with ease and flew well. The sight was a strangely impressive one. In wing span the big machine measured almost 92 feet, while the body or _fuselage_ was over 62 feet long. The weight of the amazing monster flying machine was 4 tons. In the forward part of the fuselage cabins had been fitted, with a small deck on the bow. The fuselage construction was of wood, with a strong 8-wheeled landing chassis beneath it. Four 100 h. p. German "Argus" engines, driving four tractor propellers sent it racing triumphantly through the air. Its weight lifting ability was enormous, and it made a world record for flight. Prodigious as this first great master of the air had seemed it was followed in 1913 by one still larger. The new machine was to the fullest extent an aerial wonder. Its enormous body consisted of a wooden framework covered with canvas, and in its interior a series of cabins were provided. There were three decks: the main one in the center of the fuselage, designed to carry heavy armament of machine guns and a searchlight; a small deck at the stern; and one set in the undercarriage, where additional heavy armament could be placed. Only a few months before the storm of war broke over Europe this Air Leviathan was born, and at the time no one suspected it would so soon be called into active service. In the Spring of 1914 it made flight after flight, scoring a succession of triumphs by its record breaking performances, and winning for its designer a decoration from the Emperor. Sikorsky was a man of wealth but so recklessly did he lavish his personal funds on his airplane ventures that on many occasions he came very near to want as a result. It was no unusual thing to see him during those years of reckless experiment, braving the bitter winter weather of Russia in threadbare garments, shivering, but grimly and sternly determined. Then came the War, and at the first call his machines were ready to prove themselves in the battle against the Hun. CHAPTER IV THE AIRPLANE IN THE WORLD WAR Picture to yourself a scene outside one of the Allied hangars or airplane sheds, just back of the front lines, while the Great War is in progress. It is early morning, gray and chilly. Small fighting machines, which their trusty mechanics have carefully gone over for the tiniest flaw, now stand ready to take to the air. Pilots, wrapped in their heavy clothing--leather jacket, helmet and overcoat, gloves, goggles and muffler--prepare to face the frigid atmosphere above the clouds. The whirr of the motor, a short run over the ground, and up they go, one by one, until they become so many blackbirds, driving and looping and skimming through the sky. Over in this corner is a large reconnaissance machine, with pilot and observer, waiting to ascend. It is one of a squadron that will fly over the German lines to take photographs of the enemy's positions. With its rapid-firing machine guns it is prepared to give battle to the swifter enemy craft that will flash out to challenge its onward flight. Its rôle is a difficult one. It cannot climb to safety as the fighting machine can do and then swoop down on its enemy from a favorable height. Its duty is to bring back accurate views of the territory on the other side of No Man's Land. No matter what the dangers, it must fly straight on, sticking close enough to earth to accommodate its camera's range, and deviating as little as possible from its course, though the enemy's speed scouts blacken the air with bullets and the anti-aircraft guns spit at it maliciously from below. All the machines in the squadron may not return, and there will be vacant chairs at the dinner table to-night when those pilots who have braved the stern hardships of the day relate their little experiences with the Hun. But those who do come back will bring information which will enable the Allied commanders to plan with intelligence the next move in the battle that is raging. A tour of inspection would disclose still other machines, large and small, each designed and equipped for its special duties over the lines. There are heavy, slower-flying day "bombers," and--silent this morning but waiting patiently for the curtain of night to descend,--enormous night bombing machines, the fiercest and hugest of all the great birds of the flying force. To-night, under cover of darkness these machines will speed upon their way, far over the enemy's lines. They carry fuel for a journey of many hours' duration, and heavy bombs which they will drop upon railway junctions, ammunition factories, staff headquarters and important positions deep in the territory of the Hun. Before they turn their noses homeward they will have crossed over the borders of Germany, and along their silent course fires will shoot up and enemy supplies and storehouses will be smoldering ruins when day breaks. Unlike the night bombing machines of the Germans these great Allied aircraft will not drop their missiles upon open towns along the Rhine, nor will they leave behind them any toll of little children and civilians maimed and killed by their brutality. Their instructions are to bomb military objectives only, and when they have done that they will fly back silently through the night, passing over quiet villages and towns, where the sleeping inhabitants never will know that the great blackbirds have hovered so close to them. When the War broke out airplanes were not planned so carefully nor equipped so fully for their special duties as they are to-day. Nobody foresaw exactly what those duties would be, and nobody once dreamed that the battalions of the air would play the tremendous rôle they have played in deciding the great struggle. Even Germany, who had been secretly planning and working and preparing for so long, had very little conception of the actual importance of her heavier-than-air machines. She neglected to use them entirely when she began her swift stride across Belgium. That piece of neglect lost her the prize, for the plucky Belgians, seizing the opportunity, marshalled their air forces, a small handful of airplanes, and used them to good advantage in discovering the intentions of the enemy. By means of her air force, Belgium was enabled to hold back for awhile the onrushing tide of the Hun armies, until France could bring her men into the field and the "contemptible little army" of Britain could be hurried across the Channel. As the air forces were the deciding factor in that first great onslaught, so they have remained during the whole struggle. They began as mere scouting machines, but they have taken upon themselves more and more duties, until at the present time they are used for a multitude of purposes, and are fitted with the most perfect equipment to carry out their various ends. Airplanes have often been called the "eyes of the army," but in war it is not sufficient to be able to _see_ what the enemy is doing or is about to do. You must also be able to keep him from knowing what your plans are. So, there are the machines whose duty is to "see" and those whose duty is to "put out the eyes of the enemy." These latter must keep an eternal vigilance over the lines, on the lookout for enemy craft. When one is spotted they dash out after it, pursue it back to its lines and prevent it from performing its mission of reconnaissance. Nor are they satisfied merely to drive it off, they follow and give fight. Over there against the sky you see a little puff of smoke and flame that goes shooting down to the horizon. It is an enemy plane that will never again come spying upon Allied troops. Perhaps a group of fast German fighting machines dart out unexpectedly to avenge it, and then there is a terrible battle in the clouds, with every machine that is in the air hurrying to the skirmish. You try to follow their swift movements as they loop and dart and dive, but all you can see is a rapid confusion of wings, and now and then a machine that separates itself from the general mêlée and goes crashing to earth. Not the least dangerous of the many services the airplane is performing is that of the artillery "spotter." It belongs to some particular battery whose guns are thundering away at the enemy. Hovering above No Man's Land, where its position is a trifle too exposed to be comfortable, it radiographs back to the gunners the exact locations of important objectives, then watches the firing and reports the results. Thanks to it the big guns do not speak in vain, and almost every shot is a direct "hit." And then there are the dreadnaughts of the sky who actually take part in an attack, flying low over the lines and attacking the enemy infantry with guns and with death-dealing bombs. They must run the gauntlet of the enemy's fire, but on the other hand they spread terror and confusion in the ranks of the soldiers massed below, distracting their attention and leaving them open to the surprise of a sudden onslaught of Allied troops. There are other machines which help in an attack by keeping the various parts of the long line in close communication with each other, so that all efforts are in unison. Their duties correspond in a way to those of the swift horseback rider we read of in the stories of old wars, who sped with news of great import from one commander to another. Only that the airplanes of to-day are so much more efficient than the gallant horseback rider of old, that although the line stretches across a nation, it can act as a man when the moment comes for a big "push." Long before the war Germany had been busy turning out airplanes in large numbers in her factories, and in August, 1914, her air force was far superior in numbers to that of her great opponent France. She fondly imagined that she would be able with the greatest ease to put out her enemy's eyes, but in this she failed utterly. In spite of her military program of construction, according to which airplanes were turned out as if by clock-work, there was something wrong with her calculations. It is amusing to look back and see how German "method" had been carried to the absurd point of defeating itself. In manner truly characteristic, the Hun had standardized his airplane down to the last bolt. Every machine turned out was of exactly the same pattern, and built up of exactly the same parts--parts which could be manufactured in large quantities and put together with unusual speed. It was certainly _system_ raised to the _n_th degree. And the machines themselves were good enough--sturdy biplanes intended to be maids-of-all-work over the front lines. Yet in a little while after the fighting had begun, Germany withdrew them in more or less chagrin, and set herself to constructing others of varied patterns. They were well made and splendidly equipped, but they were not sufficiently _specialized_ for the many different kinds of work they were called on to perform. France had a motley array of airplanes of every size, shape and make when the war broke out. They had varying systems of control, so that a pilot who flew one with ease was nothing more than a novice when he stepped into another. He did not know how its new set of levers operated, nor how the plane would behave in the air. Moreover, the parts for these French airplanes and for their engines had been specially designed by each maker, and were quite unsuitable for any other type of machine. The result was that when a machine had to be repaired at the front, it was "laid up" for a long time, while the special part it required was being ordered and made for it. When finally it arrived, very often there had been some mistake, and so there was another long period of uselessness. France had prided herself on her versatility in airship design. She now had cause to regret it as she viewed the almost helpless confusion it had caused in her air service. Her machines, moreover, were much inferior to the German in armament, speed and climbing gauges, cameras, and all the hundreds of accessories which gave the German machines their initial advantage. But experience is the best teacher, and no sooner had she seen wherein she fell short than dauntless France mustered all her resources to correcting past mistakes. Order was brought out of confusion, and it was only a very little while before the German war lords had need to look to their laurels, for the Frenchmen were far outstripping them in the air. There was one "accessory" which the airplane of the Hun lacked, and which all his mechanical skill and ingenuity were not able to provide: _a pilot with the dash and daring of the French!_ Even in those first dark days when the French planes were the equals of their adversaries neither in numbers nor in capabilities,--a continuous stream of gallant French pilots took to the air and proved that they could surprise and outmaneuver their slower-thinking opponents. While they held the line in their inferior craft, French manufacturers were rushing newer and better equipped machines to reenforce them. Great Britain was far behindhand in aircraft production when the trumpet of war sounded,--in fact, her air force was considered a negligible quantity by friend and foe alike. By dint of persevering search she managed to scrape up a small group of planes of many makes and for the most part antiquated. She sent them--along with her "contemptible little army "--to France, and there they succeeded in holding their own during the first great German push. When the Stories of heroic fighting against hopeless odds, of British airmen flinging their lives in challenge against the foe in the great air struggle, began to reach home, the British lion repented his tardiness and a program of aircraft construction on a large scale was instituted without delay. In carefully standardizing those first airplanes there was one point which the crafty Germans overlooked: which is, that you can't make a dray horse run fast, nor a race horse draw heavy burdens. The same thing holds good with the "steeds" of the air. A plane which is designed for great speed is never as good a burden bearer as one which is built to lift heavy weights at the expense of swiftness in flight. As soon as the duties of the airplane began to be specialized, the airplane itself began to appear in certain definite types. Now of course the duties of the airplane in wartime are numberless, but out of the early confusion _three_ types of machines were finally evolved, which, with the addition of equipment, such as a camera, machine guns, etc., are suitable for practically any sort of work over the land. They are: 1. The high speed fighting machines. 2. The reconnaissance machines. 3. The bombing machines (including the day and the night bombers). Of all military airplanes there is none so fond of "aliases" as the high speed fighting machine. Possibly in order to baffle the uninitiated, or to surround itself with an atmosphere of uncertainty and romance, it goes by first one title and then another. Most often we hear it called a _speed scout_, perhaps for the reason that _it does no scouting!_ At other times it masquerades proudly under the fine French titles of "Avions de Chasse" or "Avions de Combat." It is referred to as a "chaser," a "pursuit machine," a "battle plane" and a "combat machine"--but whatever it is _called_, in type it is the small, fast airplane, usually a single seater, quick in climbing, agile as an acrobat, able to "go" high and far,--for its duty is to run every enemy machine out of the sky and sweep the board clean before the heavier service machines begin their tasks of the day. It should be able to reach a height of from 18,000 to 23,000 feet, or in the language of the air, it must have a high "ceiling." From altitudes so tremendous that they awe the mere earthly pedestrian it swoops down upon its unsuspecting victim, opening upon him a stream of machine gun fire. For its pilot is also a skilled gunner and a crack shot. Upon his ability to maneuver his machine swiftly and cleverly and hit his target unerringly depends his own life and the life of a costly military airplane. The reconnaissance machines and the bombing planes may do valuable service,--and indeed they invariably do--but it is the "speed scout" that covers itself with glory. The reason is that its career brings it nearer to the "personal combat" of the knights of old than anything in modern warfare. Driving his swift Nieuport scout as a knight would have ridden his charger, the beloved Guynemer went forth to challenge the German fighters,--and other Frenchmen and Englishmen and Americans have followed him. It is a fact beyond all question that this branch of the service has produced some of the most truly unselfish and heroic figures of the whole war. The "speed scout" pilot did not need to be a man deeply versed in military affairs--as for instance the pilot and observer of the reconnaissance machine must be,--but he did need dauntless courage, unfailing nerves of steel, dash and daring and contempt for his own safety. So wherever the "speed scout" has blazed its trail of fire across the sky, there have sprung up the names of men whose heroic deeds have made them the idols of the whole world. Usually they have been very young men--young enough for their ideals to have kept fresh and untarnished from the sordid things of life, and thus they have written their names among the immortals. [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ A PHOTOGRAPH OF NORTHERN FRANCE TAKEN AT A HEIGHT OF THREE THOUSAND FEET] Less appealing to the imagination, perhaps, but no less vital to the progress of modern warfare, is the slower flying reconnaissance craft. This machine is always a two-seater, and sometimes a three, for at the very minimum it must carry a pilot and an observer, while a gunner is a very convenient third party in case of an attack from enemy scouts. This type of machine is used for photographic work, for artillery "spotting," and for many general service duties over the lines. In the early days of the war it was customary for the photography airplane to be escorted on its mission by a group of fighting machines, who hovered about it and engaged in battle any airplanes of the enemy that might seek to interrupt its important work. But the last year or so have brought many improvements in airplane construction and it has been found possible to build a machine which can not only carry the heavy photographic apparatus and a couple of machine guns, but which can also travel at a good speed and climb fast enough to escape from the anti-aircraft guns. Instead of the rather helpless, clumsy, slow-flying reconnaissance machines of the early part of the war, we now have powerful "aerial dreadnaughts," which no longer need to run away, but can stay and fight it out when they are interrupted in the course of their air duties. Military photography is one of the most fascinating of the side issues of the war. Before the day of the airplane it was the scout or spy who worked his way secretly into the enemy's lines and at great personal risk,--and often after many thrilling adventures, if the story books are to be believed--brought back to his commanding officer news of the disposition of troops, etc., in the opposing camp. To-day the spy's job has been taken away from him. No longer is it necessary for him to creep under cover of night past the guard posts of the enemy. A big, comfortable and efficient airplane flies over the ground by broad daylight and collects the necessary information a great deal better than the spy ever could have secured it. [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ AN AIRPLANE VIEW OF THE CITY OF RHEIMS, SHOWING THE CATHEDRAL] A reconnaissance camera has very little in common with a kodak. The observer does not tilt it over the edge of the machine, focus it on some interesting object and "snap" his picture. As a matter of fact it works more after the manner of a gun. It is fixed in the bottom of the airplane, facing downward. The observer has been instructed before leaving the ground that a certain area or trench is to be photographed. Straight to the beginning of that trench line the pilot heads his machine. The observer compares the country over which he is flying with the chart or map which he carries. Just as a gunner sights a target, he locates the beginning of the trench line to be photographed through a bull's eye, and immediately pushes the button which sets the camera working. From that point the camera operates automatically, taking a series of overlapping pictures of the country it looks down upon. With calm determination the pilot holds his machine to the course laid out, in spite of any opposition that may arise in his path, for the slightest deviation from that fixed line of flight will mean a gap in the reconnaissance report which the pictures represent. But once he has covered the required area, he turns and flees. In less time than it takes to tell that magazine of films is being developed in a dark room. From there the printed pictures are rushed to an expert interpreter who reads the secret meanings of the things he sees--this or that dark blotch or peculiar looking speck suggests to his trained mind a machine gun nest, a railroad center, an observation post, a barbed wire entanglement, a camouflaged battery, an ammunition dump, or what-not. Pasted together so that they give a continuous view of the foe's territory, the printed pictures are hurried to headquarters, where in a few brief moments their message has been turned into a command to the troops. By the word that those pictures bring the battle is directed, and the blow is aimed straight at the enemy's vital spots. Occasionally instead of a series of photographs of a trench line or limited area, a continuous set of pictures of a broad space of country is desired. Then instead of a single machine as described above, a squadron of reconnaissance machines set forth, flying in V formation, with the leader of the squadron flying in front at the point of the V. The moment he reaches the area to be photographed, he notifies the machines behind him by firing a smoke rocket with a signal pistol. At that signal the V broadens instantly, so that it becomes almost a straight line, the commander keeping only slightly ahead so that he may lead the way. On and on that broad V formation of airplanes sweeps, every camera registering, and all keeping close enough together to produce slightly overlapping photographs. Each machine will bring home a long line of pictures of the country over which it passed, and those lines, pieced together, will make a large military map of the entire region. That is if everything goes smoothly, which in war time it seldom does. More likely that plucky V will be pounced upon by a herd of fast fighting machines whose duty it is to see that none ever return with their information to headquarters. There will follow a terrific contest; the observer in the reconnaissance machine becomes a gunner, and fires away at his pursuers, while the never-failing camera keeps steadily on with its job of recording. As nearly as possible the V formation is held, for much depends upon it, but suddenly a great gap appears in the line. "Done for" with a direct hit, one brave machine goes crashing earthward. That will mean a gap in the "map" that is in the making. Still the V presses on relentlessly. One of the planes begins to lag behind. There is something wrong with its engine. It does its best to keep up with its fellows, but soon it is left behind, and the enemy craft dive after it. Battered and torn, its numbers depleted sadly, several of its crew wounded, its wings perhaps riddled with bullets, the photographing squadron turns its face toward home, and, flying now as high as possible to keep out of sight, puts on all speed for the safe side of No Man's Land. Military photography _sounds_ easy and comfortable. It _demands_ the type of courage which can make a man stick to a given line of flight, even when certain death lies straight ahead. Sometimes a machine carries both bombs and a camera, and, as it drops its missiles, keeps a continuous record of its "hits" to carry home. And that brings us to the bombing machine, last but not least of the trio of military airplanes. The bomber that works by day and near to its own lines, is similar to the reconnaissance machine, except that it does not usually carry a radio apparatus or a camera. Instead, the greater part of its cargo consists of bombs, dread instruments of destruction which will fall on the railroad junctions, troop trains, staff headquarters or ammunition dumps of the enemy. The day bomber is never used for long distance work, and so it does not need to be of tremendous size, as the machine which must carry fuel for an all night run as well as a large quantity of bombs to drop on a far away important objective. The night bomber is the giant of the sky. The greatest genius of the cleverest designers has been expended upon its construction. More and more its tremendous importance is being recognized. Its activities precede every great offensive movement, for it flies over the enemy's country, leaving a trail of terrible destruction in its wake, and "preparing the soil" for the infantry advance. Deep in the territory of the foe it searches out the great supply centers and railway terminals and there it unloads its cargo of bombs. If the Allies had possessed a sufficient number of these huge bombing planes they could have carried on an aerial warfare against Germany which would have defeated her without nearly so great a sacrifice of the lives of the infantry. The work is dangerous, but a single bombing plane could have wreaked more vengeance upon the Hun than perhaps a whole regiment of the bravest fighters. Consequently its use would have meant economy of human lives. These fearful shadows that walk by night require pilots of the utmost skill to navigate the sea of darkness, as well as bomb droppers and gunners whose training has been perfect. The largest of them are equipped with either two or three powerful engines, each working a separate propeller. Such a machine can carry as much as five tons of explosives, with fuel for a twelve hours' flight. The night bomber is very often a huge triplane, for the extra wing surface gives greater lifting power. At the same time the triplane has greater stability and has a fair chance of reaching home even when one of its planes has been badly damaged. It is the same with a machine which has two or more engines: even when one of these has been put out of order by the shots of the enemy the airplane can still reach home. The night bombers must travel long distances, carry great cargos, bomb their objectives and make their escape, and so in the construction of their machines as much stability, lifting power and speed as possible has been the aim. Usually it is some important munition base or factory center that is supplying the German troops, which the airmen set out to bomb. They travel in squadrons not only for safety, but because in this way an almost unlimited number of bombs can be carried and dropped simultaneously. Often a second squadron follows the first at a short distance. By the light of the terrible fires that the first set of explosives dropped are bound to start, this second squadron can drop its bombs with greater precision directly on important buildings that must be destroyed. Moving slowly under their great load of explosives, and flying low, these two squadrons of destroyers start for some point in the heart of the German Empire. Like ghosts they "feel their way" mile after mile. They are not anxious to invite detection, for under the great weight of their "messages" to Germany, they would not be able to maneuver quickly or to climb to safety. Once those tons of explosives have been released and the noise of their dreadful havoc has aroused the anti-aircraft gunners of the enemy, those bombing planes will find the earth an uninviting sort of region and they will be glad to spring into the protecting silence and darkness of the upper air. And this they can do easily, for, rid of their load, they possess unusual climbing powers. The second squadron of bombers, flying over the same territory may expect a warm reception, and they will need to do their work quickly and beat a hasty retreat. Such are the mysterious doings of the night. When the early dawn appears, gray and heavy eyed, it will find the bombing planes tucked away drowsily in their hangars, scarcely knowing themselves whether the journey up the Rhine was a reality or merely a terrifying dream. And with the dawn their daylight sisters will take up the work near home. Word has just come that enemy reinforcements are moving up to the front along certain roads. "Fine," sings out a young lieutenant, appearing unexpectedly on the field from a small, carefully camouflaged office. "We will make them dance for us this morning!" He talks quickly and determinedly with a group of pilots, giving instructions, charging all to keep the formation. Machines are gone over to make sure that everything is in perfect condition. Then the first bombing plane, bearing the flight leader, "taxis" across the field, appearing to stagger under its great burden. Suddenly it takes to the air, and like a large graceful bird, its clumsiness all gone, it soars up into the blue. Rapidly the other big birds follow suit, and at a signal they are off, the flight commander heading the group, and the others following in close formation, like a huge flock of wild geese. On and on they fly, until beneath them appears the winding ribbon of road that is their objective. It is crowded with marching troops, gun wagons, supplies. As they swoop close to the earth they catch a swift glimpse of white faces turned up at them with terror. Then panic falls upon the marching column and, helter-skelter, every man tries to break away to a point of safety. In another moment guns are turned upon the bombers, but they dodge the flying shells and let go their heavy explosives, which crash to earth with dreadful uproar. Where a few moments before the Huns were following their way undisturbed there is now a road in which great furrows are plowed; huge holes gape open and a hopeless mass of débris covers the earth. The columns of the enemy will be blocked for many hours while the mass is being cleared away. Satisfied with the results of their exploit the bombing squadron turns swiftly toward home. How simple a matter it seems at first glance to release a bomb and hit a given point below. Actually it requires the very highest skill. To begin with, the airplane is moving at tremendous speed, and the bombardier (as the man who drops the bombs is called) has to know exactly how the forward motion of the airplane will affect the direction that the bomb takes on its course toward the earth. Moreover the bomb has a speed at starting equal to the speed of the airplane, and this beginning speed is increased by the action of gravity drawing it down. It may be aided in its journey by the wind or retarded, according to the wind's direction, and this too must be taken into account, if the target is to be hit. Bomb dropping can only be carried out successfully with the aid of the most delicate and complicated range-finding mechanism, with which every bombing plane is equipped. The Germans have led the way in inventions for this purpose, and their Goertz range finder is perhaps the best in the world. The bombs themselves are generally carried in vertical position, one-above another, in the body of the airplane, and by an automatic arrangement, as one is released, another slips into place, ready to be dropped. Now that we have made the acquaintance of the three types of machines that are used over the trenches--the "speed scout" or small fighting machine; the larger armed reconnaissance plane; and largest of all, the bomber--let us go back and give just a hasty glance at the main points of their construction. First we must recall the "A B C facts" we learned about wing construction. A wing gains lifting power from two sources: the upward pressure of the air current underneath it, and the force of the vacuum above it which is created by the arch of the wing. If a wing is only slightly arched it can move _forward_ through the air more swiftly, but it will not have the _lifting power_ of the high arched wing. This is the reason that an airplane which must be a weight carrier cannot be as fast in flight as the "speed scout," which has only its pilot and a machine gun to carry. The "speed scout" is always a small machine, usually a single-seater, with a gun in front that fires over or through the propeller. In the early part of the Great War it was most often a monoplane, but the smaller biplane took its place, because, with practically the same speed, it combines greater stability. The planes of the speed scout are very flat as compared with those of the reconnaissance craft. This airplane must carry machine guns, photography apparatus, radio, and a pilot, an observer, and often a gunner. Its wings must therefore be arched to give it lifting power, but at the same time it becomes a much slower flying machine than its smaller sister. Lifting power of a wing can of course be increased _up to a certain point_ by increasing the wing area, so that a greater air pressure is created below. Beyond that certain point the machine would become unwieldy and would lose its balancing properties. Yet this idea has been put into practise in building the latest types of aerial dreadnaughts used for reconnaissance. These airplanes have gained their lifting power partly by increasing the wing spread and partly by arching the wing. Thus a wing has been secured which offers the minimum resistance to forward motion through the air, together with the maximum weight carrying ability. Biplanes of this type are by far the most popular of those designed for general service, for they combine speed, climbing ability, and lifting power,--thanks to their strong armament they can defend themselves or run away quickly as the situation demands. But there is one other method which has not yet been mentioned of increasing the lifting power of an airplane. It is simply to add a third wing. When we have made the wings of the biplane as large as we dare, and have curved them to make them weight-bearers, if the resulting machine is still not strong enough to carry as many tons of explosives as we desire, there is only one thing left to do and that is to add a third wing. Thus the triplane made its appearance in answer to the call for planes which could carry vast cargoes of explosives and fuel for journeys of many hours over the enemy's country. The huge night bombing machine of the present time is almost always of the triplane type. CHAPTER V SOME OF THE PROBLEMS THE INVENTORS HAD TO SOLVE Every American must feel a glow of pride when he stops to think that it was two of his fellow-countrymen, Wilbur and Orville Wright, who invented the airplane. But it is largely to France, our great ally and friend, that the credit must go for improving upon the invention of the Wrights, and making possible the wonderful aerial feats, the marvelous flights and accomplishments of the airplane of to-day. From the first day they saw an airplane flown, the French were wildly enthusiastic. They gave freely of their money and their encouragement to help the good cause along. French inventors attacked the problems of the heavier-than-air machine with a will, and their unfailing determination and refusal to accept defeat or failure made final victory inevitable. But before we could have the powerful fighting machines, the big cross country fliers and the seaplanes of to-day, there were many difficulties of construction which had to be met and solved. First of all the pioneer designer had to choose between the monoplane, the biplane and the triplane. The monoplane was light in weight and could fly faster with the same powered engine than the biplane. But it was difficult to know just how to brace and strengthen the single pair of wings. In the biplane the struts between the wings gave strength and firmness. The wings of the monoplane were braced by wires to the body, but often they did not prove strong enough and the airplane collapsed in mid-air. In spite of this danger the monoplane was much in favor because of its speed. Slower in speed, but stronger and a better weight lifter was the biplane. And in addition to strength it possessed more natural stability, a much sought after quality in the pioneer days. Even more stable and with greater lifting powers than the biplane was the triplane, but the difficulty here was the lack of an airplane motor of sufficient strength to drive it. Until clever engineers came to the rescue with an improved aircraft motor, the triplane was very much in disfavor. The monoplane, indeed, captured most of the early records for speed and it was this type of machine that was generally built by the sportsman type of airman, while men like the Wright brothers and others whose aim was to develop an airplane of unusual reliability and suited to many purposes, turned to the biplane and gave many hours and months and years of their time to its improvement. Once the choice of a _type_ had been made, there were countless other problems. _Stability_ was of prime importance and the airmen of a few years ago labored desperately to attain it. They knew all too little about the airplane from a scientific angle. We have seen in our brief study that the method of obtaining balance in a glider or an airplane is to see that its _center of weight_ coincides with the center of the _upward pressure_ of air. How to bring this happy state of things about was a source of much debate. Some suggested that instead of a tail at the stern a tail in front of the main planes of the machine would help to balance it in flight. Some placed the pilot's seat above both planes of the biplane, while others thought he should sit below. Many of these queer ideas were tried out and by dint of hard practise and many failures certain simple elementary facts were finally weeded out and set down. Probably the addition of a "fuselage" or body to the modern airplane has had something to do with helping in the proper distribution of its weight and increasing its stability. Larger at the bow and tapering toward the stern where a fixed tail piece or horizontal stabilizing plane is attached, it resembled more or less closely the general outlines of a fish or bird. And this "streamline form" greatly reduces the _head resistance_, another important subject on which there was very little known when the first of the airplanes was built. In addition to having only a very slow and inefficient engine the early machine suffered from the head resistance it created as it pushed forward through the air, and this check to its progress ate up the little speed its motor could develop. For if the airman of 1908 or 1909 was made miserable by his fear of winds, gusts and aerial whirlpools which might upset him in mid-air, his fears in this direction were completely overshadowed by his worries about a suitable motor. If the design of his craft was faulty and it proved "balky" when he attempted flight, he had only himself to blame. But for an engine he had to rely entirely upon some one else. The airplane could be a "home-made" article, but the engine had to be chosen from such as were on the market. The Wright brothers in their first flying machine used a made-over automobile engine of 12 horsepower. It was not long before this was improved upon, and later Wright machines had a four-cylinder, water-cooled engine developing 35 horsepower. Its weight had been reduced as far as possible and its simplicity of design was its greatest recommendation. Undoubtedly the engine problem has been the big one in the history of aviation. The coming of the internal combustion engine might be said to have placed practical aviation within the range of possibility, but at that it took a long time to evolve a motor especially suited to the needs of aircraft. There were three things needed in an airplane motor: _Light weight_, _high power_, and _absolute reliability_. How important the third factor is we can imagine if we stop to think that nothing keeps the heavier-than-air machine afloat but its own speed, creating an air pressure beneath its wings. Like the boy who runs with his kite in order to make it go up, the airplane must "go" if it would rise, and the moment its engine fails there is nothing to prevent it from falling to the earth. The driver of a motor car, can, if his engine goes wrong, get out and go over it carefully until he finds what the difficulty is. The pilot of an airplane, soaring thousands of feet above the earth, is at the mercy of his motor's reliability or lack of it. Engine failure was, and still is, one of the greatest dangers the airman has to fear. Another chief cause of trouble in early airplane motors was overheating. Before actual airplane engines had been designed there was nothing to do but to use the type of engine which had been designed for the automobile, with as much reduction in weight as could be secured. But the automobile engine was never intended to run at top speed continuously and for long periods, as the airplane engine necessarily must do. In a car the motor has little stops and rests, as it is throttled down for a moment or changes in speed are made, and these breathing spells help it very much indeed in the "cooling off" process. The airplane engine does not have these little between-time naps. The result was that the automobile engine installed in the early airplane invariably overheated and caused serious trouble. Under these conditions no flights of any distance could possibly be attempted. Yet at the Rheims Meeting of 1909 Henry Farman surprised the world by remaining in the air two hours in a continuous flight. Up to that time the feat had never been equaled or approached. Aviators were amazed and sought an explanation. The answer was: the Gnome motor. Anxious to help the airplane in its forward march, French engineers had good naturedly set to work and the Gnome motor was their first answer to the anxious question of "What engine?" It involved a new and ingenious system of cooling which made it possible for Farman to drive his big machine round and round the Rheims course until stopped by darkness, but without ever experiencing the slightest difficulty with his motor. Before attempting to understand the secret of superiority of this first real airplane motor over others of its day, we must know a little more about the elementary principles of any internal combustion engine. The diagram on page 156 shows _one cylinder_ of such an engine in action. A mixture of gasoline and air--called "carbureted air"--is introduced through a valve opening into a chamber or cylinder, as shown in figure A of the diagram. The valve opening then closes, and the piston moves forward compressing the gases enclosed in the cylinder, as shown in figure B. An electric spark suddenly explodes these compressed gases, causing them to expand with the greatest violence and drive the piston back. This action, which is shown in figure C, is called the "power stroke," for, transmitted by the piston rod to the crankshaft it furnishes the power which turns the propeller and sends the airplane forward through the air. Just before the piston reaches the end of the power stroke the exhaust valve opens, and the exploded gases are forced out of the chamber, partly by the force of their own tension and partly by the upward stroke of the piston, as shown in figure D. The carbureted air is supplied to the cylinder from a chamber called the "carbureter." Here it is produced by the mixture of a gasoline spray--similar to the fine spray of an atomizer--with the air. [Illustration: DIAGRAM OF AN INTERNAL COMBUSTION ENGINE CYLINDER, SHOWING PRINCIPLE ON WHICH IT WORKS] A spark plug is fitted to the cylinder, and a break current from an electric magneto causes the spark which at the proper instant explodes the compressed gases. Since by means of the explosion of the gases the force is produced which drives the airplane propeller, the violence and frequency of these explosions determine the power of the engine. Greater power can be obtained either by increasing the size of the cylinder so that it can hold more of the carbureted air, making a greater explosion possible; or else by causing more frequent explosions. The latter is the better method in an airplane engine, as larger cylinders mean more weight to be carried. In the average airplane engine from 1500 to 2000 explosions or revolutions occur per minute. The combustion cylinder of an aircraft engine is usually built of steel, and the piston of cast iron or aluminum, which furnishes a very smooth gliding surface. The piston rod transmits the power to the crankshaft, a long rotating piece of steel. Every time the piston rod is thrust down by the explosion in the cylinder, its motion serves to turn the crankshaft and thus the vertical motion of the piston is transformed into the rotary motion which sends the propeller whirling through the air. Wherever two surfaces of metal must rub against each other, as in the case of the piston and the cylinder, there is bound to be a great amount of friction. This friction causes the parts to heat and in time it wears away the surfaces and destroys the efficiency of the engine. In order to avoid this, the surfaces must be kept constantly well oiled or "lubricated." In some engines all the parts are enclosed in one large box or "crank case" which is filled with oil. Small holes are bored through to the surfaces to be lubricated, and the oil is splashed upon them by the motions of the piston rod, the crankshaft, etc., as they plunge through the oil bath. But overheating of the cylinder may cause this oil to decompose and in order to prevent this a "cooling system" is necessary. For only when the engine is kept cool and properly oiled can it be expected to run smoothly or give satisfactory service. So now we come back to the problem of cooling, which caused so much anxiety and trouble to the early aviators. With their engines running at the great speed which was necessary to keep the airplane in the air, overheating and engine difficulties were sure to arise. Cooling of the cylinder is accomplished in one of two ways: either by water or by air. If water is used, a "jacket" in which the water circulates is placed around the cylinder,--the water as it becomes heated passing out of the jacket to the radiator, where it is cooled before it returns. The radiator, at the very front of the airplane body, is exposed to the swift current of the air as the machine drives forward, and this air current serves to reduce the temperature of the water. This method was the one originally employed with the automobile engine, but in the early models the cooling system, though adequate for the motor car, was hopelessly insufficient when the same engine was installed in an airplane. It was the Gnome manufacturers who first thought of a most ingenious scheme for cooling the cylinders of the internal combustion engine. Instead of having the piston and the crankshaft move, it was the cylinder itself which moved in the Gnome motor, while the crankshaft and piston were stationary. Thus cooling was very easily accomplished, for the cylinders, flying through the air, making as many as 1500 revolutions per minute, cooled themselves. The crankshaft in the Gnome motor had been hollowed out to form a tube or pipe, through which the fuel or carbureted air passed to the cylinder by means of a valve in the head of the piston which worked automatically. The Gnome could be built up of any number of cylinders, according to the power required. Its cylinders were set in a circle about the crankshaft, so that the entire engine occupied a minimum of space in the airplane body. Scouted at first as a freak engine, it soon proved its superiority over all those in use and was rapidly adopted by builders of all types of airplanes. To-day the stationary engine has been greatly improved, its provisions for cooling have been increased and it is once more looked on with favor by many manufacturers of aircraft. The cylinders of an internal combustion engine can be grouped in one of three ways, and thus there are three main types of airplane engines we should be able to recognize. They are the _straight-line_ engine, the _V-type_, and the _radial_. In the straight-line model four, six, or even a larger number of cylinders are placed in a row in one crank case. In the V-type of motor they are set instead in two lines, like a letter V; while in the radial type the cylinders form a circle around the central crankshaft. The radial motor may be stationary or its cylinders may revolve, in which case it becomes a rotary engine, as for instance, the Gnome. Each of these types of motors has its peculiar advantages. The least "head resistance" is caused by a straight line engine, and this type also uses less fuel and oil. But it is usually heavier in weight, owing to the larger cooling system necessary and the longer crankshaft, and it takes up more room in the airplane fuselage than a motor of the compact radial type. The radial engine is very light in weight,--a big item in the airplane--but it consumes a large quantity of fuel and oil and besides produces a maximum "head resistance." The V-type motor is a compromise between the two,--lighter in weight than the straight-line, less wasteful of fuel and causing less "head resistance" than the radial. The rotary engine, because of its appetite for fuel and oil is no longer used in airplanes which are intended for long distance flights, because here the weight of the extra fuel carried has to be considered. In short distance, high-speed machines it works well, but in the larger planes the vertical or V-type motor has been found to give greater satisfaction. When we read of the enormous trouble the pioneers of aviation went to, in order to find an engine suitable to drive the propeller of the airplane, we cannot help wondering just how the revolving of the propeller sends the whole machine flying forward through the air. The matter is very simply explained. The propeller of a ship is often referred to as the ship's "screw," and though few people have ever compared it with the small screws they use about the house, or with the screw and screw driver in the tool chest, there is in fact very little difference in principle. Take a screw and place it against a block of wood, and then commence to turn it with a screw driver. Straight into the wood its curved edges will cut their way, dragging the round steel rod of the screw behind them. With every turn they will cut in deeper and carry the screw forward through the wood. That is what the propeller of a ship or an airplane does: it screws its way through the water or the air. But of course there is this difference, that the wood offers great resistance to the forward motion of the screw, while the water offers much less resistance to the ship's propeller, and the air less still to the propeller of the airplane. If, as in the case of the screw-driver, the airplane propeller is in front of the airplane and drags its load along behind it, it is called a "tractor" propeller; but if instead it is placed at the stern of the airplane, and as it screws through the air it pushes the airplane along ahead of it, then it is known as a "pusher" propeller. The little cutting edge that winds round and round an ordinary screw is referred to as its _thread_, and the distance between two of these edges or threads is known as the _pitch_. In some screws the threads are very close or, to put it another way, the pitch is small, while in others it is much greater. Each blade of a propeller is really a portion of a screw. To go back to the example of the screw-driver and the block of wood, every time the screw is turned once around it will advance into the wood a distance equal to its pitch. The same thing is theoretically true of the propeller of an airplane; at each revolution it might be expected to advance through the air a distance equal to the pitch that has been given to its blades. But the air may allow the propeller to slip back and so lose some of its speed, a thing which was not possible with the screw-driver. This tendency to slip varies with the pitch of the propeller and the speed of its revolutions. A propeller which works splendidly when turning at a given rate, may prove worse than useless when the engine is slowed down and it is only making half the number of revolutions per minute. And so we begin to see another of the big problems of the pioneer airmen: to determine the right pitch for the propeller in relation to the speed which had been determined upon for the airplane. It is a problem that has not been wholly solved to-day, because of the fact that an airplane cannot always be driven at "top speed." If the maximum speed of the machine is 150 miles per hour, and the propeller has been designed to deal with the air efficiently at this speed, it is apt to slip and slide and waste away the power of the engine when for any reason it is necessary to slow down to 100 miles per hour. The only answer to the difficulty is a "variable pitch propeller" which may be altered to conform with alterations in speed, but up to the present time nothing really satisfactory along this line has been devised. Another question in connection with the propeller has been of what material to make it. Wood is most generally used to-day, for although steel and aluminum have been tried, they have not been found to stand the strain so well. Imagine for one moment the stress upon an airplane propeller beating through the air at the rate of 1500 revolutions per minute. The greatest strength has been secured by building it up of several pieces of wood which are fastened strongly together and varnished. _Materials_ have always presented a source of endless experiment and differences of opinion in the construction of the airplane. The problem has come up in connection with the fuselage, the wings and wing coverings, the landing chassis--in fact, each and every part of the heavier-than-air machine has raised the old query: "What shall we make it of?" In the earlier machines wood was almost entirely used in airplane construction. For one thing it was cheaper, and for another it was easier to get wood working machinery, than the complicated and expensive machinery necessary to construct airplanes out of metal. Metals are stronger but they cost more and they make the problem of repairs more difficult. The wings of the airplane are usually built up on a wooden framework which gives them their shape and curve. Many have been the disputes over the matter of wing coverings. In the pioneer machines they were covered with cotton material which had not been treated to make it water-proof or air-proof. It gave the poorest kind of service, and an effort was made to improve it by rubberizing it, but this process did not produce a wing of lasting durability. Many other treatments were experimented with, but with little success until the substance known as "dope" made its appearance. "Dope" is largely composed of acetyl cellulose. It makes the wing covering proof against rain, wind, and the oil thrown off from the airplane engine, and gives it a fine, smooth finish and excellent durability. Two or three coats of it are usually applied, with a final coat of varnish on top, to produce a wing that is sure to prove strong and trustworthy. The problems of starting and landing the airplane have been many. The early Wright machine had to run on a little trolley down a track in order to gain sufficient momentum to take to the air. Later machines showed an improvement on this. Henry Farman attached wooden skids to the bottom of his airplane and fastened wheels to them by means of heavy rubber bands. Thus he could start his motor and run over the ground until his speed permitted him to rise, while in making a descent the wheels flew back on their flexible bands and the stout skids absorbed the shock of the fall. Most of the modern machines have a wheeled framework below the fuselage, which permits them to run over the ground in starting and also in making a descent. The danger of engine failure becomes very important when near to the ground, as the pilot has no time to get his machine into a gradual glide and avoid a bad accident. This danger is sometimes averted by installing two engines, so that if one stops the other will carry the airplane on up into the air and prevent a smash-up. But the thing which has greatest effect on the ability of the airplane to land easily is its own design and speed. The wings of the airplane, its propeller and its whole construction have been planned so that it can support itself best in the air when flying at a certain fixed speed. Suppose this speed for a certain type of airplane to be 150 miles per hour. The airplane cannot land while traveling at that rate, yet its speed while still in the air can only be diminished to a certain point with safety, and below that point it may not be able to sustain itself in flight. The pilot must be able to land his machine without accident and without throttling his engine below this danger line; while the designer of airplanes must struggle to produce a machine which, while flying best at its maximum speed, will _fly_ at a much lower rate of motion, when necessary to effect a landing. The supporting power of the wings depends partly on their size and partly on their rate of motion. Small wings moving at high speed produce the same supporting pressure of air beneath them as large wings flying at slow speed. The problem of a safe landing could best be solved by building wings whose area could be altered in mid-air. When traveling under full power the pilot would reduce the wing spread, as the smaller wings would then be sufficient to support the weight of the machine and would create less air resistance. When about to land, he would increase the spread of the wings, so that at the slower rate of motion through the air he might take advantage of a larger supporting surface. Nothing of this sort has yet been worked out on a practical scale, but many have been the suggestions for "telescoping wings." The reduction of "head resistance" and the "streamlining" of the airplane have received their goodly share of attention and experiment. To-day the airplane fuselage is carefully streamlined, but the landing chassis beneath it creates a good deal of resistance to motion. Probably this problem will be solved by devising a landing chassis which, after the machine has arisen from the ground, can be drawn up inside the body, and let down again to make a landing, but this is another important question which is not yet worked out in the airplanes of the present time. The coming of the War caused all nations to stop and take strict account of what had been accomplished in solving the many problems of aviation, for the war machine had to be as nearly as possible the sum total of all the best that had been worked out up to that time in the difficult matter. In aircraft design and in types of engines France undoubtedly stood foremost, although the knowledge she possessed had not been sorted, pigeonholed and accurately standardized as was the case in Germany. Germany had some excellent aircraft motors of the water-cooled type, which were light in weight, very reliable and high-powered. The German government had spent large sums of money for the purpose of encouraging airplane construction and the improvement of designs and engines. Yet no country at war found her military airplanes all she had expected them to be. It was not until actual war service brought definite demands from the pilots and definite criticisms of the bad features of the airplanes in use, that the designers were able to turn out machines of the highest efficiency. There were many things which the pilots asked for. Speed and climbing power were among them, greater ease of operation, more protection in the way of guns and armament, the pilot's seat so located that his vision was not obstructed above or below, and a uniform system of controls. Gradually all these requirements have been met by the airplane makers. By 1917 they had turned out machines which could fly as fast as 150 miles per hour and climb to 22,000 feet, while since then even this record has been greatly improved upon. In the field of aviation America can claim one big accomplishment since her entrance into the World War. That is the Liberty motor, probably the most successful motor that has ever yet been devised for an airplane. When it was decided that we should begin work building American airplanes, there was one important problem: the engine. Foreign types of engines could not very well be built in this country, as they required workmen of many years' training in a highly specialized field. It was agreed that we must have a motor of our own, which could be manufactured rapidly under the conditions of our present industrial system. Two of the most capable engineers in the country were summoned to Washington, and in order to assist them in their work motor manufacturers from all over the United States sent draftsmen and consulting engineers. For five days these two men did not leave the rooms that had been engaged for them at the capital. Sacrifice was necessary if victory was to be won. Engineering companies and companies making motors for automobiles, etc., gave up their most carefully-guarded secrets in order to make the Liberty motor a success. The result was that an engine was produced so much better than anything on the market that our allies ordered it in large quantities for their own airplanes. Twenty-eight days after the drawings were started, the first motor was set up. It was ready on Independence Day, and was demonstrated in Washington. The parts had been manufactured in many factories, yet they were assembled without the slightest difficulty. The completed engine was sent to Washington by special train from the West. Thirty days later it had passed all tests and was officially the Liberty motor. One of the most remarkable things about the Liberty motor is the way in which all of its parts have been carefully standardized so that they can be manufactured according to instructions by factories in all parts of the United States. The parts can then be rapidly assembled at a central point. The cylinders are exactly the same in every case, although the Liberty motor is made in four models, ranging from 4 to 12 cylinders. They can be interchanged and the parts of a wrecked engine can be used to repair another engine. Thus American wit, patriotism and energy were able at a most critical time to answer the threat of German supremacy in the air. Our aircraft production has gone forward with speed which almost baffles understanding, while the airplane motors we shipped abroad in such overwhelming numbers to be installed in foreign machines gave good service to the cause for which the Liberty motor was named. CHAPTER VI FAMOUS ALLIED AIRPLANES Airplanes, like men, are not all alike, even when they are in the same line of work and performing the self-same duties. In war time, every gunner has his own little peculiarities, every sharpshooter has his personal ideas about catching the enemy napping, and every infantryman who goes over the top, in spite of his rigorous training in the art of war, meets and downs his opponent in a manner all his own. So it is with the machines that in the last few years have won fame for their valiant service over the dread region of battle. Roughly they can be lined up as fighting machines, reconnaissance airplanes and bombers. Yet if we look a little closer, individual types of planes will stand out of the general group, and it becomes fascinating to study them in their design, their achievements and their particular capabilities. [Illustration: _Copyright International Film Service, Inc._ THIS PHOTOGRAPH SHOWS THE RELATIVE SIZE OF THE GIANT CAPRONI BOMBING PLANE AND THE FRENCH BABY NIEUPORT, USED AS A SPEED SCOUT] As it would be impossible to mention in one short chapter all the brave pilots who distinguished themselves for their heroism in the war in the air, so it would be a hopeless task to attempt to do justice to all the airplanes which rendered good service over the front lines. The best we can hope to do is to make the acquaintance of the most famous of them all. [Illustration: _Copyright International Film Service, Inc._ THE SPAD, THE PRIDE OF THE FRENCH AIR FLEET] There is one little machine, which, when the final retreat was sounded and accomplishments were reckoned, had covered itself with glory. Like the many famous pilots who have driven it, it has learned much by experience, and it has changed considerably in outward appearance since the summer of 1914. Wherever the achievements of the "speed scout" are mentioned the _Nieuport_ is bound to come in for its share of the praise. This little fighting machine was greatly relied on by the French, who used it in large numbers over the front lines. Although lately another swift scout plane has come into the field to eclipse its reputation, it probably took part in more aerial battles than any other airplane of the Great War. It was the _Nieuport_ monoplane whose speed and agility at maneuvers made it a favorite in the early days of the hostilities. For a while it was a match for the German scout machines, but the rapid strides which aviation took under the pressure of war necessity left it behind, and the more rapid and efficient _Nieuport Biplane Scout_ made its appearance. In several important features it was entirely different from any of the biplanes. It could not quite forget its monoplane construction, and it had made a compromise with the biplane by adding a very narrow lower wing. It was humorously nicknamed the "one and one-half plane," but it proved itself just the thing the fighting airmen were looking for. Its narrow lower plane, while giving more stability and a "girder formation" to its wing bracing, did not interfere with the pilot's range of vision, a highly important consideration. In order to allow as full a view as possible in all directions, it had only two V-shaped struts between the planes, while the upper wing, just above the pilot's seat, had been cut away in a semi-circle at the rear so that he might be able to see above. The lower wing was in two sections, one at each side of the fuselage. This little biplane had a top wing span of only 23 feet, 6 inches, while the distance across the lower plane from tip to tip was a trifle shorter, measuring just 23 feet. The upper plane measured from the front to the rear edge a trifle less than 4 feet,--or to use technical language, it had a "chord" of 3 feet, 11 inches; while the chord of the lower wing was only a little over 2 feet. The entire length of the biplane from the tip of its nose to its tail was 18 feet, 6 inches. The fuselage was built with sides and bottom flat but the top rounded off. There was plenty of room for the pilot to move freely in his seat. Armed with a machine gun which fired over the propeller, he was well able to defend himself when enemy craft appeared. The _Nieuport_ biplane wrote its achievements in large letters during the Great War. It was the machine which Guynemer and his famous band of "Storks" flew in their daring battles against the German fast scout, the _Fokker_. It carried many an American chap to fame in the Lafayette Escadrille. England, Italy and America all used it over the lines, and its high speed and quickness at maneuver made it a general favorite. To-day it is made in either the single-seater scout type, or in a larger, two-seated model. The gunner's seat in the latter is in front of the pilot, and a circular opening has been cut in the upper plane above him, so that in an aerial battle he may stand up, his head and shoulders above the top wing, and operate the machine gun, which fires across the propeller. In spite of all its excellent qualities and its record of victories won, the _Nieuport_ has lost its championship among the "Speed scouts." Another tiny biplane of still greater speed, has wrested the honors from it. The first place among fighters is now perhaps held by the _Spad_. Carrying one or two passengers and equipped with an engine of 150 to 250 horsepower, with its Lewis and Vickers machine guns spitting away at the enemy, it is a formidable object in the arena of war. Not to be left behind, America has developed a small, fast fighting machine which bids fair to make the other two look to their laurels. It is a tiny _Curtiss triplane_, the span of whose wings is only 25 feet. Its extra lifting surface gives it remarkable climbing powers without increasing its size as a target. It is always an advantage to a fighting machine to have as small a wing area as possible, for, besides being able to maneuver more quickly, it furnishes a smaller target to the enemy's gunners. The triplane can mount rapidly into the upper air, so as to command a strategic position above the airplanes of the foe, while to those attempting to fire upon it from above or below, its three wings do not present any larger surface than the two of the biplane or the one of the monoplane. The Curtiss factory has been at work for several years on the problem of the small fast fighter. Its first effort was a biplane whose top wing span was only 20 feet. In a test flight by Victor Carlstrom at Sheepshead Bay Speedway, New York City, its unusual performances amazed the spectators. With startling swiftness the pilot mounted into the blue, maneuvered his little biplane with the agility of an acrobat, gave excellent tests of speed, and descended. Reducing the speed of his motor but not cutting it off entirely, he allowed the little airplane to skim slowly along the ground. Then, alighting, he took hold of the fuselage close to the tail, and steered the diminutive craft to a suitable spot from which to make another flight. With the motor still running, and much to the surprise of the onlookers, he stepped in once more, put on full power and was off. This little airplane was nicknamed the _Curtiss Baby Speed Scout_. In one interesting respect it was different from the _Nieuport_, whose upper plane had to be cut away to increase the pilot's range of vision. In the Curtiss machine the pilot sits just behind the planes, so that he can see above and on all sides with the greatest ease. As a protection in battle his seat and the front portion of the fuselage are surrounded with thin steel, and the pilot sits close to the floor, so that he does not offer a very good target to the enemy's stray bullets. The "baby" biplane is fitted with a standard V-type motor of about 100 horsepower, and it carries fuel for a run of two and one-half hours. The British have done some very fine work in developing airplanes of the speed scout type. Their fighting machines flew over the lines and downed the German planes in goodly numbers. Among those which earned fame for their achievements are the _Bristol Scout_, familiarly known as the "bullet," one of the fastest of the military airplanes; and the _Vickers Scout_, another of the swift eagles that helped to maintain Allied supremacy in the clouds. One of the interesting features of the Vickers scout is the high "stagger" of its planes. By this we mean that the upper plane has been set far forward, so that it appears to overhang the lower. Quite recently another British scout machine, a _Sopwith triplane_, was flown by the British Royal Flying Corps, and it made a splendid record of victories over the lines. In a crack regiment of veteran fighters it is hard to pick out the men who might be said to be the "best soldiers." Each man excels in some individual way, and in just the right situation might prove to be the leader of his fellows. So it is bound to be with the long list of valiant little fighting planes that took up the cudgels against the Hun. No short summary can do justice to them all. There are the _Avro_, for instance, and the _De Havilland Scout Biplane_ of the British, as well as a biplane of the _Sopwith_ type; while the list is almost endless of British and French machines bearing such well known names as _Farman_, _Caudron_, _Dorand_, _Moineau_, _Morane-Saulnier_, etc. But whatever the particular features of these scout machines, their armament is generally about the same. It usually consists of a machine gun operated by the pilot and firing across the propeller. The pilot directs the nose of his machine straight at the enemy and lets go a rain of bullets. Fighting tactics are the subject of the most intense study on the part of every pilot of a scout machine. Often he has his pet system of downing the enemy. Immelmann, the famous German aviator, liked to get high in the upper air and there await the approach of a "victim," when he could dive straight down upon the unsuspecting airplane and open fire. Every pilot aims to surprise his enemy. To do so he must often perform startling aerial tricks, looping the loop to come up under the tail of the other machine, swooping down from above, or firing from behind while the tail of the enemy machine shields him as he gets in his fatal shot. The aviator learns to hide behind a cloud, to take advantage of blinding sunlight or any other natural condition in order to take the opposing airplane unawares. It is for this reason that machines are needed which combine speed, exceptional climbing powers, and quick maneuvering ability. Not only must they be able to practise all manner of tricks and stunts in order to surprise the foe, but it is quite as important that they be able to move rapidly on their own account, for a slow moving airplane is more liable to surprise than one which is swift in flight and able to alter its course repeatedly or else climb out of danger's way. How important the agility of these little fighting planes is they are apt themselves to discover when one of their number meets a big reconnaissance machine of the enemy. The latter, with its big guns, is a formidable object, and could easily get the better of the lightly built combat plane, if it were not for the fact that its weight and slow speed make it unmanageable. The smaller machine drops down upon the big fellow suddenly, firing a volley at its gunners. If he kills them well and good, but if not he must perform his cleverest aerial stunts to get out of their way, or he will soon be a mere ball of fire shooting earthward. Fortunately, he is quick, and a few acrobatic turns save him from threatening disaster. Before the present type of reconnaissance craft, bristling with machine guns had been developed, it was customary for the airplane doing photographic work, artillery "spotting" and similar duties to rely for its protection on a number of speed scouts, who flew above and around it and escorted it upon its mission. To-day the airplane that is used for general service duties over the lines is a dreadnaught of the air, and although it may still take along with it on its errands a few scouts to give battle to the faster airplanes of the enemy, yet on the whole it is self-reliant and has little to fear. To these slower-flying, larger general service machines are entrusted some of the gravest duties of war. They are the eyes of the army, whether they act for the heads of staff, flying out over the territory of the foe with their trained observers and bringing back accurate information about the movements of troops, whether they help in "spotting" targets for the gunners, or whether during an actual engagement they act as aerial spectators and messengers, helping to coordinate the efforts of the various bodies of troops. From the beginning of hostilities Germany strove to overwhelm the French in the air and prevent their airplanes from performing these necessary duties. France was at first but poorly equipped with machines of the type so sorely needed to maintain her air supremacy. By the skill and bravery of her airmen she managed to hold out, however, and the Huns were disappointed in never accomplishing their purpose of putting out her eyes. Her engineers were in the long run much more clever than those of Germany, and by the early part of 1915 they had ready a number of superior machines for reconnaissance and bombing. For the most part they were big _Caudrons_ and _Farmans_, well armed and a good match for the German maid-of-all-work biplanes. And there were large _Voisin_ biplanes, suitable for photographic work or for bombing. They were used extensively by French, British, Belgians and Italians. The _Voisin_, as in its very earliest models, is still easily recognizable by its curious tail resembling a box-kite, placed at the end of a projecting framework of four long beams or outriggers. It is a pusher type of airplane, with its propeller at the stern instead of at the bow. Larger and more formidable grow the "aerial destroyers." To-day among the super-dreadnaughts of the sky may be numbered the big biplanes bearing the names of _Moineau_, _Breguet-Michelin_, _Voisin-Peugeot_, and _Farman_. Heavily armed with machine guns they rendered valuable service to the Allies in many capacities, and they were the efficient answer to the struggle of the Hun for aerial supremacy. When in the Spring of 1918 the Germans launched their tremendous offensive at the Allies, the latter were well informed in advance of their intentions, thanks to these powerful reconnaissance planes. Swooping down close to the German lines in defiance of anti-aircraft guns and fighting machines alike, they had daily looked on at the massing of troops, the bringing up of reenforcements for the drive, and the piling up of ammunition supplies. In spite of every effort of the enemy to make their mission an intolerable one and to prevent them from spying upon preparations for the offensive, they had succeeded in bringing back to Allied commanders accurate and detailed information. By their aid the Allies knew at what points to expect the heaviest blows, and there they collected their reenforcements. Thus the nations lined up against the Hun were ready when the blow came, and they were able to check the tremendous onslaught by their land and air forces. What they really lacked perhaps, was not "eyes," to discover what the Germans were plotting, but a large enough number of small fighting machines to keep the enemy reconnaissance craft from spying upon their own preparations; and a large enough number of huge bombing planes to have completely interfered with the German efforts to mass reenforcements and ammunition for the push. In the long run it is perhaps the bombing plane that represents the greatest saving in human life in time of war. An army may be well equipped with reconnaissance machines and speed scouts, so that it may keep in closest touch with every move of the enemy. But unless it is able to interfere with those moves _before_ they reach the proportions of a direct and staggering blow, then the best it can do is to concentrate its own troops and supplies in readiness to meet the blow when it does fall. That means that hundreds of thousands of lives of infantrymen will be sacrificed in checking the waves of enemy troops. The Allies discovered a far better and more economical way of winning the war than this, and in the last year of the War they strained every nerve to put it into actual operation. It was this: to search out every military base of the enemy, every munition dump, nest of guns, supply train or troop train and drop bombs upon it. Two men in a bombing machine can attack and perhaps destroy a force which, if allowed to reach the front lines, would have to be met by several thousand infantrymen. Two men in a bombing machine can destroy at a single blow the ammunition which, if it had reached the front, might have swept out a regiment. That is why so much thought and genius has been expended upon the bombing plane. The day bomber becomes the right arm of the infantry, flying low over the lines, attacking troops and striking terror to the heart of the enemy as the huge Allied tanks did when they first started on their irresistible slow walk across trenches, troops, buildings and every manner of obstruction. The big bomber--particularly if the fighting machines have cleared the way ahead of it--is something like that: it is an invincible weapon of destruction, wiping out whole bodies of the foe at every stroke, like a giant sweeping the pigmies of earth ahead of him with his strong right arm. The big dreadnaughts of the air like the _Moineau_, the _Voisin-Peugeot_, the _Breguet_, and the _Farman_, become, when a bombing apparatus is substituted for their camera and radio, very efficient day bombers. There is a long list of others: as for instance, the British _Avro_, _Handley-Page_ and _Sopwith_ machines and the French _Caudron_, _Dorand_ and _Letord_. Many of these big bombing planes were designed for long distance work either by day or by night, and so they have been made enormous weight-lifters, with large supporting surfaces, two or more engines, and equipped with a fuel supply sufficient for long runs. In order to carry their engines conveniently they very often have more than one fuselage. Sometimes the pilot sits in a large fuselage in the center, while the motors are carried in two smaller cars or bodies called "nacelles" at either side. The British _Avro_, for instance, is a huge biplane with three fuselages and two rotary engines. Its upper and lower wings are equal in span, and it can readily be distinguished from the British _Handley-Page_, whose upper wing has a large overhang. The _Handley-Page_ is one of the largest machines built. It carries its two 12-cylinder Rolls-Royce engines in small nacelles between the main planes, and it can be recognized by these and its biplane tail. The _Caudron_ is another big twin-motored machine, used by French, British and Italians. Its two rotary engines are fixed in small nacelles between the planes, while the pilot rides in a center fuselage. Somewhat after the manner of the Voisin, it carries its tail at the end of a projecting framework of four long beams, the lower two of which act also as landing skids. [Illustration: _Copyright International Film Service, Inc._ A HANDLEY PAGE MACHINE TUNING UP FOR A FLIGHT] America, like the rest of the nations, has had her secret ambition to try her hand at building bombing machines. In 1918 the designs for the _Handley-Page_ bomber were brought to this country, and on July 6th the first American built _Handley-Page_ bomber was successfully launched into the air at Elizabeth, New Jersey. The huge machine was christened the _Langley_ after one of the early experimenters with the heavier-than-air machine. It had a wing span of 100 feet, and a central fuselage 63 feet long. Small armored nacelles at either side of the fuselage carried its two 400 horsepower Liberty motors, each turning a separate propeller. Laden with its full supply of bombs, its two Browning machine guns and fuel for a long run, this giant of the skies weighs about 9,000 pounds. Our country has instituted a program of construction for these super-dreadnaughts, and before long they will form an enormous aerial weapon in the hands of our airmen. For America, still practically a novice at airplane construction on a large scale, to be able to produce in her factories the largest and most complicated of the foreign types, speaks well for her determination and resourcefulness. [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ THE LAUNCHING OF A LANGLEY, A GIANT BOMBING AIRPLANE] The Allied nations have vied with each other in their efforts to produce the king among bombing planes. The Italians have undoubtedly carried away the prize. Their _Caproni_ triplane is among the largest in the world. The details of its construction were kept secret, as it was one of the most dreaded weapons of the Allies. Three powerful Fiat motors drive it at a speed of about 80 miles an hour. With its five tons of bombs, destined for important objectives in the land of the enemy, it is an object to inspire awe. The _Caproni_ makers have long been known for their large bombing machines. Their three bombers, including a smaller triplane and a biplane, headed the list of their fellows at the front. In October, 1917 a _Caproni_ biplane was demonstrated in America, covering a distance of almost 400 miles in about 4-1/2 hours. It started its journey from Norfolk and landed at the Mineola Aviation field, with seven passengers on board. _Caproni_ bombing airplanes carried out many historic raids, among them being that on the famous Austrian Base at Pola. To reach it the Italian aviators had to travel by night across the Adriatic, and they carried out their pre-arranged plan of attack with the utmost punctuality, in spite of the tremendous difficulties that loomed along their path. Two squadrons of machines left the aerodrome, the first some time before the second, and each airplane following its fellows at a considerable distance. At 11 o'clock at night the first of the bombers flew over Pola and discharged its rain of high explosives. In rapid succession the others followed, letting go their missiles upon stores of ammunition, docks, and every object of military importance. In order to aid them in picking out their targets the raiders made use of an ingenious contrivance which so amazed and stupefied the Austrians that for a while they failed to make any attempt to shoot down the Italian planes with their anti-aircraft guns. It was a huge parachute, to which had been attached a powerful chemical light. Descending slowly the terrifying object hung as it seemed suspended in mid-air, lighting the way for the raiding machines, who took advantage of the terror of the Austrians to drop 14 tons of high-explosives and make their escape unharmed. The tremendous _Caproni_ triplane is almost impregnable. Its enemies have little chance of downing it, for it can fly even when one of its planes has been severely damaged, and with its three powerful motors it is practically immune from any engine trouble, as in case of an accident or injury to one motor the other two, or for that matter, one of them, will carry it safely home. With the great stability given it by its three supporting surfaces it can go through the stormiest weather without the slightest need for fear. Once its load of bombs has been discharged, it can rise to 7,000 feet to escape from its pursuers. The story is told of an Italian aviator, Major Salomone, who escaped in a _Caproni_ when attacked after a bombing expedition by a squadron of Austrian speed scouts. His enemies succeeded in wrecking one of the big engines by their gun fire, and in killing two of his gunners and a pilot. He himself was severely wounded, but keeping control of his machine he managed to reach home safely by the power of the remaining two engines. The triplane is by far the best type for these giant raiders that fly by night. Their requirements are great lifting power and great stability, and these, the triplane with its extra lifting surface, best fulfills. Equipped with two or three engines so that its power-plant can be absolutely relied upon in every emergency, with accurate bomb-sighting instruments and with a compass, searchlight and other apparatus necessary for traveling by night, the triplane can be depended upon to inflict gigantic blows upon enemy bases. The British have a big bombing triplane that was heard from in Germany: the _Sopwith_. Its three planes are equal in span, and have only one strut at each side of the fuselage, with the wiring also greatly simplified, in order to reduce the head-resistance to a minimum. [Illustration: _SIDE VIEW OF A SOPWITH TRIPLANE_] [Illustration: _TOP VIEW OF THE "TAIL" OF THE SOPWITH_] The _Sopwith_ was one of the first triplanes to be used for bombing and general service over the lines. Those at the front early in 1918 were equipped with a 110 horsepower Clerget rotary engine. A round metal hood or "cowl" surrounding the motor formed the front of the fuselage, overhanging the body slightly at the bottom in order to form an air outlet for the engine. America has not actually developed any big bombing planes of the type of the _Sopwith_, although we have one enormous triplane,--the _Curtiss_ triplane air-cruiser, built for service over the sea. And although Russia abandoned the good cause for which she was fighting, we cannot pass over the subject of big bombing triplanes without mentioning the giant _Sikorsky_, one of the largest and most remarkable weapons of destruction that were employed in the war against the Hun. The future will no doubt write a new and fascinating chapter in the story of the triplane. The big night bombers are being built on a large scale by all the Allied nations. Their exploits opened every great military operation, they constituted a reign of terror over the lines of the enemy, and their death-dealing blows saved countless thousands of allied troops from the need of sacrificing their lives. They could make the journey straight to the heart of the enemy's country and return, with plenty of surplus fuel. Their missiles did enormous damage to railway centers, docks, bridges, aerodromes and arsenals. Carrying bombs that weigh anywhere from 16 to 500 pounds, they spread havoc in their wake, while the silencers on their engines made them veritable specters of the night. An illustration of their possible accomplishments was the flight of Italian machines across the Alps and to Vienna, when they dropped manifestos upon the frightened populace. Those manifestos reminded the Austrian people that only the humanity and self-respect of the allied airmen made them drop "paper bombs" on Vienna while the Germans were unloading high explosives in the midst of the civilian populations of London and Paris. It must have shown the people of Vienna what the machines of their enemies were capable of doing. [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ AN AMERICAN BUILT CAPRONI AIRPLANE] But the airplanes of war whose acquaintance we have made so hastily in this chapter were not used by the Allies for raiding or terrifying civilians. From the tiny fighting machines that carried so many of our bravest pilots to personal combat over the lines, to the enormous bombing planes used to scatter destruction and ruin among the military strongholds of the enemy, our machines were trustworthy and brave, but they were also machines of honor. [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ THIS CURTISS TRIPLANE HAS A SPEED OF ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY MILES AN HOUR] CHAPTER VII GERMAN AIRPLANES IN THE WORLD WAR When we read the story of the wonderful contributions made by France, England, Italy, and America to the progress of aviation and to the romantic history of the heavier-than-air machine, we must remember that it is the story of nations which, a few short years ago, had no thought of turning the airplane into a mere weapon of destruction and desolation. It was the conquest of the air, for its own sake, that appealed to the fiery imaginations of the French, and that made them, from the day when the first Montgolfier balloon went soaring into the clouds, down to the early triumphs of the airplane in France and the great contests and meetings that followed them, ardent enthusiasts over each and every form of aerial sport. England, in spite of the fact that her sportsmen fliers were winning new triumphs daily, and in spite of the public interest that was taken from the very beginning in the advance of aviation, had, at the beginning of 1911, just _one_ military airplane. America, ardent devotee of Peace, even while the World War was raging in Europe, failed to take steps to provide herself with an aerial fleet. But when we come to Germany, the story of aviation takes an entirely different turn. The Germans as a people were never wildly enthusiastic over airplanes, for they lacked the fine sportsmanship and love of daring adventure which produced so many clever aviators in other lands. In fact, until they saw its utter inability to compete with the heavier-than-air machine as a military weapon, they confined themselves almost entirely to the construction of the safe and comfortable dirigible. With the possible exception of such a man as Lilienthal, the Germans took slight personal interest in the subject of human flight. It was the German government that, by lavish expenditure, and by every means known to it, encouraged experiment and progress. The whole thought in Germany, both in the days of the dirigible and later, when the airplane had proved its superiority, was solely to develop the flying machine as an instrument of war. It was for this that she began her costly and gigantic program of Zeppelin construction, it was for this that the best engineers in the Empire were set to work designing aeronautic engines. It was not without some chagrin that the German military authorities gave up their dream of world conquest by means of the Zeppelin, and set themselves to building airplanes instead. Yet when they did, they applied to the new problem the same thoroughness, the same military precision and uniformity that had marked their earlier program. Reading of the French machines we are fascinated by the many types and patterns that the ingenious Frenchmen were able to devise. In Germany everything was carefully systematized by the government, individual designs were discouraged unless they fitted into the military scheme of things, and the airplane was produced in large numbers, like so many blackjacks, all exactly alike, to be used in striking the peaceful nations of the world. German thoroughness went a long way in perfecting the airplane as a war instrument. When, in August 1914, her sword finally descended, she had close on to 800 machines and a thousand trained pilots, together with a small force of seaplanes and pilots. To-day, according to an English authority, she has at least 20,000 aircraft of all sorts, manned by a force of 300,000 pilots, observers, and bombardiers. The first German machines to fly over French territory might well have struck terror to the hearts of the plucky French, for they were equipped with the cleverest instruments of destruction that Germany could devise. The swept-back, curved wings of these standard biplanes won them the name of _Taube_ or "dove." Certainly they were not "doves of peace." They were equipped with wireless, carried cameras for reconnaissance work, had the most accurate recorders of height and speed, dependable compasses, instruments for bomb-dropping, dual control systems, so that they could be operated by either pilot or observer, and dozens of other small improvements and accessories that made them more than a match for the French machines sent up to dispute their supremacy in the air. The challenge these machines presented to the genius of the French was taken up with vigor. It was not long before they found themselves an obsolete form of aircraft in the great war in the air, and for all their inventions and improvements, they were forced back into their hangars. By the Spring of 1915, the French were soaring through the sky in fast fighting machines that made the air a very unsafe place for the plodding German "maid-of-all-work." The Germans bestirred themselves to think of some method of getting even with these unreasonable French pilots, who somehow refused to admit defeat. The machine which they sent out in answer to the _Nieuport_ monoplane and others of its type was the invention of a Dutchman; it succeeded in creating quite a sensation for a while in Allied circles, until like others of its company it was superseded by French inventive genius and rendered a more or less harmless craft. This supposedly invincible fighter was the _Fokker_. In general construction it was largely an imitation of the French Morane monoplane, but it had one entirely new feature that rendered it at the time a formidable adversary. That was what was known as a synchronized gun, firing through the propeller. The problem had been to design a machine which could be operated by one man, who became both the pilot and the gunner. In order to do this he must necessarily be able to control the direction of his machine in flight and aim his gun at the enemy at the same time. The best way to accomplish this was to point the nose of his machine at his victim and fire straight ahead of him. But here the propeller was the great obstacle. How could he fire a gun from the bow of his machine without striking the propeller blades as they whirled swiftly about in front of him? The German _Fokker_ answered that question. The machine gun with which it was equipped had its shots so synchronized, or "timed," that, impossible as it seems, they passed between the rapidly revolving propeller blades without striking them. The _Fokker_ was a remarkable climber in its day, and in addition it had a simple device by which the pilot could lock the control of the elevating planes, steering only to right or to left, by means of pedals worked with his feet. Early in 1916 this deadly weapon of aerial warfare made its appearance, and for a while the civilian population of England and France read with dismay of its conquests. Mounting high into the clouds, it would await its victim. The moment a machine of the Allies appeared beneath it, the _Fokker_ turned its nose straight down and went speeding in the direction of its prey, opening fire as soon as it got within range. There was no use of the unfortunate airplane trying to escape. The _Fokker_ could, by wobbling its nose slightly in spiral fashion as it descended, produce, not a straight stream of bullets ahead of it but a cone of fire from its machine gun, with the victim in the center of the circle. Whichever way the latter turned to escape it met a curtain of bullets which could destroy it. The Allied machines could only combat it in groups of three and for a time at least it held supremacy in the skies. When itself pursued by a superior number of planes, it was quick as an acrobat, and speedy at climbing, so that it very seldom could be caught. This was the machine in which the two famous German airmen, Immelmann and Boelke performed some of their most daring exploits. It traveled at a speed of more than 100 miles per hour and could perform surprising feats with the most alarming ease. But while the _Fokker's_ début over the trenches caused the British House of Commons to debate the new peril gravely, French and British airmen sprang quickly and gaily to the challenge. Heedless of the danger, they braved the bullets of the _Fokker_ in order to get a better view of its mechanism, and they soon answered it with swift and powerful machines like the British _De Havilland_. It was only a short while before the Fokker monoplane was "behind the times." Faster machines with greater climbing powers overtook it in the skies and swooped down upon it from superior altitudes, as it had swooped down upon so many of its victims. Its day of triumph at an end, it withdrew to the seclusion of its hangar, and the _Fokker biplane_ replaced it in the air. This in its turn became the steed of many of Germany's star aerial performers. Now came the days when Captain Baron von Richthofen held forth in the heavens with his squadrons of variegated planes which the British airmen nicknamed "Richthofen's circus." These queerly "camouflaged" planes were German Albatroses. The _Albatros_ was one of the best designed of the German airplanes, and although the first models produced were not remarkable for their speed, they were good climbers and weight-carriers and thoroughly reliable. They were later developed in two distinct types: a fast "speed scout" biplane single-seater, equipped with two machine guns both firing across the propeller; and a slower reconnaissance airplane, for general service over the lines. The latter carried both a pilot and an observer, and had two machine guns, one to be fired by each of them. It was not long before the Allies had several captured machines of this type in their possession. An Austrian _Albatros_ reconnaissance biplane, taken in 1916, afforded an interesting opportunity to examine what was at that time one of the very best of the enemy's planes. Its general construction did not entirely meet with the approval of expert airmen who looked it over. Its upper wing was much longer from tip to tip than the lower, producing a very great overhang. From the point of view of the pilot this had its advantage, for the shorter plane below him allowed a much better range of vision, but it undoubtedly weakened the whole structure. The biplane was exceedingly slow in flight, a great drawback even in a machine not built for fighting purposes. One curious feature was its very large fixed tail plane, to which the elevating plane was attached; while a decided defect from a military standpoint was the entirely unprotected position of the pilot and the observer. Obviously the Germans had not yet solved the problem of air supremacy to their complete satisfaction. But their engineers and designers were busy thinking it over, and soon they had ready a number of swifter airplanes, foremost among which were probably the _Aviatik_ and the _Halberstadt_. The _Aviatik_ made great claims of superior accomplishments over the front lines. German pilots boasted that it had a "ceiling" (a climbing capacity) of almost 16,000 feet with pilot, observer and a fuel supply. This was over 4,000 feet greater altitude than that which any other Allied or enemy machine could reach under similar conditions. The machine had an upper wing span of 40 feet, 8 inches, while its lower wing measured 35 feet, 5 inches from tip to tip. It had a strong armor of steel tubing surrounding the compartment or "cockpit" which held the seats of the pilot and observer. The _Aviatik_ was an efficient bombing biplane of its day, although larger and more powerful machines have since come into the field to supersede it. It was fitted with metal bomb-launching tubes at either side of the bow, and the bombs were released by pulling a cable connected with the releasing trigger. The _Aviatik_ was armed in addition with rotating machine guns, able to fire in any direction in an aerial battle. The _Halberstadt_ was a swift fighting machine or speed scout, which made its appearance in the third year of the war and proved efficient and reliable. This and the combat planes that followed it showed greater and greater speed until by 1917 the scout machines were flying at 150 miles per hour and climbing to altitudes as high as 22,000 feet. It was the bombing plane, however, that appealed most strongly to the German mind as an instrument of destruction. Tired, perhaps, of their efforts to produce a fighting machine which should be without its match in aerial warfare, they focussed their attention about this time upon the bomber, which in 1917 was playing an ever more important role in the struggle for air supremacy. Early in 1917, the flower of their creative genius took to the air. It was the _Gotha_ biplane, and at the time of its début it proved one of the most difficult machines to attack and down of any of those flying for the Hun. The _Gun-tunnel Gotha_ it was familiarly called, owing to the unusual means of defense against pursuers that had been devised for it. Up to this time one of the best methods of attacking an enemy plane had been to come up suddenly and fire on it "under its tail." The gunner in the machine thus attacked could not get in a single shot at his pursuer without striking the tail planes of his own machine. The portion of an airplane which can be fired on in this way without danger of return fire is said to be its "blind spot," and it was this blind spot that sent many a well-armed and powerful airplane crashing to earth when its pursuers had succeeded in outmaneuvering it. The _Gun-tunnel Gotha_ had practically no blind spot. Its designers had constructed it with a tunnel that ran the length of the fuselage, from the cockpit, or compartment where the pilot and gunners sat, through to an opening just under the tail planes. A machine gun in the cockpit could be pointed through this tunnel and fired at the unsuspecting victim who came up back of it according to the most approved tactics. The opening of the gun tunnel was carefully "camouflaged," so that at a short distance it could not be seen by an attacking airplane, especially one which was unprepared for it. The _Gotha_ practically bristled with machine guns. One in its bow which commanded a fairly large range was operated by the forward observer, who sat in front of the pilot. A passage-way beside the pilot's seat allowed him to reach "gun-tunnel," where, stretched flat on the floor of the fuselage he operated the gun which fired out under the tail. Above him in the fuselage sat the rear gunner, and by their combined aid the _Gotha_ could keep all enemy planes at a safe distance. [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ A GIANT GOTHA BOMBING PLANE BROUGHT DOWN BY THE FRENCH] These, however, were merely protective measures. The Gotha's real mission was bombing, and for this it carried a bomb-releasing mechanism just in front of the pilot's seat, on the floor of the fuselage, while behind the pilot an additional supply of the death-dealing missiles were carried in racks in vertical position. [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ GERMAN FOKKER PLANE CAPTURED BY THE FRENCH] These were the machines which flew over England and France in 1917 scattering death and destruction. Against them the machines of the Allies were for a time almost powerless, for the best of their airplanes were completely outgunned by this new terror of the skies. The new German machine was given one of its first tryouts in the Balkans, where a squadron of twin-engined _Gothas_ accomplished the bombing of Bucharest. Its efficiency proved, it appeared over the lines and was also used extensively by the Germans for long distance bombing operations. The fact that the _Gothas_ flew in large squadrons made them still more difficult to attack. Yet Allied airplanes went out to give them fight, and in spite of what seemed the almost complete hopelessness of the situation, they did succeed in breaking up _Gotha_ formations and in downing a few of the dread machines. Yet another German twin-winged bombing plane was ready about this time. The _Friedrichshafen_ bomber was not so large as the _Gotha_, but in many points of construction it resembled it. A biplane, it had wings that tapered somewhat from the center to the tips. The wings were strengthened by center spars of steel tubing, which was also used in the construction of the rudder and elevators at the tail. The pilot occupied the rear seat in the cockpit and the gunner the forward seat, while a short passage-way ran between the two. Every effort had been made at camouflage. On their upper surfaces the wings were painted as nearly as possible earth color, so that they might be indistinguishable to a machine looking down upon them from a superior altitude. On their lower surfaces they were painted pale blue, to blend with the sky and make them invisible to an enemy plane below. The armament of this _Friedrichshafen_ bomber consisted of three machine guns, one of them firing downward through a trap door in the fuselage. It was fitted with an automatic bomb-releasing apparatus, by means of which, as one bomb was released, another slipped into place. Other bombing machines appeared in 1917, as the _A.E.G._ twin-motored tractor biplane, and the _A.G.O._ twin-bodied biplane. The Germans also began construction of huge bombing triplanes, heavily armed with machine guns. With squadrons of these, the _Gothas_, and the _Friedrichshafens_, they carried out in 1917 and 1918 an established program of bombardment. The night no longer held terrors for their airmen, who had learned to fly in the darkness. They made their raiding expeditions, not only against Allied troops and military bases, but also on English and French towns, killing civilians and children and destroying property of no importance from a military point of view. By these methods the Hun had hoped to acquire the supremacy of the air which his smaller fighting machines had not yet won for him. Fortunately the French and British had been hard at work, and in answer to the forays of the German bombing planes, squadrons of Allied planes dropped their missiles in the heart of Germany. The Allied planes, however, chose military objectives, and did not aim their blows at defenseless civilians. Stroke for stroke, and with a little extra for good measure the Allies beat back their opponents in the air. To-day some of the most remarkable raiding machines in existence, whether for night or for day work belong to France and England, while America is leaving no stone unturned to build up an air navy the equal of those by whose side she fought. Yet the war in the air, on the Allied side, was always marked by honor, decency and humanity. The enemy repeatedly showed that not mere military gains, but the savage pleasure of bombing civilians, was a part of his air program. In March, 1918, nine squadrons of his airplanes flew over Paris and attacked the city. The raid resulted in 100 deaths, besides 79 people injured, a shocking story to go down in the record of the Hun's attempt at mastery of the air. Mr. Baker, our American Secretary of War, was in Paris at the time when this historic raid occurred. He was holding a conference at his hotel with General Tasker H. Bliss, at the time American Chief of Staff, when the French warning siren was sounded throughout the city. The city was covered with a deep fog, that completely shielded from the view of the German machines any possible objective. But they had no intention of choosing targets for their bombs,--they let them fall at random upon Paris. For almost three hours terror reigned among the helpless civilians; then the raiders, having lost four of their number to the anti-aircraft gunners, turned and sped swiftly toward their own lines. "It was a revelation," said Mr. Baker, "of the methods inaugurated by an enemy who wages the same war against women and children as against soldiers.... We are sending our soldiers to Europe to fight until the world is delivered from these horrors." London as well as Paris suffered from enemy bombing planes. Raid followed raid in the Spring of 1918, but the British had so improved their aerial defenses that they were able to meet the attempted ravages of the enemy with the most powerful anti-aircraft guns, which, like a wall of fire, forbade the dread monsters to come within the limits of the metropolis. Many machines in the German squadrons never got close enough to London to bomb it, but those which did let fall their terrible explosives without aim or object, killing and maiming a large number of civilians. The British were finally forced to take the only course which could have effect with the Hun. They flew into the heart of the enemy's country and gave him a taste of his own medicine. True, they chose their objectives carefully, and the targets which they bombed were munition works, railways, factories, and camps, but for all their tempered revenge they made the foe smart beneath the stinging lash that descended, again and again, upon his back. In answer to the aircraft program of the United States, Germany renewed her energies, and her construction of airplanes during the last year of the War was on a larger scale than ever before. Her small fighting machines, or speed scouts, include the _Fokker_, the _Halberstadt_, the _Roland_, the _Albatros_, the _Aviatik_, the _Pfalz_ monoplane, the _Rumpler_, the _L.V.W._ and a number of others. Some of these we have already seen at work. The _Roland_ is one of the latest types of German two-seater scouts. Every effort has been made in it to decrease the "head resistance" by careful streamlining, reduction of the number of interplane struts, etc. Swift flying and a rapid climber, it has won for itself the title of _The German Spad_. The _Pfalz_ is built either as a monoplane or as a biplane. It is a machine somewhat similar to the _Fokker_. The monoplane, however, has two machine guns, one on each side of the pilot, and firing through the propeller. Among airplanes used by the enemy for general service duties over the lines, the _A.G.O._, the _A.E.G._ and the _Gotha_ undoubtedly take the lead. All are heavily armed with machine guns and bombs and are driven by powerful motors. Yet for all the desperate German struggle for supremacy, her machines and her pilots did not prove the equals of the Allies in the air. The airplanes of France, England, Italy and America maintained a ceaseless vigilance over the lines, giving chase to every enemy plane or squadron of planes that made its appearance on the horizon. Our airmen showed the most dauntless courage, and they continually outwitted and outmaneuvered the slower thinking Hun. Our speed scouts challenged his reconnaissance and bombing planes, and prevented them from performing their missions effectively; our own reconnaissance airplanes gave him a hard time of it; and our bombing machines proved themselves the strong right arm of the service--taking the place of the big guns in raining heavy explosives upon enemy troops, bombing his military bases, and making life in general most uncomfortable for the foe. It is a far cry from those first standardized _Taubes_ to the many makes and patterns of German airplanes of the present day. As the Allies met those first maids-of-all-work with a mixed company of airplanes of many and untried talents, so to-day they are meeting her efforts to imitate their own versatility in aircraft with machines which are carefully standardized in every detail. It should be an object lesson to Germany that the Allies have triumphed in each case. CHAPTER VIII HEROES OF THE AIR Heroes of the air in peace times have been numerous. We already know the stories of many of the pioneers of aircraft, who risked their lives in situations involving the utmost peril. The men who, in the first frail monoplanes and biplanes attempted to fly the British Channel, or to make dangerous cross-country flights under adverse weather conditions were heroes indeed. Yet undoubtedly the greatest exploits will be told of those heroes who, in the Great War, flew daily over the lines, meeting the aviators of the enemy in mortal combat. Every allied nation engaged in the great conflict has her sacred roll of honor of those who fought for her in the air. Americans will never grow weary of tales of the great Lufbery; Englishmen will boast of the prowess of Bishop, McCudden and the rest of them; while Frenchmen will tell, with mingling of joy and sadness, of the immortal Guynemer, Prince of Aces. Georges Guynemer's name will always stand first on the record of the war's great flying men. His short career was a blaze of triumph against the Hun, but with many a hairbreadth escape from death and many a feat of reckless daring. Young, handsome and dashing, anxious to give his life for his beloved France, he became the adored idol of the French nation. On one occasion when he marched in a parade in Paris, the people strewed his path with flowers, and it was necessary for the police to intervene and protect him from the enraptured multitudes who pressed forward to embrace him. Yet Guynemer came near missing the fighting altogether. Guynemer was born on Christmas day, 1893, in the town of Compiègne. He grew up a tall, delicate boy, who, his friends predicted, would never live to reach maturity. Perhaps the fact that he was almost an invalid turned his attention away from the athletic sports of the other boys and gave him his intense interest in mechanics. He had one consuming ambition: to become a student in the École Polytechnique in Paris; but when by hard study he had finally prepared himself and came up for his entrance examination, the professors of the school rejected him on the ground that he might not live to finish the course. To help the lad forget his overwhelming disappointment, his parents hurried him away to a health resort at Biarritz. He had been there a year when in August, 1914, came the news that his country had been attacked. Burning with zeal to help defend his beloved France, Guynemer offered himself again and again for enlistment in the French army. Hard pressed as that army was, its officers did not feel that they needed the sacrifice of a frail youth with one foot in the grave. Gently but firmly, the young candidate was rejected. Bitterly humiliated he went back to his life of enforced inaction; and while he saw his comrades marching forth to war, he eagerly pondered in his mind what service he could perform in the war against the invader. At length he hit upon an idea. Since he could not become a soldier, why should he not turn his mechanical skill to some account in one of the great airplane factories where France was turning out her swift squadrons of the air. He volunteered and was accepted. In a short time he had made his presence felt, for he had received a thorough preparatory education in mechanics and was far the superior of the majority of his fellow workmen. Little by little he won the friendship and admiration of his superiors, who promoted him to the position of mechanician at one of the big military aviation fields. Now for the first time he was living among war scenes. While he performed his humble duties in the hangar he burned with ambition to pilot over the lines one of the swift French battle planes. But he hardly dared make the request that he be taught to fly, fearing the rebuff which he had received on every other occasion when he had sought to enlist. But the officers at the aviation camp had been watching young Guynemer, and their respect for his nobility of character and high intelligence finally outweighed their fears that he might prove too delicate for the service in the air. So the happy day finally arrived when he was permitted to enlist as a student airman. In January, 1916, having completed his course of training, he flew for the first time in a swift scout plane. From the day that he first flew out over the lines, his higher officers realized that here indeed was a master airman. In three short weeks he had won the distinction of "ace," having downed his fifth enemy machine. The secret of his success lay partly in the frail constitution which had come so near condemning him to inactivity. For the youth was fully convinced that he had not long to live, and his one idea was to die in such a way as to render the greatest possible service to his native land. Perfectly prepared to meet death when the moment came, he was scrupulously careful never to court it unnecessarily, for he realized that the longer he lived the more damage he would be able to inflict upon the enemy. The early morning invariably found him in his hangar, going over with loving care every detail of the mechanism of his swift scout plane. Not until every portion of engine, wings, struts and stays had been tried and proved in A-1 condition, and every cartridge removed from his machine gun and carefully tested, did he climb into his pilot's seat and wing his way across the sky in search of enemy planes. And when Guynemer encountered an enemy plane he maneuvered to overcome it with the same care for exactness of movement. His cool-headed precision made it almost impossible to take him by surprise, while there was many a hapless machine of the enemy that he pounced upon unawares. He was an accomplished aerial acrobat, and one of his favorite tactics was to climb to a great altitude and then, pointing the nose of his plane at his prey, to suddenly swoop down at enormous speed, firing as he came. Expert as he was, the great French aviator had a number of narrow escapes from death. In September, 1916, seeing one of his fellow aviators engaged in an unequal combat with five German _Fokkers_, he sped to the scene of the affray. Maneuvering into a favorable position above his opponents he shot down two of them within the space of a few seconds. The remaining three _Fokkers_ took to flight, but Guynemer was hot on their trail. Another of them went crashing earthward. Suddenly, as the plucky Frenchman sped on, hot on the trail of the two that were still unpunished, he was startled by the bursting of a shell just under his machine. One of the wings of his plane had been torn completely away, and from a height of ten thousand feet in the atmosphere, he began falling rapidly. He struggled bravely with the controls but nothing could check the ever increasing speed of his plunge earthward. At an altitude of five thousand feet the airplane commenced to somersault, but the pilot was strapped in his seat. Then, as if some unseen force had intervened, the swiftness of the descent was unexpectedly checked. With speed greatly lessened the airplane came crashing to the earth, and the plucky aviator was rescued from the débris, unconscious but not seriously hurt by his dreadful fall. It was for this exploit that he received the rank of Lieutenant, while he was decorated with the much-coveted French War Cross. On another occasion Guynemer's machine was shot down by German shells, and came crashing to earth in No Man's Land, between the French and the German trenches. The Prussians turned their machine guns on the spot and plowed the area with scorching fire. But the French had seen their beloved hero fall, and without a thought for the consequences the poilus in the trenches went "over the top" after him. Quickly they bore him back to safety, and if they left some of their comrades fallen out in that dread region, they did not count it too great a sacrifice to have redeemed their idol with their blood. Practically every fighting nation has had not only its favorite airman but also its favorite aerial escadrille. Guynemer was the leader of the famous band of "Cignognes" or "Storks," into which had been gathered the pick of all the flying men of France. His historic opponent in the war in the air was the German Baron von Richthofen, whose squadrons were humorously nicknamed "Richthofen's circus" by the Allies, because of their curiously camouflaged wings. The Germans were very jealous of Guynemer's successes, and as the record of the number of machines he had downed grew, they eagerly credited Richthofen with more victories. Guynemer's final score was 54 and his enemy's much higher. Yet as a matter of fact the Frenchman had destroyed many more machines than Baron von Richthofen, for whereas the French gave no credit for planes sent to earth where no other witnesses than the pilot could testify to their destruction, the Germans were very glad to pile up a huge score for their hero, and were not by any means critical in seeking proof of a victory. Guynemer's remarkable aerial victories made him a hero throughout the world. It was reported that in one day he had been officially credited with the destruction of four airplanes of the enemy. One of his chief ambitions was to bring down an enemy machine within the allied lines, as little damaged as possible. Such a plane gave him an opportunity to indulge his interest in the purely mechanical side of aviation. With the utmost patience he would examine it in every detail, making note of any features which he regarded as improvements on the _Nieuport_ he himself flew. Such improvements would very shortly appear on his own machine. So while Guynemer flew a _Nieuport_, it was in reality a different _Nieuport_ from any doing service over the lines. In its many little individual features and appliances it reflected the active, eager, painstaking mind of its famous pilot, whose mind was ever on the alert to discover the tiniest detail of mechanism which might gain for him an advantage over his adversaries. It was on September 11, 1917, that the beloved aviator fought his last battle in the air. While in flight over Ypres he caught sight of five German _Albatros_ planes, and instantly turned the nose of his machine in their direction. As he bore swiftly down upon them, a flock of enemy machines, over forty in number, suddenly made their appearance and swooped down from an enormous height above the clouds. Baron von Richthofen with his flying "circus" was among them. None of Guynemer's comrades was near enough to aid him. In the distance a group of Belgian machines came in view, rushing to his assistance, but before they had arrived at the spot the plucky French airplane was observed sinking gently to the earth, where it disappeared behind the German lines. Guynemer's comrades cherished the hope that he had been forced to descend and had been taken prisoner by the Germans. Such an ending to a glorious career of service would perhaps not have been desired by the aviator himself. He who had used his life to such good advantage for his country had crowned his victories with death. The Germans themselves, out of respect for his memory, undertook to inform his fellow-men of his fate, and a few days later they dropped a note into the French aerodrome stating that he had been shot through the head. The German pilot who had killed him was named Wissemann, and he was an unknown aviator. When he learned that he had actually killed the great Guynemer, he wrote home to say that he need now fear no one, since he had conquered the king of them all. It was scarcely a fortnight before he was sent to his death by a devoted friend of his renowned victim. The man who avenged the death of Guynemer was René Fonck, likewise a member of the French "Cignognes." Fonck took up the championship of the air where his comrade had laid it down. He stands to-day as the most remarkable of all the French aviators. He has been called "the most polished aerial duellist the world has ever seen." With an official record of almost half a hundred enemy machines destroyed, he has astounded his spectators by his aerial "stunts" and the absolute accuracy of his aim. Many of Fonck's successful battles have been fought against heavy odds, quite frequently with as many as five of the enemy's airplanes opposing him. Yet with apparent ease he invariably succeeded in warding off his would-be destroyers, whilst one by one he sent them flaming to the earth. It has been said of Fonck that in all his battles in the clouds he never received so much as a bullet hole in his machine, thanks to his unparalleled skill at maneuvering. He made a world's record at Soissons in May, 1918, when he downed five enemy airplanes in one day. He was flying on patrol duty when he came upon three German two-seater machines, and in less than 10 seconds sent two of them flaming to earth. Later in the same day he actually succeeded in breaking up a large formation of German fighting machines, and after destroying three, sent the rest fleeing in confusion. On another occasion Fonck made a world's record when he brought down three German planes in the brief space of 20 seconds. While in flight above the lines he came upon four big biplanes of the enemy, flying in single file, one behind the other. He quickly pounced upon the leader, and in less time than it takes to tell, had sent him crashing to the earth. The second had no chance to alter its course. Training his machine gun on it Fonck soon sent it, a mass of flames, after its fellow. The third big biplane dodged out of the line and sped out of harm's way, but the fourth was caught by the plucky Frenchman, who wheeled his machine round with startling rapidity and fired upon it before it could make good its escape. This remarkable feat, performed in August, 1918, brought Lieutenant René Fonck's official total of victories up to sixty, and made him the premier French ace, at the age of twenty-four. In all his aerial battles he had never been wounded, passing unscathed through the most formidable encounters by reason of his unparalleled skill at maneuvering. Guynemer and Fonck are perhaps the two greatest names on the French roll of heroes of the air. But there were many other Frenchmen who did valiant service. Lieutenant René Dorine had an official record of 23 victories when he disappeared in May, 1917. He was nicknamed the "Unpuncturable" by his comrades, since in all his exploits above the lines his machine had only twice received a bullet hole. Lieutenant Jean Chaput had a record of 16 enemy planes destroyed, when in May, 1918, he made the great sacrifice; and there are many others, some living and some fallen in battle, who, flying for France, day after day and month after month, helped to make her cause at length a victorious one. The "ace of aces" among British flying men of the war is Major William A. Bishop, who holds the record of 72 enemy airplanes downed. Second to him on the British list stands the name of Captain James McCudden, who had disposed of 56 of his enemies when he himself was accidentally killed. McCudden had had a most picturesque career. He joined the British army as a bugler at the age of fifteen. As a private he fought with the first Englishmen in France in 1914. His first flying experience came at Mons, when owing to the scarcity of observers he was permitted to serve in that capacity. He rapidly made good, and was soon promoted to the rank of officer. He proved himself a clever aerial gunner, and so won the opportunity to qualify as a pilot. With a fast fighting machine of his own he became a menace to the Hun, with whom he engaged in over 100 combats during his flying career, yet never himself received a wound. Other English fliers made special records in the Great War, as Captain Philip F. Fullard, who downed 48 enemy machines; Captain Henry W. Wollett, who accounted for 28; and Lieutenants John J. Malone, Allan Wilkinson, Stanley Rosevear and Robert A. Little, all with scores of from 17 to 20. Captain Albert Ball, who was shot down by Baron von Richthofen in 1917, had an official score of 43 victories over the Hun, with the additional honor of having conquered the great German aviator Immelmann. And now we come to the story of America's great fliers. Long before America herself had entered the World War there had arisen a valiant little company of her sons, who, remembering our ancient debt to France, had gone to fight beside her men in the war against the invader. Many of these Americans became skilful aviators and members of the squadron which the French had appropriately named the "Lafayette Escadrille." In 1916, three of its most distinguished fliers--Norman Price, Victor Chapman and Kiffen Rockwell--gave their lives to France. Probably the name which all Americans know best is that of Major Raoul Lufbery, till his death American "ace of aces," who flew with the Escadrille under the flags of both countries. Major Lufbery's personal story is romantic as any fiction. He was a born soldier of fortune. When a very young chap he ran away from home and for several years rode and tramped over Europe and part of Africa, working at anything that came to hand. After his early wanderings there followed two years of strenuous service with the U. S. regulars in the Philippines; and after that another long, aimless jaunt over Japan and China. It was in the Far East that he came by chance upon Marc Pourpe, the French aviator who was giving exhibition flights and coining money out of the enthusiasm of the Orientals. The two men became fast friends and Pourpe took Lufbery along with him on his travels. As an airplane mechanic under Pourpe's direction Lufbery found his first serious employment and also his first serious interest. He conceived a deep interest in aviation and became an apt pupil. Then came the war, and Pourpe offered his services to France. Lufbery went along as his mechanic. It was only a few months before his friend had fallen, and Lufbery, anxious to avenge his death, sought admission to the ranks of French fliers. In 1916, after much excellent service over the lines, he became a member of the Lafayette Escadrille. The spectacular period of his career had now begun. He had soon claimed the five official victories necessary to make him an "ace," and in addition was presented with the Croix de Guerre for distinguished bravery in action. With his swift _Nieuport_ he engaged in combat after combat, coming through by sheer cool-headedness and skill born of long experience. He was officially described by the French Government as "able, intrepid, and a veritable model for his comrades." In November, 1917, America had the honor of claiming back her son, when he became a major in the U. S. service and commanding officer of the Lafayette Escadrille. And it was with the utmost sorrow that the American public, a little over six months later, read that our great aviator had met his death. He fell on May 19, 1918, in an attack on a German "armored tank," which already had sent five American airplanes plunging to earth. Lufbery's official total was 17 German planes destroyed, but actually he had accounted for many more. He had been made a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor by France, and like others of his American comrades had done much to cement the friendship between the two countries. Another American ace who deserves the gratitude of the American people, not only because he brought down twenty-six German aircraft but because of the extraordinary inspiration of his example as a leader at the front to other American air fighters, is the present premier American ace, Captain Eddie Rickenbacker, idol of the automobile racing world before the war. America's entrance into the war fired Rickenbacker with an ambition to get into the fighting at all costs and after an attempt to organize a squadron composed of expert auto racing men, unsuccessful because of lack of funds, he enlisted in the infantry. He became General Pershing's driver at the front and while serving in this capacity watched his chance to get into the flying end of the air service. An opportunity soon presented itself and Rickenbacker advanced rapidly. In eighteen months he had, as commanding officer, perfected the finest and most efficient flying squadron in the Allied armies, and had become America's ace of aces. His service was distinguished by untiring energy, devotion to his men and sacrifice of personal ambition in the demands of his duty as a leader, for it is a self-evident fact that had Rickenbacker been a free lance, he might easily have doubled his score of victories. He is a chevalier of the Legion of Honor, has received the Croix de Guerre with three palms, and also the Distinguished Service Cross with nine palms. [Illustration: CAPTAIN EDDIE RICKENBACKER] A particularly lovable figure in American aviation during the war was Edmond Genet, who fell in the Spring of 1917 while serving under the Stars and Stripes. Born in America, young Genet was descended from the first French minister to the United States. The two countries were equally dear to him. When he died, at his own request the Tri-color and the Stars and Stripes were placed side by side over his grave, as a mark, so he said "that I died for both countries." [Illustration: _Copyright International Film Service, Inc._ THE FIRST BAG OF MAIL CARRIED BY THE U. S. AERO MAIL SERVICE] It would be impossible to enumerate in one short chapter all the brilliant records that were made during the war by the aviators of the allied nations. The best we can hope to do is to remember those names which stood out most prominently in the long story of victories won and sacrifices made to the cause of the world's liberty. Opposing our brave men there was, from time to time, a German flier who attained considerable renown, and who, for a time at least, baffled his opponents. Thus in the early days Immelmann and Boelke were much heard of. Each had his peculiar method of maneuvering and fighting. Immelmann's favorite trick was to "loop the loop" in order to get out of the way of an enemy's gunfire, suddenly righting himself before the loop was finished, in order to fly back and catch the opposing airman unawares. By this "stunt" he succeeded in sending 37 Allied aviators to their deaths, before he himself was shot down by Captain Albert Ball of the British Royal Flying Corps. Captain Boelke had a totally different method of attack from that of Immelmann. His favorite pastime was to lurk behind a cloud at a great altitude, until he spied an airplane of the Allies below him, when he would point the nose of his machine straight at his victim and dive for it, opening fire. In case he missed his target he never waited to give battle, but continued his descent until he had made a landing behind the German lines. According to the lenient German count, he had scored 43 victories up to the time of his death. It was an American, Captain Bonnel, in the British air service, who finally defeated and killed him in October, 1916. Early in the war the Germans discovered that, however perfect their airplanes might become, their airmen were not the equals of those who were flying for the French and British. The German works much better under orders than where, as in aerial combat, he is required to rely entirely upon his personal initiative. The Allied airmen therefore soon claimed supremacy over the lines, and it was in order to wrest it from them that the Germans began turning over various schemes in their mind. The one which proved acceptable in the end has been credited to Captain Boelke. It was that of sending German aviators out in groups to meet the Allied fliers, each group headed by a commander. This plan at least proved much more successful than the old one of single encounter. Thus Boelke became the commander of a German squadron, which after his death passed to the leadership of Baron Max von Richthofen. Richthofen was one of the cleverest of the enemy aviators and in time he made his squadron a formidable aerial weapon. He conceived the idea of camouflaging his planes in order to render them invisible at high altitudes. Accordingly he had all the machines under his command gaudily colored. He presented a curious spectacle when he took to flight with his gaudily painted flock of birds and the British promptly nicknamed his squadron "Richthofen's circus." The "circus" usually consisted of about 30 fast scout machines, with every pilot a picked man. Freed from all routine duties over the lines its one object was to destroy, and so it roved up and down, appearing now here, now there, in an effort to strike terror to the hearts of British and French airmen. It took a large toll of our best fighters, although Richthofen's personal record of 78 victories was undoubtedly exaggerated. The most effective fighters against this powerful organization were the members of the world-famous Hat-in-the-Ring Squadron commanded by Captain Eddie Rickenbacker, America's ace of aces. Day after day they went out against the boasted champions of the German Air Service and day after day they came in with German planes to their credit. At the close of the war they had won a greater number of victories than any other American squadron. The Hat-in-the-Ring was the first American squadron to go over the enemies' lines, the first to destroy an enemy plane and it brought down the last Hun aeroplane to fall in the war. After the signing of the armistice it was distinguished by being selected as the only fighting squadron in the forces to move into Germany with the Army of Occupation. It will doubtless go down in history as the greatest flying squadron America sent to the war. On April 21, 1918, the "circus" was in operation over the Somme Valley, over the British lines. Several of its fighters attacked a couple of British planes unexpectedly, and quite as suddenly the whole squadron swooped down out of the blue. Other British airplanes rushed to the spot from all directions and there followed a confused battle which spread over a wide area. One of the German planes which had been flying low came crashing to earth. When the wreckage was removed and the body of the pilot recovered he was found to be no other than the great Richthofen himself. Thus the greatest of the German champions was downed. He was buried with military honors by the British, but the menace which he stood for had happily been destroyed. CHAPTER IX THE BIRTH OF AN AIRPLANE Out in the forests of the great Northwest there stands a giant spruce tree, tall and straight and strong, whose top looks out across the gentle slopes of the Rocky Mountain foothills to the Pacific. For eight hundred years, perhaps, it has stood guard there. Great of girth, its straight trunk rising like a stately column in the forest, it is easily king of all it surveys. Someday the woodsmen of Uncle Sam come and fell that mighty spruce. And then begins the story of its evolution, from a proud, immovable personage whose upper foliage seemed to touch the clouds, to a strong and lithesome bird who goes soaring fearlessly across the sky. Uncle Sam has had an army of over ten thousand men in the woods of Oregon and Washington during the past year, selecting and felling spruces for airplane manufacture. Only the finest of the trees are chosen, and lumber which shows the slightest defect is instantly discarded. The great logs are sawed into long, flat beams, and are carefully examined for knots or pitch pockets or other blemishes which might impair their strength when finally they have been fashioned into airplane parts. These beams then start on their journey to the aircraft plants, where skilled laborers get to work on them. For the days of the homemade airplane have passed. It is only about fifteen years since the Wright brothers built their first crude flying machine, and, not without some misgivings, made the first trial of their handiwork. Since then airplane manufacture has made many a stride. The flying machine of those days was largely a matter of guesswork. Nobody knew exactly what it might do when it took to the air. Nobody knew whether it would prove strong enough to bear the pilot's weight, or whether it might suddenly capsize in the air and come crashing with its burden to the earth. For the parts had been crudely fashioned by the inventor's own hands. Naturally he was very seldom a skilled cabinet maker, painter and mechanician. He knew very little about the laws of aerodynamics, about stress and strain and factors of safety. He just went ahead and did the best he could and took his chance about losing his life when his great bird took to the air. No wonder the early fliers dreaded to set forth in even a gentle breeze! No wonder there used to be so much talk about "holes in the air" and all the other atmospheric difficulties that beset the pioneers. The wonder is that any of the early fliers ever came off alive with the fickle mounts to whom they trusted their lives. To-day the manufacture of an airplane has been reduced to the most exact of sciences. Every part is produced in large quantities by skilled workmen, and its strength is scientifically determined before it is passed on to become a member of the finished airplane. Sometimes whole factories specialize on a particular detail of the airplane. Here they make only airplane propellers; there only engines; while in this factory the wings and fuselage are produced. Let us imagine ourselves on a visit to one of the great aircraft factories which have suddenly sprung up in the United States and become so busy with the work of turning out a huge aerial fleet. The great trees which were felled in the Northwestern woods have changed greatly in appearance since we saw them last. As a matter of fact for certain parts of the airplane they should have been allowed to lie out in the sun and rain for several years to "season," but the rush to put planes in the air has made this impossible. Instead they have been treated with a special process in order to rid the wood of its impurities. Now the big beams go to the carpenters to be fashioned into the airplane fuselage. The separate boards are carefully cut and fitted and trimmed down to perfect smoothness and symmetry. Painted and varnished the fuselage resembles a fine automobile body. In the top or roof of the fuselage one or more circular openings have been cut. Below, almost on the floor are the seats for pilot and observer, in what are known as the cockpits. While the carpenters and cabinet makers have been busy on the fuselage, more skilled workmen still have been fashioning the airplane wings. This is one of the most difficult and delicate tasks of all. Remember that the curve of the wing determines to a large extent the speed and climbing powers of the completed airplane. The wing is built up of a number of ribs which give it the proper curve and shape. Each of these ribs must be accurately manufactured from a prescribed formula. First a piece of board is turned out which looks exactly like a cross section of a wing. But there is no need for solid wood to add to the weight of the wing, and so all over its surface the workman goes, boring out circular pieces, until only a framework remains. On its upper and lower edges a flexible strip of wood is bent down to its shape and strongly attached. The rib is now complete. A number of ribs placed in a row begin to suggest the outlines of a wing. They are connected by long beams which run from tip to tip of the wing. When these have been fastened in place the skeleton is completed and the work of the carpenters is over for a little while. The next step is to place upon this wing skeleton its linen covering. The linen is usually cut in gores or strips which are sewed together, and then the whole piece is stretched as taut as possible upon its framework, above and below the ribs. Sometimes the seams run parallel to the ribs and are tacked down to them, but seams which run diagonally across the wing have been found more satisfactory. Of course it is practically impossible to stretch the fabric absolutely tight over the frame so that it will not sag when subjected to the heavy pressure of the air. Various methods were tried in the early days to tauten and strengthen the fabric. To-day the covered wing is treated with a substance known as "dope," which shrinks it till it is "tight as a drum." Dope renders the wing both air-proof and rainproof. It strengthens the fabric and makes it able to bear the terrible stresses to which it will be subjected when the airplane is racing through the sky. But it cannot be applied carelessly, and right here the skill of the very best painters is brought into play. These painters spread first two very thin coats of it over the fabric, filling up the pores so that later coats will not run through into the interior of the wing. Next two or three thicker coats are applied. After this the wing may receive several coats of varnish, while if it is a U. S. service plane it gets a final covering of white enamel, which protects the fabric from the injurious action of the sun's rays. Now the wings and fuselage of our airplane are ready, and the rudder, the elevating surfaces and the ailerons are in course of production. They are made in the same manner as the wings, with a wooden framework over which fabric is stretched and "doped." We begin to think our big bird is almost ready to be put together, but we have forgotten two important items: the engine and the propeller. The airplane manufacturer usually does not attempt to build his own engines or propellers. He buys his engine all ready to be installed and procures his propeller from a factory which makes this its specialty. For the propeller is one of the most difficult parts of the airplane to produce. Above all things it must be strong, and for this reason steel has been tried in its manufacture. Curiously enough it was found that the metal propeller could not stand up under high speeds and stresses as well as one built of wood. Many kinds of wood are used in propeller construction, and the choice depends very largely on the speed and stress--in other words on the horsepower of the engine. Sometimes a propeller is built of alternating layers of two different kinds of wood. But with high-powered engines oak is very generally employed on account of its strength. An airplane propeller is not carved out of a single block of wood, for in this case it would not be strong enough for the difficult task it has to perform of cutting its way through the atmosphere and drawing the airplane after it. Instead it is built up of a number of thicknesses of specially seasoned wood, so arranged that the surface is formed by the cross grains of the various layers. This result is produced by first piling up a number of boards to form a block out of which the propeller can be carved. The boards are glued firmly together and then they are subjected to tremendous pressure. Now expert wood carvers begin their delicate task of turning out a propeller of a given pitch. Their work requires the utmost skill, but they succeed, until gradually the finished article begins to take form out of the crude block. A coat of varnish, a fine metal hub--and our propeller is ready to be shipped to join the wings and the fuselage and complete the manufacture of a modern airplane. There are several other items--such as the steel landing chassis, the steering instruments and the upholstery--which we must have on hand before we are ready to commence the work of assembling. When all have been procured the happy task begins. The wings are put in place, and carefully secured by wires and supporting struts. The steering apparatus is installed, the cushioned seats are placed in the cockpits, the fuselage is mounted on the wheeled chassis, and finally when all is complete the big bird is sent out for its first test flight. If there is any one way in which the airplane of to-day differs radically in its process of manufacture from the airplane of a few years ago it is in this: that it is a _tested_ machine. The greatest enemy of the aviator was and always will be, not so much the bullets of an enemy as the hidden flaw in his machine's construction, which makes it "go back on him" when he least expects. The pioneer aviator built himself what he considered a "strong airplane," but when he attempted flight under weather conditions not so favorable as those on which he had counted, some untested part gave way. So in the early days there were many tragedies. To-day, the airplane has become a safe mount indeed, for not only is the finished machine tried out before it is put into use, but each separate part is subjected to the most exacting series of tests. If it does not bear up under at least six times the strain it will ever be called on to endure in flight, it is rejected as unfit. That is the reason the aviator of to-day dares to perform all the marvelous tricks in the air of which we read. Back of the stories of heroism and daring that have come from the battle line during the Great War, and back of the great commercial feats and enterprises that are being planned for the near future, we must not lose sight of the remarkable progress in airplane manufacture and the careful painstaking research and experiment that have resulted in greater safety in the air. Of course it was the war that spurred every one on to do his best in the design and construction of airplanes. Before that time England and America had made very poor showings, and France, although deeply interested in aviation, had nothing in the way of a flying machine that would not seem ancient compared with the airplanes of the present time. America came into the field of action late, and up to the time she entered the war she had practically no airplane industry whatever. Yet when she did get in she set to work with a will, and as every one knows she succeeded in making a real contribution to aviation in the war. Every brain that could be of service in our great country was mobilized. The automobile manufacturers did much for the cause, some surrendering their trade secrets for the good of the cause, and others turning over their large organizations to airplane construction. As a result, a recent report stated that there were 248 factories in the United States making planes, with over 150,000 men working on aircraft. In a single year this giant industry has sprung up, and the mechanical genius of America has been focussed upon this latest problem: the heavier-than-air machine. It is inconceivable that our country, which can boast the invention of the airplane, should in peace times allow this great industry to wane. For a long time we slept while France was forging ahead in the design and construction of machines. The commercial uses of the airplane will be numberless, and it is bound to assume an ever more important and practical role in everyday life. America has the natural resources, and now that she has developed the tools with which to work and has trained a large body of young men to be capable pilots, she should look forward in the future to maintaining her proper place among the nations in airplane manufacture. The big bird of the sky who had his birth in America and who grew to such enormous proportions during the strenuous days of war, must not be allowed to lose his American manners when he turns to peace pursuits. CHAPTER X THE TRAINING OF AN AVIATOR It is a rocky road that leads from the obscurity of civilian life to the glory and achievement of a successful "bird-man." The man--or the boy--who elects to follow it must be possessed of brains, physical perfection, and iron grit, for he will need them all if he is to become one of the "heroes of the air." With one's feet on solid earth it is easy enough to make mistakes and profit by them, doing better the next time. The airman seldom profits by his serious blunders, for he is no longer on the scene when the experts are pointing out what error he was guilty of. The moment his machine, after a run across the ground, suddenly lifts and goes skimming off into the blue, he must depend upon himself. No friend upon the earth can shout to him any advice; his own unfailing knowledge and quick judgment must dictate in every emergency and see him through until once more he alights upon this old world. Fortunately the War has proved that there were many young men able to do just that--depend upon themselves in situations so critical that the slightest deviation from the right course, the slightest hesitation about what to do next, would have cost them their lives, and their government a costly airplane. Such men have covered themselves with glory, and have won the love and admiration of their people. But they did not achieve their daring exploits nor make their marvelous records in the air until they had passed through a series of tests and a system of training so rigid that it might well have discouraged the most stout-hearted. Why must the aviator be physically perfect? Just imagine for one moment some of the hardships and perils he will have to face. The higher the altitude at which he flies, the more intense becomes the cold. In some regions of the upper air temperatures as low as 80° and 90° below zero have been recorded by fliers. And rushing through the air at such speeds as 150 miles an hour produces a strain upon the lungs which only the strongest and sturdiest can endure. Nor is this all. The tiniest defect in the mechanism of the inner ear may cost the airman his life, if he undertakes night flying. If only he were required to fly in broad daylight when there were neither clouds nor darkness to obstruct his view of Old Mother Earth, he might manage to get along with a less-than-perfect ear. But at night,--on a cloudy night at that, when there are no lights on earth to guide him and no stars visible in the sky--the aviator faces some of his gravest perils. Strange as it may seem it is often very difficult for him to tell whether his machine is in a horizontal position, whether he is flying right-side-up or is toppling over at a perilous angle. The only thing which helps him in this extremity is a slight reflex action in the inner ear which warns him of any loss of "balance." In the same way perfect vision is absolutely essential to the man who must be prepared for any sort of aerial emergency. This does not mean merely "seeing well." It means the absolute working right of the lens and muscles of the eye, their quick readjustment to normal after any series of loop-the-loops, after a nose dive or any sort of acrobatic stunt an airplane may be called on to perform. So it goes with every one of the physical requirements laid down by the military authorities for men who would become fliers--they are not just arbitrary requirements, but are based on long experience of the demands which flying makes upon the system. In peace times the aviator may be able to get along with somewhat less than the physical perfection required of the military aviator, particularly if he takes up flying merely as a sport, for he will be able to spare himself the night flying and all the other difficult feats which have been required of the aviators in the war. But the next few years are going to see many new commercial duties opening to the airplane, and the pilots who guide these great ships of peace and industry will no doubt be chosen by just as high standards as our military aviators. The room in which the would-be military aviator receives his physical examination has been jokingly referred to as "the Chamber of Horrors," and he reaches it after a short preliminary test of heart, lungs, and ear. As he sits side by side with his fellow applicants in the outer waiting room, he cannot help a feeling of "creepiness." At intervals a doctor appears at the door of that secret chamber and beckons another unfortunate in. He remembers all the grewsome stories he had heard of happenings in that room behind the closed door and his knees commence to shake. Gradually the minutes pass and by a supreme effort he begins to recover his nerve. Suddenly the door opens and a white faced applicant rushes out. The poor would-be aviator regrets his rashness in deciding to learn to pilot one of the big birds of the air. But it is his turn next, so, appearing as unconcerned as possible, he follows the doctor in. He is ordered to sit down in a small chair to the back of which is attached a bracket for his head. The clamps are adjusted to hold his head firm, he is told to fix his gaze on a point ahead, and then suddenly, he commences to whirl around. Round and round he goes, ten times in 20 seconds. The chair comes abruptly to a halt. He must find that point he fixed his eyes on before starting. He struggles vainly to do so, imagining that failure means immediate rejection, but his eyeballs are turning rapidly back and forth. At last they stop, the physician calls out the number of seconds to his assistant. The same experiment is tried in an opposite direction, similar ones follow, and then the unhappy applicant braces himself for one of the most severe of all the physical tests. His head is released from the clamp in which it has been held, and he is instructed to clench his hands upon his knees and rest his head on them. This done, the chair begins whirling once more. As it comes to a sudden halt, he is sharply ordered to raise his head. He has the impression that he is falling rapidly through space, and a dizzy "seasickness" almost overcomes him. Finally his eyeballs cease their swift gyrations. The instructor has timed them with a stop-watch. He is excused from the room, and, feeling like a man who had been through a siege of illness, he makes a dash for the open air. If the applicant for service in the air has passed his preliminary tests successfully, he may shortly find himself at one of the government's "ground schools," where his education in airplane science begins. Actual flight is still a long way off: he must first receive some rudimentary drill in ordinary "soldiering," and next be put through an intensive course of training in a positively alarming number of studies, before he even approaches the joyful moment when he may begin to think of himself as even a fledgling aviator. In the next few weeks he must become something of a gunner, a telegraph operator, a map-reader, a photographer and a bomber; he must make the acquaintance of the airplane engine in the most minute detail; go through a course in astronomy and one in meteorology; and learn the use of the compass and all other instruments necessary in steering an airplane along a definite course. Aerial observation forms no small part of his course of studies. Sitting in a gallery and looking down upon a large relief map whose raised hills, buildings, streams, and trenches give a very fair reproduction of the earth as it will look to him when he flies over it in a machine, he learns to pick out the objects of strategic importance, and to prepare military reports which will help the staff officers in their work of directing hostilities. Or he may have to report the results of a mock bombardment, and thus prepare himself for the duties of the artillery "spotter." In order to be able to interpret with a fair degree of intelligence the things he will see as an aerial observer, he must know a good deal about military science and strategy himself, and this forms one of the subjects in his curriculum at the ground school. His life here is a strenuous one. He rises soon after five in the morning, and from then until lights go out for the night at 9:30 he has all too little time to call his own. Before he is finally passed out of the ground school the cadet must prove that he understands thoroughly the principle of flight, the operation of an internal combustion engine, and the care and repair of a machine. He will be able to recognize the various types of airplanes, he will have some skill at aerial observation, and he will be able to operate an airplane camera, a bomb-dropping instrument and a range-finder, a wireless or a radio instrument. He will have been instructed in signaling with wigwag and semaphore, in the operation of a magneto, in the theory of aerial combat, and in a number of minor subjects such as sail-making, rope-splicing, etc. Thus prepared in his "ABC's," the would-be aviator finally makes his departure for the actual flying school. Here he does not shake off dull class-room routine and launch forth upon a career of aerial adventure. Quite to the contrary his intensive training in the technical side of aviation becomes even more exacting. He takes apart and puts together again with his own hands various types of airplane engines, he practises gunnery at a moving target, he assembles an airplane out of the dismantled parts. He does, however, have that wonderful experience, his first flight. Some fine morning he is told that the instructor will take him up, and, thoroughly bundled up for warmth in a leather jacket, woolen muffler, heavy cap, etc., with goggles and other little essentials of an aviator's dress, he climbs into the machine. He expects to acquire considerable knowledge of the science of aviation on that first flight. As a matter of fact his mind is so completely overwhelmed by the many new sensations that come to it, that it is only a long time after that he is able to sort them out and form an accurate conception of the adventure. The roar of the motor is deafening as the big bird of the air goes taxiing across the earth. He does not realize that he has left the ground, until suddenly, looking down, he sees the solid earth receding rapidly from beneath him. Then, unexpectedly the machine gets into the "bumps" and he has a few nervous moments until finally it rights itself and goes skimming off into the blue. The sun is shining and below the earth looks peaceful and friendly. He settles himself more comfortably in his seat and begins to enjoy his little aerial journey. Suddenly, without a second's warning, the airplane dives downward. The sickening drop leaves him a trifle paler, perhaps, and he no longer has the pleasant sensation of relaxed enjoyment. He hardly knows what to expect next, and the instructor, bent on testing his nerve takes him through stunt after stunt, climbing, turning, diving. At length the airplane glides gently to earth. A short run over the ground once more, followed by a full stop; and the young gentleman who went up a few minutes ago with a good deal of vim and self-assurance climbs out with a feeling of relief and satisfaction that his feet are once more on terra firma. But do not imagine that he has lost his enthusiasm for the air. If that were the case then he would not be of the stuff of which aviators are made. At the worst reckoning he has acquired an intense ambition to some day "try it on the other fellow," and this in all probability he will do, when, in the course of time he has become an experienced and seasoned airman. In the meantime, however, he must first accustom himself to the "feel" of the air, and next he must learn the operation and control of the airplane in flight. After a few first trips as a "passenger," he will be allowed to try his hand at steering the machine. This is done by what is called a dual control system. Instead of the single control-stick and steering-bar of the ordinary airplane, the training machine has these parts duplicated, so that any false move on the part of the student flyer may be immediately corrected by the instructor. As long as his movements are the right ones, the instructor does not interfere, but the moment he makes a mistake the control of the airplane passes out of his hands. Gradually he becomes more and more adept at guiding the big bird through the air, and can get along nicely without any interference or correction. At each lesson he has mastered some new problem. He knows how to leave the earth at the proper angle after the first short run over the ground, and how to come down again, how to turn in the air, when to cut off the power in alighting and when to apply the brakes. He learns to listen for the rhythmic sound of the engine and to know when anything has gone wrong with it. By far the most difficult of his problems is the art of landing. As we have already seen the speed of an airplane cannot be reduced below a certain danger line if its wings are to continue to support it in the air. This danger line varies with different types of airplanes, but in all of them the engine must be kept running at a fairly high speed or the whole structure will come crashing to the earth. To bring an airplane to earth while it is traveling at a speed of 75 miles an hour is no mean accomplishment. It must not bump down heavily upon the ground, or its landing chassis will be broken, even if no more serious accident occurs. It must settle slowly until its wheels just touch, while all the time it is moving forward at the rate of a fast express train. This is an art that requires infinite practise to acquire, but it is one of the most important feats the student airman has to learn. However, the long wished-for day finally arrives when he can be trusted to go aloft by himself. Carefully he goes over every inch of his machine, to be sure it is in A-1 condition. He inspects the engine and tests every strut and wire, then, satisfied that it is in prime working order, he climbs into his seat. That is one of the most thrilling moments connected with his aviation training. In all other flights he has known that the errors he might make could be corrected by the trusty instructor. Now he must rely solely upon himself. With a feeling of mastery and conquest, he goes skimming into the air. He longs to prove himself. Probably he does, and not long after he receives permission to try for an aviator's certificate. This is the certificate issued by the Aero Club of America; it does not make him a full-fledged military aviator, but it marks the completion of the first stage of his progress toward the coveted goal. In order to acquire the aviator's certificate, the candidate must accomplish two long distance flights and one altitude flight; he must be able to cut figures of eight and to land without the slightest injury to his machine. In other words he must prove to the satisfaction of his examiners that he is able to handle an airplane skilfully, barring of course any fancy exploits in the air. He now launches on his advanced course of training. This will require at least three months of hard work, and during that time he must learn to fly a number of different types of machines which are used in military aviation. In the meantime he may perhaps go up for examination to acquire the much-coveted "wings." But do not imagine that _they_ mark the end of his education. With the aviator it is very much as with the schoolboy: when he finishes one grade or stage of his progress he passes on to a still more difficult. The man who has acquired "wings" is not immune from the most trying daily routine of studies, which include the ever important map-reading, photography, aerial gunnery and what-not. Finally, however, there does come a day when the army aviator may be said to pass out of the elementary school of classes and instructors into the broader school of experience. Many young American aviators who served during the War can look back upon such a day with a thrill. They had then their hardest lessons to learn. The map-reading, the gunnery, the trying and tedious curriculum of the aviation school become suddenly vital issues, and the facts which were learned in the classroom have to be mastered anew by _living them_ in the air. The experience of one young airman on his first real assignment goes to show how the problems which seemed so easy of solution on the ground become unexpectedly difficult when the flyer is face to face with them for the first time up there above the clouds. Fresh from his course of training, he had been ordered to take an airplane from one government hangar to another which was close up behind the front lines. He knew his "map-reading" pretty well, but he had never made a long cross-country flight before and the ground was unfamiliar. Somewhere near his destination he made a false turn, and the first intimation that reached him of the fact that he was off his course was the appearance below him of white puffs of smoke--"cream puffs" as the airmen have jokingly nicknamed them. He realized with a start that he was over the enemy's lines and was being fired at. Without losing any time he turned his face toward home, and this time he succeeded in spotting the lost hangar and making a safe landing. But he had learned a little lesson in following his map which no instructor could have taught him half so well. [Illustration: _Copyright Underwood and Underwood_ A PHOTOGRAPH MADE TEN THOUSAND FEET IN THE AIR, SHOWING MACHINES IN "V" FORMATION AT BOMBING PRACTICE] There are many lessons like that which the airman who is new at the game must master. Gradually he becomes more and more expert and more and more self-reliant. Then, if he is of the stuff that heroes are made of, perhaps he may distinguish himself by his daring accomplishments in the air. The more daring and successful he appears to be, the more certain it is that he has covered that long road of careful preparation with exacting thoroughness. [Illustration: _Copyright International Film Service, Inc._ A GROUP OF DE HAVILLAND PLANES AT BOLLING FIELD NEAR WASHINGTON] CHAPTER XI THE FUTURE STORY OF THE AIR Since the days when the first man ascended into the clouds in a Montgolfier fire balloon, and since the days when the Wright brothers tried their first gliding experiments and proved that men might hope to soar with wings into the sky, many glorious chapters have been written in the story of the air. Surely the most inspiring and significant achievement in aerial progress is the great trans-Atlantic flight made in the latter part of May, 1919, by a flying boat of the U.S. Navy. A force of fliers in three airships under Commander Towers attempted the flight from New York to Lisbon by way of Halifax and the Azores, in three "legs" or continuous flights, but on account of disastrous weather conditions, only one of these planes, the NC-4, under Lieutenant-Commander A. C. Read completed the trip successfully. The enthusiasm of the entire world was fired by this feat and it is difficult to estimate fully its epochal significance. Simultaneous with this flight and even more daring in plan, was the attempt by an Englishman, Harry Hawker, to fly direct from St. Johns, Newfoundland, to England in a Sopwith biplane. Through an imperfect action of the water pump of his machine Hawker was forced to descend and was rescued twelve hundred miles at sea by a Danish vessel. However, the highest honor is due to this man of the air who embarked on so brave an adventure. The next trans-Atlantic flight was made about a month after the NC-4 had blazed the air route across the ocean. This was a non-stop, record-breaking trip of Capt. John Alcock and Lieut. Arthur W. Brown--an American--in the British Vickers-Vimy land plane from St John's, Newfoundland, to Clifden on the Irish coast. These daring pilots made the distance of 1900 miles in sixteen hours--an average speed of 119 miles an hour. Although these achievements in heavier-than-air machines were of far-reaching importance, they did not fully solve the problem of trans-Atlantic air passage. It remained for the great dirigible experiment in July to demonstrate that in all probability the lighter-than-air craft will prove more effective for this hazardous game with the elements. On July 2 the British naval dirigible, R-34, left East Fortune, Scotland, with thirty-one men on board under command of Major G. H. Scott, and made the journey of 3200 sea miles, by way of Newfoundland and Nova Scotia, to Mineola, Long Island, in 108 hours. The fact that weather conditions during this trip were very unfavorable adds to the value of the accomplishment. The return trip was made a few days later in 75 hours. The R-34 is indeed a mammoth of the air. At the time of its flight it was the largest aircraft in the world, having a length of 650 feet and a diameter of 78 feet. It has five cars connected by a deck below the rigid bag and is propelled by five engines of 250 H.P. each. Its maximum speed is about sixty miles an hour. The year following the Great War will go down in history as a marvelous period in aeronautic achievement. The Atlantic was for the first time crossed by aircraft and within ten weeks of its first accomplishment two trans-Atlantic flights were made, three widely differing types of aircraft being represented. As a matter of fact we have but begun to explore the possibilities of aerial flight. During the last few years we have been thinking of the airplane solely as an instrument of war, and for that purpose we have bent our entire energies to developing it. When all the wealth of skill we have acquired during strenuous war times is turned to solving the problem of making the airplane useful in times of peace, there will be new and fascinating chapters to relate. The war has done a lot for the airplane. It has raised up a host of aircraft factories in all the large countries, with thousands of skilled workers. It has given us a splendid force of trained pilots and mechanics. It has resulted in standardized airplane parts, instead of the endless confusion of designs and makes that existed a few years ago. And instead of the old haphazard methods of production it has made the building of an airplane an exact science. People used to be afraid of the airplane and it seemed a long road to travel to the time when it would play any important rôle in everyday commerce or travel. The war has resulted in making the airplane _safe_,--so safe that it is apt to win the confidence of the most timid. Yet the airplanes that we saw and read of so frequently in war time are not likely to be those which will prove the most popular and useful in the days to come. In war one of the great aims was for _speed_. Now we can afford to sacrifice some speed to greater carrying capacity. The swift tractor biplane may possibly give way to the slower biplane of the pusher type, which has greater stability. The big triplanes, such as the Russian Sikorsky and the Italian Caproni will come into their own, and yet bigger triplanes will be built, able to carry passengers and freight on long journeys over land and sea. The three surfaces of the triplane give it great lifting powers, and on this account it will be a favorite where long trips and heavy cargoes are to be reckoned with. We may expect in the near future to see huge air-going liners of this type, fitted out with promenade decks and staterooms, and with all the conveniences of modern travel. There is a strong probability that the airship, rather than the airplane, may prove to be the great aerial liner of to-morrow. The large airship of the Zeppelin type, traveling at greater speed than the fastest express train, and carrying a large number of passengers and a heavy cargo, is apt before long to become the deadly rival of the steamship. A voyage across the Atlantic in such an airship would be far shorter, safer and pleasanter than in the finest of the ocean vessels. Gliding along smoothly far above the water, the passengers would suffer no uncomfortable seasickness, nor would they be rocked and tumbled about when a storm arose and the waves piled up and up into mountains of water on the surface of the deep. Their craft would move forward undisturbed by the turbulent seas beneath. We can imagine these fortunate individuals of a few years hence, leaning over the railing of their promenade deck as we ourselves might on a calm day at sea, and recalling the great discomforts that used to attend a trans-Atlantic voyage. It is amusing to think that our steamships of to-day will perhaps be recalled by these people of the future about as we ourselves recall the old sailing vessels that used to ply the deep a generation or so ago. The airplane, if it is to hold its own beside the airship as a large passenger vessel, will first have to overcome a number of natural handicaps. In the first place, it is not possible to go on increasing the size of the airplane indefinitely, as is practically the case with the airship. For remember that the lighter-than-air machine _floats_ in the air, and only requires its engine to drive it forward: whereas the heavier-than-air machine depends upon the speed imparted to it by its engine and propeller to keep it up in the air at all. Beyond a certain size the airplane would require engines of such enormous size and power to support it that it would be practically impossible to build and operate them. Modern invention has taught us that nothing is beyond the range of fancy, and we have seen many of the wildest dreams of yesterday fulfiled, yet it is safe to say that the airplane which would in any way approximate an ocean liner will not be built for many a year to come. In the meantime, however, we will have huge machines like the Caproni and the Sikorsky triplanes, driven by two or more motors and able to make the trans-Atlantic voyage with a number of passengers, freight and fuel for the journey. Indeed, though for purposes of long distance travel and commerce the airplane stands a chance of being superseded by the lighter-than-air machine, there are many other important missions that it can perform in the modern world. One for which it is particularly suited is that of carrying the mail. In 1911 a Curtiss airplane flew from Nassau Boulevard, Long Island to Mineola, bearing the Hon. Frank H. Hitchcock, Postmaster General of the United States, "with a mail bag on his knees." As the machine swooped gently down over the big white circle that had been painted on the Mineola field, the Postmaster-General let fall his bag. That machine was the pioneer of a system of aerial mail which will soon reach every corner of the country. During the war a mail route was inaugurated between New York and Washington. Now, with many fast machines and trained pilots freed from war duties, a system of routes which will traverse our vast territory has been laid out. It is for work such as this that the small, fast airplanes developed during the war may prove most successful. Traveling over 100 miles an hour, in a straight line from their starting point to their destination, they will be able to deliver the mail with a speed almost equal to that of the telegraph, and far in excess of anything that can be accomplished by the express train. For not only has the express train much less actual speed, but it must thread its way through winding valleys, go far out of its course in order to avoid some impassable mountain district, climb steep slopes or follow river beds in order to reach its destination. The airplane has no obstacles to overcome. Mountains, rivers, impenetrable jungles present no difficulty to it. It simply chooses its objective and flies to it, practically in a straight line. It can jump the Rocky Mountains and deliver mail to the western coast with the greatest ease. Regions like Alaska, where letters from the States took weeks or even months to be delivered, and to which the steamship routes were closed for a portion of the year, will be brought closer home when mails are arriving and leaving every few days. What use can be made of the large photographing planes that have been developed during the war to such a degree of perfection? In peace times they will have many interesting duties awaiting them. The motion picture producers will no doubt employ them very widely. Flying over our country from end to end they will bring back wonderful panoramic views. They will explore the beauties of the Yukon and show us the peaks of the Rockies in all their majestic grandeur. They will be taken to other continents and sent on photographing flights into regions that have scarcely been trod by human feet, and they will bring home to us remarkable views of jungles where wild animals roam. Pictures which the motion picture man of to-day with his camera has often risked his life to secure, the nimble photographing plane will secure with the utmost ease. And that suggests another possible rôle of the airplane in times of peace: that of exploration. As we think of Peary, pushing with his valiant party across the ice fields of the far North, struggling month after month to attain his goal, and returning to the same hard effort each time his expedition failed, we cannot help wishing for his sake that the airplane had reached its present state of development when his difficult undertaking of finding the North Pole began. Who knows but that Peary the pilot might have attained his objective many years before he did, providing of course he had had a machine of the modern type to fly in. Certainly one of the coming uses of the airplane will be that of penetrating into unknown quarters of the earth. Acting on the information which we can thus obtain we may be able to open up new stores of wealth and new territories to man. The enormous boom that has been given to aircraft production by the war ought to have at least one happy result in peace times: it should reduce the cost of the airplane. When that is brought within the means of the average prosperous citizen, we may expect to see flying become a popular sport. The man who now sets forth on a cross country pleasure trip in his automobile, will find still greater enjoyment in a cross country flight. High above the dusty country roads, he will be able to skim happily through the blue, enjoying his isolation and able to gaze out for many miles in all directions over the beautiful panorama of the earth. The plane which he pilots will no doubt be so designed as to possess unusual stability. It will to a large extent be "fool proof." Its owner will enjoy the comfortable feeling which comes from a sense of security, and at the same time will have all the delightful sensations of an adventurer in the clouds. He will find the air at high altitudes invigorating, and so he will gain in health as he never could have done by motoring over the solid earth. When men take to flying in large numbers no doubt we will have to have some sort of traffic regulations of the sky, but these will never need to be so strict as upon the ground, for the air is not a single track but a wide, limitless expanse, in which airplanes can fly in many directions and at many altitudes. There will never be any need of passing to the left of the machine ahead of you or signaling behind that you are slowing down; for ten chances to one you will never encounter another plane directly in your line of flight, and if you do it will be a simple matter to dive below or climb over him, continuing your journey in a higher stratum of air. There will probably be laws controlling flights over cities and communities, where an accident to the flier might endanger the lives below. What is likely to happen is that certain "highways" of the air will be established legally, extending in many directions over the country. In these directions the private airman will be permitted to fly for pleasure, while at certain intervals along the routes public landing grounds will be maintained. Landing is still one of the most serious problems the air pilot has to face, and it is to be hoped that the aircraft builders of the near future will help him to solve this difficulty. The reason for it, as we have already seen, is that the airplane secures its buoyancy largely as a result of its speed. Wings which are large enough to support it when flying at 150 miles an hour are too small to hold it in the air when its speed is slowed down. The machine has to be landed while still moving forward at comparatively the rate of an express train, and this forward motion can only be checked after the wheels are safely on the ground. If the engine should be stopped while the airplane is still forty or fifty feet above the ground, the wings would be unable to support it and it would come crashing to the earth. But this situation of course makes matters very difficult for the airman who has not had long experience in landing his machine. He must come down on a small landing field and bring his plane to a full stop before he has crashed into the other machines which perhaps are standing about. His difficulty is added to by the fact that his propeller only works efficiently at the full speed for which it was designed. When he slows down in the air preparatory to landing, it may "slip" backward through the air, instead of driving his airplane forward at the rate necessary to support its weight. In that case he is in danger of going into a spin, from which he may not have time to recover. For these reasons it is to be hoped that the airplane of the future will have some form of telescoping wings and of variable pitch propeller. While these improvements in construction have not been worked out practically at the present moment, there is every reason to believe that they may be before long. But whatever structural difficulties have yet to be overcome in connection with the airplane, certain it is that the big birds which we saw so often in the sky during the war, are going to be yet numerous in peace times. As for the purely military machines, let us hope that their work is over, and that they may never be called on to fight another battle in the air. Yet if other wars should come, it is certain that they would play a still more tremendous rôle than they have in the present struggle. We can imagine the war of the future being fought almost entirely above the clouds. The one great contest would be for victory in the air, since the nation which succeeded in driving its enemy from the sky would have complete control of the situation on the ground. All nations will continue to increase their aerial battalions until they possess formidable fleets, and it will be these, rather than armies or navies that will go forth to settle future disputes. It is largely to the aerial supremacy of the Allies that we have to give the credit for the winning of the present war against the Hun, and it will be by maintaining their aerial supremacy that the great nations which have taken their stand for justice and humanity will succeed in enforcing the reign of Right in the world. Thus we see man's dream of the conquest of the air become a noble thing, while the frail-winged birds his imagination pictured to him throughout so many centuries stand ready to bear him onward and upward to still greater achievements in his struggle to make the world a better and cleaner place in which to live. READING LIST For those who desire a wider knowledge of the history, theory, construction and operation of aircraft than this book is intended to supply, the following reading list may prove suggestive and helpful. The older publications on this list have been found valuable from an historical viewpoint; while the more recent ones treat from many angles the rapidly advancing science of aviation. ABBOT, W. J., Aircraft and Submarines (1918) ALEXANDER, J. H., Model Balloons and Flying Machines (1910) "AVION," Aeroplanes and Aero Engines (1918) BARBER, HORATIO, The Aeroplane Speaks (1917) BARNWELL, F. S., Aeroplane Design (1917) BERGET, A., The Conquest of the Air (1911) BERRY, W. H., Aircraft in War and Commerce (1918) BRUCE, E. H. S., Aircraft in War (1914) CAVANAGH, GEORGE A., Model Aeroplanes and Their Motors (1916) CHATLEY, HERBERT, Principles and Design of Aeroplanes (1912) CURTISS, G. H., and POST, A., Curtiss Aviation Book (1912) CORBIN, T. W., Aircraft, Aeroplanes and Airships (1914) COLLINS, A. FREDERICK, The Boy's Airplane Book (1919) COLLINS, A. FREDERICK, How to Fly (1917) COLVIN, F. H., Aircraft Mechanic's Handbook (1918) DOMMETT, W. E., Aeroplanes and Airships (1916) FALES, E. N., Learning to Fly in the U. S. Army (1917) FERRIS, R., How it Flies (1910) GRAHAME-WHITE, C., and HARPER, H., Heroes of the Air (1912) GRAHAME-WHITE, C., and HARPER, H., Learning to Fly (1916) GRAHAME-WHITE, C., The Story of the Aeroplane (1911) GRAMONT, A. A. DE, Aviator's Elementary Handbook (1918) HAYWARD, CHAS. B., Building and Flying an Aeroplane (1918) HEARNE, R. P., Zeppelins and Super-Zeppelins (1916) HEARNE, R. P., Airships in Peace and War (1910) HILDEBRAND, A. L. H., Airships Past and Present (1908) JANE'S FIGHTING SHIPS, (An Annual) JUDGE, A. W., Design of Aeroplanes (1916) LANCHESTER, F. W., Aircraft in Warfare (1916) LILIENTHAL, O., Bird Flights as the Basis of Aviation (1917) LOENING, G. C., Military Aeroplanes (1916) MCCONNELL, JAMES R., Flying for France (1917) MCMINNIES, W. G., Practical Flying (1918) MAXIM, H. S., Artificial and Natural Flight (1908) MIDDLETON, E. C., The Way of the Air (1917) MIDDLETON, E. C., Glorious Exploits of the Air (1918) MIDDLETON, E. C., Airfare of Today and the Future (1918) MUNDAY, ALBERT H., The Eyes of the Army and Navy (1917) ORCY, L. D', Editor and Comp., Airship Manual (1917) PAGE, CAPT. VICTOR WILFRED, The A-B-C of Aviation (1918) PEARY, R. E., Command of the Air (Speech delivered before the American Academy of Political and Social Science) (1917) RATHBUN, JOHN B., Aeroplane Construction and Operation (1918) ROBSON, W. A., Aircraft in War and Peace (1916) ROTH, C. W., Short Course in the Theory and Operation of the Free Balloon (1918) ROUSTAM-BEK, B., Aerial Russia (1916) SIMMONDS, R., All About Aircraft (1915) STOUT, WM. B., Acquiring Wings (1917) TALBOT, F. A., Aeroplanes and Dirigibles of War (1915) THURSTON, A. B., Elementary Aeronautics (1911) TURNER, C. C., Aircraft of Today (1917) TURNER, C. C., Marvels of Aviation (1916) VERRILL, A. W., Harper's Aircraft Book (1913) WALKER, S. F., Aviation, Its Principles, Its Present and Future (1912) WALKER, F., All About Zeppelins and Other Enemy Aircraft (1915) WIDMER, EMIL J., Military Observation Balloons (1917) WOOD, WALTER, Thrilling Deeds of British Airmen (1918) WINCHESTER, C., Flying Men and Their Machines (1916) WOODHOUSE, HENRY, A Textbook of Military Aeronautics (1918) INDEX Accidents: airplane, 115 balloon, 13, 32, 54 gliding, 84, 85 Aerial Experiment Association, 107 Aero Club of America, 241 A. E. G. airplane, 200, 203 A. G. O. airplane, 200, 203 Ailerons, 13, 94, 98, 111, 113 Airplane: A. E. G., 200, 203 A. G. O., 200, 203 Albatros, 195, 203 Antoinette, 104, 105, 109, 110, 113, 119 Aviatik, 196, 203 Avro, 181, 182 battle planes, 128-140, 177, 178, 192-196 Blériot, 104, 105, 110, 113 bombing planes, 128-149, 180-188, 197-204 Breguet, 114, 181 Breguet-Michelin, 179 Bristol Scout, 175 Caproni, 183-185 Caudron, 178, 182 chassis, 111, 165-167 Curtiss, 108, 173, 174, 187, 249 De Havilland, 175, 194 _Demoiselle_, 114 Dorand, 181 drift, 97 early experiments, 77-90 engines (see _engine_) Farman, 108, 110, 112, 116, 178, 181 first principles of, 91-98 first real, 89 flight records (see _records_) Fokker, 172, 192-194, 203 Friedrichshafen, 199 Gotha, 197-199, 203 Halberstadt, 196, 203 Handley-Page, 181, 182 head resistance, 96, 151, 160 _June Bug_, 107 _Langley_, 182 Letord, 181 L. V. W., 203 making of, 223-231 (also see _fabrics_) Moineau, 179, 181 Morane, 119, 192 _NC-4_, 244 Nieuport, 121, 171, 211 nomenclature, 94 Pfalz, 203 reconnaissance planes, 128-149, 177-180 _Red Wing_, 107 Roland, 203 Rumpler, 203 Santos-Dumont's, 100, 114 Sikorsky, 125-127, 187 Sopwith, 175, 181, 185, 186, 244 Spad, 173 starting and landing problems, 165-167, 240 Taube, 191 Vickers, Scout, 175 Vickers-Vimy, 245 Voisin, 102, 103, 110, 112, 178, 182 Voisin-Peugeot, 179, 181 _White Wing_, 107 wings (see _wings_) Wright (see _Wright_) Albatros airplane, 195, 203 Alcock, Capt. John, 245 Annonay, 3, 4 Antoinette airplane, 104, 105, 109, 110, 113, 119 Archimedes' law of gravity, 14 Argus engine, 126 Arlandes, Marquis d', 7, 8 Ascents, early balloon, 3, 7-12, 20-23, 26, 27, 49 Astra dirigible, 73-74 Astra-Torres dirigible, 73-74 Aviatik airplane, 196, 203 Aviator, training of an, 232-243 Avro airplane, 181, 182 Baker, Secretary of War, 201 Baldwin, Capt. Thomas S., 65, 106 Ball, Capt. Albert, 215, 219, 220 Balloon, dirigible: Astra, 73, 74 Astra-Torres, 73, 74 Blimps, 70 car suspension, 72, 73 demi-semi-rigid, 67 development of, 47-74 first, 51 first military, 52 first U. S. Army, 65 _La France_, 53 _Nulli Secundus_, 64, 65, 68 _Patrie_, 63 _Pax_, 58 _R-34_, 245 rigid and non-rigid, 66, 67 semi-rigid, 67 _S. M. S. Zeppelin I_, 66 Speiss, 74 trans-Atlantic flight, 245 use in World War, 68-74 _Ville de Paris_, 63 Zeppelins, 55, 56, 62, 65-68, 123 Zodiacs, 72 Balloon, passive: basket of, 19 captive, 36-44 car of, 19, 50 car lines of, 18 Channel flights, 12, 22-24 _Conqueror_, 27 drachen, 36-44 early ascents of, 3-27, 49 fabrics of (see _fabrics_) first, 3 first use of, in war, 25, 26 gases used for (see _gases_) grapnel of, 19 hoop of, 18 kite, 19, 36-44 neck of, 18 net of, 18 observation, 36-44 principles of, 14-19 ripping panel of, 18 races, 26 sausage, 19, 36-44 trail rope of, 18 use of, in Great War, 36-44 Ballonet, steering, 38 Ballooning: early, 3-27 in Boer War, 26 in Civil War, 25 in Great War, 36-44 Basket, balloon, 19 Battle planes, 128-149, 177-178, 192-196 Baumgarten, 54 Bell, Alexander Graham, 106 Bennett, Gordon, 26, 108 Bishop, Major William A., 205, 214 Blanchard, 12, 13, 29 Blériot, 104, 105, 108, 115 Blimps, 70-72 Bliss, General Tasker H., 201 Boelke, Captain, 194, 219 Boer War, balloons in, 26 Bombing planes, 128-149, 180-188, 197-204 Bonnel, Captain, 220 Breguet airplane, 114, 121, 122, 123, 181 Breguet-Michelin airplane, 179 Bristol Scout airplane, 175 Brown, Lieut. Arthur W., 245 Cacquot, Captain, 43 Caproni airplane, 183, 184, 185 Car, balloon, 19, 50, 72 Car lines, balloon, 18 Carlstrom, Victor, 174 Caudron airplane, 178, 182 Cavallo, 9 Cayley, Sir George, 80 Certificate, aviator's, 241 "Chamber of Horrors," 234 Channel flights: first airplane, 104 first balloon, 12, 22-24 Chanute, 86 Chapman, Victor, 216 Chaput, Lieut. Jean, 214 Charles, 9 Chartres, Duke de, 49 Chassis: first, 111 problem of, 165-167 Circuit of Britain prize, 120 Civil War, balloons in, 25 Clement-Bayard, 74 Clerget engine, 187 Cocking, 31 Conneau, Lieutenant, 120 _Conqueror_, 27 Curtiss airplane, 108, 173, 174, 187, 249 Curtiss Baby Speed Scout, 174 Curtiss, Glenn H., 65, 106-108, 119 Curtiss triplane, 173 _Daily Mail_, London, prizes, 104, 115, 120 De Havilland airplane, 175, 194 _Demoiselle_, 114 Deutsch, 57, 63 "Dope," 164, 227 Dorand airplane, 181 Douglas, Archibald, 37 Drachen balloon, 36-44 Drift, airplane, 97 Dubonnet, Emile, 41 Eiffel Tower, flight around, 57, 115 Engine: Argus, 126 Clerget, 187 Curtiss, 71 development and principles of airplane, 153-169 Fiat, 183 first balloon, 51 Gnome, 111, 121, 154, 159 Liberty, 168, 182 Rolls-Royce, 182 Wright's, 89, 153 Esnault-Pelterie, 114 Fabrics: calico, 60, 61 cotton, 18, 164 linen, 9 oil silk, 11 rubber, 61, 63 Farman airplane, 108, 110, 112, 116, 178, 181 Farman, Henry, 102, 103, 110-112, 115, 123, 154 Fiat motor, 183 Field of Mars, 10 Fokker airplane, 172, 192-194, 203 Fonck, René, 212-214 Franklin, Benjamin, 11 Friedrichshafen airplane, 199 Fullard, Capt. Philip F., 215 Fuselage, development of, 122, 165-166 Garnerin, André, 30 Gases: coal, 16 hydrogen, 9, 21 Genet, Edmond, 218 Giffard, 50 Gliders, 81-88, 100 Gnome engine, 111, 121, 154, 159 Goertz range finder, 147 Goodyear Tire and Rubber Co., 43 Gotha airplane, 197-199, 203 Grahame-White, Claude, 116 Grapnel, balloon, 19 _Great Nassau_, 22 Green, Charles, 22, 31 Gross, Major von, 66 Guffroy, 114 Gun-tunnel Gotha, 197-199 Guynemer, Georges, 137, 172, 205-214 Haenlein, Paul, 52 Halberstadt airplane, 196, 203 Handley-Page airplane, 181, 182 Hargrave, 85 Hat-in-the-Ring Squadron, 221 Hawker, Harry, 244 Head resistance, airplane, 96, 151, 160 Hitchcock, Hon. Frank H., 249 Hoop, balloon, 18 _Hopper_, 125 Immelmann, 176, 194, 215, 219 Jeffries, Dr., 12 Jouillot, 60 _June Bug_, 107 Juvisy meeting, 115 Kite balloon, 19, 36-44 Kites: principles of, 79, 91 Lilienthal's, 81, 86 Krebs, 53 Kuparanto, R. Jordarki, 30 Lafayette Escadrille, 172, 216, 217 Lahm, Lieut. Frank P., 26 Lambert, Comte de, 108, 115 Landing problems, 165-167, 240 _Langley_, 182 Latham, Hubert, 104, 108, 109 Lebaudy Brothers, 60-67 Lefevre, 108 Letord airplane, 181 Liberty motor, 168, 182 Lilienthal, Otto, 81-85, 92 Little, Robert A., 215 Lôme, Dupuy de, 52 Loubet, President, 58 Lufbery, Major, 205, 216, 217 Lunardi, Vincent, 12, 20-22 L. V. W. airplane, 203 Malone, Lieut. John J., 215 Materials, airplane, problem of, 163, 164 McCudden, Capt. James, 205, 215 McCurdy, J. A. D., 106 Meusnier, General, 49 Michelin cup, 115 Moineau airplane, 179, 181 Monoplane, principles of, 150-151 Montgolfier Brothers, 3-11 Morane airplane, 119, 192 Moret, 21 Motor (see _engine_) _NC-4_, 244 Neck, balloon, 18 Net balloon, 18 Nieuport airplane, 121, 171, 211 Nomenclature of airplane, 94 Normand, Le, 29 _Nulli Secundus_, 64, 65, 68 Parachute flares, 34 Parachutes, 28-35, 42 Paulhan, 108, 116 Paris, bombing raid on (1918), 201 Parseval, Major von, 37, 66 _Patrie_, 63 _Pax_, 58 Pelcher, Percy S., 85 Pershing, General John, 218 Pfalz airplane, 203 Pola, bombing raid on, 184 Pollock, C. F., 23 Pourpe, Marc, 216 Price, Norman, 216 Propeller, principle of, 161-163 Raids, famous bombing: Paris, 201 Pola, 184 Read, Lieut.-Com. A. C., 244 Reconnaissance planes, 128-149, 177-180 Record airplane flights: altitude, 116, 168 channel, 104 distance, 101, 115, 116, 119, 154 speed, 108, 119, 121 trans-Atlantic, 244 _Red Wing_, 107 Renard, 53 Rheims meetings, 107, 109, 119, 121, 154 Richthofen, Baron von, 194, 210, 212, 215, 220-222 Rickenbacker, Capt. Eddie, 218-220 Ripping panel, balloon, 18 Roberts Brothers, 9, 49 Rockwell, Kiffen, 216 Roland airplane, 203 Rolls-Royce engine, 182 Rosevear, Stanley, 215 Rozier, Pilat de, 6, 13 Rumpler airplane, 203 Salomone, Major, 185 Santos-Dumont, 55-59, 99-102, 114 Sausage balloon, 19, 36-44 Schaeck, Colonel, 27 Schwartz, David, 54 _Scientific American_ trophy, 107 Scott, Major G. H., 245 Selfridge, Lieut. Thomas, 106 Severo, 58 Sigsfeld, Captain von, 37 Sikorsky, I. I., 125, 126, 127, 187 Sopwith airplane, 175, 181, 185, 186, 244 Spad airplane, 173 Speiss dirigible, 74 Steering ballonet, 38 _Storks_, the, 172, 210 Taube airplane, 191 Templer, Colonel, 64, 65 Tissandier, Gaston and Albert, 53, 108 Towers, Commander, 244 Trail rope, balloon, 18 Training of an aviator, 232-243 Trans-Atlantic flights, 244 Triplane, development of, 148-151 Vickers Scout airplane, 175 Vickers-Vimy airplane, 245 _Ville de Paris_, 63 Vinci, Leonardi da, 79 Voisin airplane, 102, 103, 110, 112, 178, 182 Voisin Brothers, 102, 110 Voisin-Peugeot airplane, 179, 181 Wenham, 80 _White Wing_, 107 Wilcox, James, 11 Wilkinson, Allan, 215 Wings: Lilienthal's, 81-84 principles of, 81, 95, 147, 148, 149, 166, 167 Wing-warping, 88, 97 Wissemann, 212 Wölfert, 54 Wollett, Capt. Henry W., 215 _World_, New York, prize, 118 Wright, Wilbur and Orville, 86-90, 99, 101, 103, 114, 150, 151, 153 Zambeccari, Count, 11 Zeppelin, Count von, 55, 62, 65 Zeppelins, 55-56, 62, 65, 66, 68, 123 Zodiacs, 72 * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. The table below lists all corrections applied to the original text. p vii: Santos Dumont -> Santos-Dumont p viii: A group of De Haviland -> Havilland p 6: Frenchman, Pilatre de Rozier -> Pilâtre de Rozier p 6: Pilatre de Rozier -> Pilâtre de Rozier p 13: Pilatre de Rozier -> Pilâtre de Rozier p 19: more buoyant -> buoyant. p 28: the parachute -> Is small caps: THE PARACHUTE p 31: aeronuat -> aeronaut p 33: he may find himsell -> himself p 54: took place in midair -> mid-air p 55: SANTOS DUMONT -> SANTOS-DUMONT p 64: air-bag of onefifth -> one-fifth p 65: N. Y., who far -> for p 66: with a large interval -> internal p 74: The _Lebandy_ -> _Lebaudy_ p 98: the airplane body or "fusilage." -> "fuselage." p 100: resembling a boxkite -> box-kite p 111: The over-heating -> overheating p 122: by means of it -> its p 126: In the foreward -> forward p 141: produce slightly over-lapping -> overlapping p 145: that enemy reenforcements -> reinforcements p 153: needs of air-craft -> aircraft p 175: and the _De Haviland -> Havilland p 176: downing the enemy. Immelman -> Immelmann p 179: _Bréguet-Michelin_ -> _Breguet-Michelin_ p 181: the _Bréguet_ -> _Breguet_ p 194: British _DeHaviland_ -> _De Havilland_ p 206: in the town of Compiegne -> Compiègne p 206: student in the École Polytechnic -> Polytechnique p 206: 1914, came the the news -> the news p 219: the early days Immelman -> Immelmann p 219: and fighting. Immelman's -> Immelmann's p 219: from that of Immelman -> Immelmann p 236: and a dizzy "sea-sickness" -> "seasickness" p 238: goes taxi-ing -> taxiing p 244: A GROUP OF DE HAVILAND -> HAVILLAND p 251: picture man of today -> to-day p 257: Airships in Peace and War -> War (1910) P 259: balloon, 13, 32, 54, 54 -> balloon, 13, 32, 54 p 259: A. G. O. -> A. G. O., p 259: De Haviland -> Havilland p 259: engines (see _engines_) -> _engine_ p 261: De Haviland -> Havilland p 261: Esnault-Pelteric -> Pelterie p 261: Fullard, Capt. Phillip F. -> Fullard, Capt. Philip F. p 262: Immelman -> Immelmann p 263: Rozier, Pilat de -> Rozier, Pilâtre de p 264: Wollet -> Wollett 
30047	----	[Transcriber's note: Obvious printer's errors have been corrected. Hyphenation and accentuation have been standardised, all other inconsistencies are as in the original. The author's spelling has been maintained. {} are used to inclose superscript.] [Illustration: _Fighting by Sea and Sky._ _Painting by John E. Whiting._] AIRCRAFT AND SUBMARINES The Story of the Invention, Development, and Present-Day Uses of War's Newest Weapons By WILLIS J. ABBOT Author of "The Story of Our Army," "The Story of Our Navy," "The Nations at War" _With Eight Color Plates and 100 Other Illustrations_ G. P. Putnam's Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1918 Copyright, 1918 By WILLIS J. ABBOT The Knickerbocker Press, New York PREFACE Not since gunpowder was first employed in warfare has so revolutionary a contribution to the science of slaughtering men been made as by the perfection of aircraft and submarines. The former have had their first employment in this world-wide war of the nations. The latter, though in the experimental stage as far back as the American Revolution, have in this bitter contest been for the first time brought to so practical a stage of development as to exert a really appreciable influence on the outcome of the struggle. Comparatively few people appreciate how the thought of navigating the air's dizziest heights and the sea's gloomiest depths has obsessed the minds of inventors. From the earliest days of history men have grappled with the problem, yet it is only within two hundred years for aircraft and one hundred for submarines that any really intelligent start has been made upon its solution. The men who really gave practical effect to the vague theories which others set up--in aircraft the Wrights, Santos-Dumont, and Count Zeppelin; in submarines Lake and Holland--are either still living, or have died so recently that their memory is still fresh in the minds of all. In this book the author has sketched swiftly the slow stages by which in each of these fields of activity success has been attained. He has collated from the immense mass of records of the activities of both submarines and aircraft enough interesting data to show the degree of perfection and practicability to which both have been brought. And he has outlined so far as possible from existing conditions the possibilities of future usefulness in fields other than those of war of these new devices. The most serious difficulty encountered in dealing with the present state and future development of aircraft is the rapidity with which that development proceeds. Before a Congressional Committee last January an official testified that grave delay in the manufacture of airplanes for the army had been caused by the fact that types adopted a scant three months before had become obsolete, because of experience on the European battlefields, and later inventions before the first machines could be completed. There may be exaggeration in the statement but it is largely true. Neither the machines nor the tactics employed at the beginning of the war were in use in its fourth year. The course of this evolution, with its reasons, are described in this volume. Opportunities for the peaceful use of airplanes are beginning to suggest themselves daily. After the main body of this book was in type the Postmaster-General of the United States called for bids for an aërial mail service between New York and Washington--an act urged upon the Government in this volume. That service contemplates a swift carriage of first-class mail at an enhanced price--the tentative schedule being three hours, and a postage fee of twenty-five cents an ounce. There can be no doubt of the success of the service, its value to the public, and its possibilities of revenue to the post-office. Once its usefulness is established it will be extended to routes of similar length, such as New York and Boston, New York and Buffalo, or New York and Pittsburgh. The mind suggests no limit to the extension of aërial service, both postal and passenger, in the years of industrial activity that shall follow the war. In the preparation of this book the author has made use of many records of personal experiences of those who have dared the air's high altitudes and the sea's stilly depths. For permission to use certain of these he wishes to express his thanks to the Century Co., for extracts from _My Airships_ by Santos-Dumont; to Doubleday, Page & Co., for extracts from _Flying for France_, by James R. McConnell; to Charles Scribner's Sons, for material drawn from _With the French Flying Corps_, by Carroll Dana Winslow; to _Collier's Weekly_, for certain extracts from interviews with Wilbur Wright; to _McClure's Magazine_, for the account of Mr. Ray Stannard Baker's trip in a Lake submarine; to Hearst's International Library, and to the _Scientific American_, for the use of several illustrations. W. J. A. NEW YORK, 1918. CONTENTS Page PREFACE iii CHAPTER I.--Introductory 3 II.--The Earliest Flying Men 14 III.--The Services of Santos-Dumont 39 IV.--The Count von Zeppelin 59 V.--The Development of the Airplane 82 VI.--The Training of the Aviator 103 VII.--Some Methods of the War in the Air 123 VIII.--Incidents of the War in the Air 159 IX.--The United States at War 182 X.--Some Features of Aërial Warfare 207 XI.--Beginnings of Submarine Invention 235 XII.--The Coming of Steam and Electricity 256 XIII.--John P. Holland and Simon Lake 271 XIV.--The Modern Submarine 294 XV.--Aboard a Submarine 318 XVI.--Submarine Warfare 333 XVII.--The Future of the Submarine 362 Index 383 ILLUSTRATIONS Page Fighting by Sea and Sky _Frontispiece_ Painting by John E. Whiting Dropping a Depth Bomb 4 Painting by Lieut. Farré A Battle in Mid-air 8 Painting by Lieut. Farré Victory in the Clouds 12 Painting by John E. Whiting The Fall of the Boche 16 Painting by Lieut. Farré Lana's Vacuum Balloon 18 Montgolfier's Experimental Balloon 21 A Rescue at Sea 24 Painting by Lieut. Farré Montgolfier's Passenger Balloon 27 Charles's Balloon 31 A French Observation Balloon on Fire 32 Roberts Brothers' Dirigible 34 Giffard's Dirigible 37 A British Kite Balloon 40 British "Blimp" 40 Photographed from Above. A Kite Balloon Rising from the Hold of a Ship 48 The Giant and the Pigmies 60 Painting by John E. Whiting A French "Sausage" 64 Photo by Press Illustrating Co. A British "Blimp" 64 The Death of a Zeppelin 72 Photo by Paul Thompson A German Dirigible, Hansa Type 76 A Wrecked Zeppelin at Salonika 76 Photo by Press Illustrating Co. British Aviators about to Ascend 80 Langley's Airplane 84 A French Airdrome near the Front 84 Lilienthal's Glider 86 A German War Zeppelin 88 French Observation Balloon Seeking Submarines 88 Photo by Press Illustrating Co. Chanute's Glider 90 A German Taube Pursued by British Planes 92 The First Wright Glider 93 Pilcher's Glider 94 Comparative Strength of Belligerents in Airplanes at the Opening of the War 96 Comparative Strength of Belligerents in Dirigibles at the Opening of the War 96 The Wright Glider 98 At a French Airplane Base 100 International Film Service Stringfellow's Airplane 101 The "America"--Built to Cross the Atlantic 104 A Wright Airplane in Flight 104 First Americans to Fly in France 108 The Lafayette Escadrille Distinguishing Marks of American Planes 116 What an Aviator must Watch 116 A Caproni Triplane 124 A Caproni Triplane Showing Propellers and Fuselage 124 The Terror that Flieth by Night 128 Painting by Wm. J. Wilson A Curtis Seaplane Leaving a Battleship 132 Photo by Press Illustrating Co. Launching a Hydroaëroplane 132 At a United States Training Camp 138 A "Blimp" with Gun Mounted on Top 138 Aviators Descending in Parachutes from a Balloon Struck by Incendiary Shells 140 The Balloon from which the Aviators Fled 140 German Air Raiders over England 144 One Aviator's Narrow Escape 148 Downed in the Enemy's Country 156 Position of Gunner in Early French Machine 160 Later Type of French Scout 160 Photo by Kadel & Herbert A French Scout Airplane 168 Photo by Press Illustrating Co. "Showing Off." A Nieuport Performing Aërial Acrobatics around a Heavier Bombing Machine 168 An Air Raid on a Troop Train 174 Painting by John E. Whiting A Burning Balloon, Photographed from a Parachute by the Escaping Balloonist 176 A Caproni Biplane Circling the Woolworth Building 184 Cruising at 2000 Feet. One Biplane Photographed from Another 184 An Air Battle in Progress 192 A Curtis Hydroaroplane 192 The U. S. Aviation School at Mineola 208 Miss Ruth Law at Close of her Chicago to New York Flight 216 A French Aviator between Flights 216 A German "Gotha"--Their Favorite Type 224 A French Monoplane 232 A German Scout Brought to Earth in France 232 A Gas Attack Photographed from an Airplane 240 A French Nieuport Dropping a Bomb 244 A Bomb-Dropping Taube 248 A Captured German Fokker Exhibited at the Invalides 252 A British Seaplane with Folding Wings 252 British Anti-Aircraft Guns 256 An Anti-Aircraft Outpost 264 A Coast Defense Anti-Aircraft Gun 264 The Submarine's Perfect Work 270 Painting by John E. Whiting Types of American Aircraft 272 For Anti-Aircraft Service 288 The Latest French Aircraft Guns 288 Modern German Airplane Types 296 A German Submarine Mine-Layer Captured by the British 304 The Exterior of First German Submarine 312 The Interior of First German Submarine, Showing Appliances for Man-Power 312 A Torpedo Designed by Fulton 320 The Method of Attack by Nautilus 320 The Capture of a U-Boat 324 Painting by John E. Whiting A British Submarine 336 Sectional View of the Nautilus 336 U. S. Submarine H-3 aground on California Coast 344 Salvaging H-3. Views I, II, and III 348 U. S. Submarine D-1 off Weehawken 352 A Submarine Built for Spain in the Cape Cod Canal 356 A Critical Moment 360 Painting by John E. Whiting A Submarine Built for Chili Passing through Cape Cod Canal 364 A Submarine Entrapped by Nets 368 Diagram of a German Submarine Mine-Layer Captured by British 372 A Submarine Discharging a Torpedo 374 A German Submarine in Three Positions 376 Sectional View of a British Submarine 380 THE CONQUEST OF THE AIR CHAPTER I INTRODUCTORY It was at Mons in the third week of the Great War. The grey-green German hordes had overwhelmed the greater part of Belgium and were sweeping down into France whose people and military establishment were all unprepared for attack from that quarter. For days the little British army of perhaps 100,000 men, that forlorn hope which the Germans scornfully called "contemptible," but which man for man probably numbered more veteran fighters than any similar unit on either side, had been stoutly holding back the enemy's right wing and fighting for the delay that alone could save Paris. At Mons they had halted, hoping that here was the spot to administer to von Kluck, beating upon their front, the final check. The hope was futile. Looking back upon the day with knowledge of what General French's army faced--a knowledge largely denied to him--it seems that the British escape from annihilation was miraculous. And indeed it was due to a modern miracle--the conquest of the air by man in the development of the airplane. General French was outnumbered and in danger of being flanked on his left flank. His right he thought safe, for it was in contact with the French line which extended eastward along the bank of the Somme to where the dark fortress of Namur frowned on the steeps formed by the junction of that river with the Meuse. At that point the French line bent to the south following the course of the latter river. Namur was expected to hold out for weeks. Its defence lasted but three days! As a matter of fact it did not delay the oncoming Germans a day, for they invested it and drove past in their fierce assault upon Joffre's lines. Enormously outnumbered, the French were broken and forced to retreat. They left General French's right flank in the air, exposed to envelopment by von Kluck who was already reaching around the left flank. The German troops were ample in number to surround the British, cut them off from all support, and crush or capture them all. This indeed they were preparing to do while General French, owing to some mischance never yet explained, was holding his ground utterly without knowledge that his allies had already retired leaving his flank without protection. [Illustration: Photo by Peter A. Juley. _Dropping a Depth Bomb._ _From the Painting by Lieutenant Farré._] When that fatal information arrived belatedly at the British headquarters it seemed like a death warrant. The right of the line had already been exposed for more than half-a-day. It was inexplicable that it had not already been attacked. It was unbelievable that the attack would not fall the next moment. But how would it be delivered and where, and what force would the enemy bring to it? Was von Kluck lulling the British into a false sense of security by leaving the exposed flank unmenaced while he gained their rear and cut off their retreat? Questions such as these demanded immediate answer. Ten years before the most dashing scouts would have clattered off to the front and would have required a day, perhaps more, to complete the necessary reconnaissance. But though of all nations, except of course the utterly negligent United States, Great Britain had least developed her aviation corps, there were attached to General French's headquarters enough airmen to meet this need. In a few minutes after the disquieting news arrived the beat of the propellers rose above the din of the battlefield and the airplanes appeared above the enemy's lines. An hour or two sufficed to gather the necessary facts, the fliers returned to headquarters, and immediately the retreat was begun. It was a beaten army that plodded back to the line of the Marne. Its retreat at times narrowly approached a rout. But the army was not crushed, annihilated. It remained a coherent, serviceable part of the allied line in the successful action speedily fought along the Marne. But had it not been for the presence of the airmen the British expeditionary force would have been wiped out then and there. The battle of Mons gave the soldiers a legend which still persists--that of the ghostly English bowmen of the time of Edward the Black Prince who came back from their graves to save that field for England and for France. Thousands of simple souls believe that legend to-day. But it is no whit more unbelievable than the story of an army saved by a handful of men flying thousands of feet above the field would have been had it been told of a battle in our Civil War. The world has believed in ghosts for centuries and the Archers of Mons are the legitimate successors of the Great Twin Brethren at the Battle of Lake Regillus. But Cæsar, Napoleon, perhaps the elder von Moltke himself would have scoffed at the idea that men could turn themselves into birds to spy out the enemy's dispositions and save a sorely menaced army. When this war has passed into history it will be recognized that its greatest contributions to military science have been the development and the use of aircraft and submarines. There have, of course, been other features in the method of waging war which have been novel either in themselves, or in the gigantic scale upon which they have been employed. There is, for example, nothing new about trench warfare. The American who desires to satisfy himself about that need only to visit the Military Park at Vicksburg, or the country about Petersburg or Richmond, to recognize that even fifty years ago our soldiers understood the art of sheltering themselves from bullet and shrapnel in the bosom of Mother Earth. The trench warfare in Flanders, the Argonne, and around Verdun has been novel only in the degree to which it has been developed and perfected. Concrete-lined trenches, with spacious and well-furnished bomb-proofs, with phonographs, printing presses, and occasional dramatic performances for lightening the soldiers' lot present an impressive elaboration of the muddy ditches of Virginia and Mississippi. Yet after all the boys of Grant and Lee had the essentials of trench warfare well in mind half a century before Germany, France, and England came to grips on the long line from the North Sea to the Vosges. Asphyxiating gas, whether liberated from a shell, or released along a trench front to roll slowly down before a wind upon its defenders, was a novelty of this war. But in some degree it was merely a development of the "stinkpot" which the Chinese have employed for years. So too the tear-bomb, or lachrymatory bomb, which painfully irritated the eyes of all in its neighbourhood when it burst, filling them with tears and making the soldiers practically helpless in the presence of a swift attack. These two weapons of offence, and particularly the first, because of the frightful and long-continuing agony it inflicts upon its victims, fascinated the observer, and awakened the bitter protests of those who held that an issue at war might be determined by civilized nations without recourse to engines of death and anguish more barbaric than any known to the red Indians, or the most savage tribes of Asia. Neither of these devices, nor for that matter the cognate one of fire spurted like a liquid from a hose upon a shrinking enemy, can be shown to have had any appreciable effect upon the fortunes of any great battle. Each, as soon as employed by any one belligerent, was quickly seized by the adversary, and the respiratory mask followed fast upon the appearance of the chlorine gas. Whatever the outcome of the gigantic conflict may be, no one will claim that any of these devices had contributed greatly to the result. But the airplane revolutionized warfare on land. The submarine has made an almost equal revolution in naval warfare. Had the airplane been known in the days of our Civil War some of its most picturesque figures would have never risen to eminence or at least would have had to win their places in history by efforts of an entirely different sort. There is no place left in modern military tactics for the dashing cavalry scout of the type of Sheridan, Custer, Fitz Lee, or Forrest. The airplane, soaring high above the lines of the enemy, brings back to headquarters in a few hours information that in the old times took a detachment of cavalry days to gather. The "screen of cavalry" that in bygone campaigns commanders used to mask their movements no longer screens nor masks. A general moves with perfect knowledge that his enemy's aircraft will report to their headquarters his roads, his strength, and his probable destination as soon as his vanguard is off. During the Federal advance upon Richmond, Stonewall Jackson, most brilliant of the generals of that war, repeatedly slipped away from the Federal front, away from the spot where the Federal commanders confidently supposed him to be, and was found days later in the Valley of the Shenandoah, threatening Washington or menacing the Union rear and its communications. The war was definitely prolonged by this Confederate dash and elusiveness--none of which would have been possible had the Union forces possessed an aviation corps. [Illustration: _A Battle in Mid-air._ (_Note rifleman on wing of airplane._) _From the painting by Lieutenant Farré._ Photo by Peter A. Juley.] It is yet to be shown conclusively that as offensive engines aircraft have any great value. The tendency of the military authorities of every side to minimize the damage they have suffered makes any positive conclusion on this subject difficult and dangerous at this moment. The airplane by day or the Zeppelin by night appears swiftly and mysteriously, drops its bombs from a height of several thousand feet, and takes its certain flight through the boundless sky to safety. The aggressor cannot tell whether his bombs have found a fitting target. He reports flaming buildings left behind him, but whether they are munition factories, theatres, or primary schools filled with little children he cannot tell. Nor does he know how quickly the flames were extinguished, or the amount of damage done. The British boast of successful air raids upon Cuxhaven, Zeebrugge, Essen, and Friedrichshaven. But if we take German official reports we must be convinced that the damage done was negligible in its relation to the progress of the war. In their turn the Germans brag mightily of the deeds of their Zeppelins over London, and smaller British towns. But the sum and substance of their accomplishment, according to the British reports, has been the slaughter and mutilation of a number of civilians--mostly women and children--and the bloody destruction of many humble working-class homes. At this writing, December, 1917, it is not recorded that any battleship, munition factory, any headquarters, great government building, or fortress has been destroyed or seriously injured by the activities of aircraft of either type. This lack of precise information may be due to the censor rather than to any lack of great deeds on the part of airmen. We do know of successful attacks on submarines, though the military authorities are chary about giving out the facts. But as scouts, messengers, and guides for hidden batteries attacking unseen targets, aviators have compelled the rewriting of the rules of military strategy. About this time, however, it became apparent that the belligerents intended to develop the battleplanes. Particularly was this true of the Allies. The great measure of success won by the German submarines and the apparent impossibility of coping adequately with those weapons of death once they had reached the open sea, led the British and the Americans to consider the possibility of destroying them in their bases and destroying the bases as well. But Kiel and Wilhelmshaven were too heavily defended to make an attack by sea seem at all practicable. The lesser ports of Zeebrugge and Ostend had been successfully raided from the air and made practically useless as submarine bases. Discussion therefore was strong of making like raids with heavier machines carrying heavier guns and dropping more destructive bombs upon the two chief lurking places of the submarines. While no conclusion had been reached as to this strategy at the time of the publication of this book, both nations were busy building larger aircraft probably for use in such an attack. * * * * * The submarine has exerted upon the progress of the war an influence even more dominant than that of aircraft. It has been a positive force both offensive and defensive. It has been Germany's only potent weapon for bringing home to the British the privations and want which war entails upon a civilian population, and at the same time guarding the German people from the fullest result of the British blockade. It is no overstatement to declare that but for the German submarines the war would have ended in the victory of the Allies in 1916. We may hark back to our own Civil War for an illustration of the crushing power of a superior navy not qualified by any serviceable weapon in the hands of the weaker power. Historians have very generally failed to ascribe to the Federal blockade of Confederate ports its proportionate influence on the outcome of that war. The Confederates had no navy. Their few naval vessels were mere commerce destroyers, fleeing the ships of the United States navy and preying upon unarmed merchantmen. With what was rapidly developed into the most powerful navy the world had ever seen, the United States Government from the very beginning of the war locked the Confederate States in a wall of iron. None might pass going in or out, except by stealth and at the peril of property and life. Outside the harbour of every seaport in the control of the Confederates the blockading men-of-war lurked awaiting the blockade runners. Their vigilance was often eluded, of course, yet nevertheless the number of cargoes that slipped through was painfully inadequate to meet the needs of the fenced-in States. Clothing, medicines, articles of necessary household use were denied to civilians. Cannon, rifles, saltpetre, and other munitions of war were withheld from the Confederate armies. While the ports of the North were bustling with foreign trade, grass grew on the cobble-stoned streets along the waterfronts of Charleston and Savannah. Slow starvation aided the constant pounding of the Northern armies in reducing the South to subjection. Had the Confederacy possessed but a few submarines of modern type this situation could not have persisted. Then, as to-day, neutral nations were eager to trade with both belligerents. There were then more neutrals whose interests would have compelled the observance of the laws of blockade, which in the present war are flagrantly violated by all belligerents with impunity. A submarine raid which would have sunk or driven away the blockading fleet at the entrance to a single harbour would have resulted in opening that harbour to the unrestricted uses of neutral ships until the blockade could be re-established and formal notice given to all powers--a formality which in those days, prior to the existence of cables, would have entailed weeks, perhaps months, of delay. How serious such an interruption to the blockade was then considered was shown by the trepidation of the Union naval authorities over the first victories of the _Merrimac_ prior to the providential arrival of the _Monitor_ in Hampton Roads. It was then thought that the Confederate ram would go straight to Wilmington, Charleston, and Savannah, destroy or drive away the blockaders, and open the Confederacy to the trade of the world. Even then men dreamed of submarines, as indeed they have since the days of the American Revolution. Of the slow development of that engine of war to its present effectiveness we shall speak more fully in later chapters. Enough now to say that had the Confederacy possessed boats of the U-53 type the story of our Civil War might have had a different ending. The device which the Allies have adopted to-day of blockading a port or ports by posting their ships several hundred miles away would have found no toleration among neutrals none too friendly to the United States, and vastly stronger in proportion to the power of this nation than all the neutrals to-day are to the strength of the Allies. [Illustration: _Victory in the Clouds._ _Painting by John E. Whiting._] From the beginning of the Great War in Europe the fleets of the Teutonic alliance were locked up in port by the superior floating forces of the Entente. Such sporadic dashes into the arena of conflict as the one made by the German High Fleet, bringing on the Battle of Jutland, had but little bearing on the progress of the war. But the steady, persistent malignant activity of the German submarines had everything to do with it. They mitigated the rigidity of the British blockade by keeping the blockaders far from the ports they sought to seal. They preyed on the British fleets by sinking dreadnoughts, battleships, and cruisers in nearly all of the belligerent seas. If the British navy justified its costly power by keeping the German fleet practically imprisoned in its fortified harbours, the German submarines no less won credit and glory by keeping even that overwhelming naval force restricted in its movements, ever on guard, ever in a certain sense on the defensive. And meanwhile these underwater craft so preyed upon British foodships that in the days of the greatest submarine activity England was reduced to husbanding her stores of food with almost as great thrift and by precisely the same methods as did Germany suffering from the British blockade. Aircraft and submarines! Twin terrors of the world's greatest war! The development, though by no means the final development, of dreams that men of many nations have dreamed throughout the centuries! They are two of the outstanding features of the war; two of its legacies to mankind. How much the legacy may be worth in peaceful times is yet to be determined. The airplane and the dirigible at any rate seem already to promise useful service to peaceful man. Already the flier is almost as common a spectacle in certain sections of our country as the automobile was fifteen years ago. The submarine, for economic reasons, promises less for the future in the way of peaceful service, notwithstanding the exploits of the _Deutschland_ in the ocean-carrying trade. But perhaps it too will find its place in industry when awakened man shall be willing to spend as much treasure, as much genius, as much intelligent effort, and as much heroic self-sacrifice in organizing for the social good as in the last four years he has expended in its destruction. CHAPTER II THE EARLIEST FLYING MEN The conquest of the air has been the dream of mankind for uncounted centuries. As far back as we have historic records we find stories of the attempts of men to fly. The earliest Greek mythology is full of aeronautical legends, and the disaster which befell Icarus and his wings of wax when exposed to the glare of the midsummer sun in Greece, is part of the schoolboy's task in Ovid. We find like traditions in the legendary lore of the Peruvians, the East Indians, the Babylonians, even the savage races of darkest Africa. In the Hebrew scriptures the chief badge of sanctity conferred on God's angels was wings, and the ability to fly. If we come down to the mythology of more recent times we find our pious ancestors in New England thoroughly convinced that the witches they flogged and hanged were perfectly able to navigate the air on a broomstick--thus antedating the Wrights' experiments with heavier-than-air machines by more than 250 years. It is an interesting fact, stimulating to philosophical reflection, that in the last decade more has been done toward the conquest of the air, than in the twenty centuries preceding it, though during all that period men had been dreaming, planning, and experimenting upon contrivances for flight. Moreover when success came--or such measure of success as has been won--it came by the application of an entirely novel principle hardly dreamed of before the nineteenth century. Some of the earlier efforts to master gravity and navigate the air are worthy of brief mention if only to show how persistent were the efforts from the earliest historic ages to accomplish this end. Passing over the legends of the time of mythology we find that many-sided genius, Leonardo da Vinci, early in the sixteenth century, not content with being a painter, architect, sculptor, engineer and designer of forts, offering drawings and specifications of wings which, fitted to men, he thought would enable them to fly. The sketches are still preserved in a museum at Paris. He modelled his wings on those of a bat and worked them with ropes passing over pulleys, the aviator lying prone, face downward, and kicking with both arms and legs with the vigour of a frog. There is, unhappily, no record that the proposition ever advanced beyond the literary stage--certainly none that Da Vinci himself thus risked his life. History records no one who kicked his way aloft with the Da Vinci device. But the manuscript which the projector left shows that he recognized the modern aviator's maxim, "There's safety in altitude." He says, in somewhat confused diction: The bird should with the aid of the wind raise itself to a great height, and this will be its safety; because although the revolutions mentioned may happen there is time for it to recover its equilibrium, provided its various parts are capable of strong resistance so that they may safely withstand the fury and impetus of the descent. [Illustration: _The Fall of the Boche._ _From the painting by Lieutenant Farré._ Photo by Peter A. Juley.] The fallacy that a man could, by the rapid flapping of wings of any sort, overcome the force of gravity persisted up to a very recent day, despite the complete mathematical demonstration by von Helmholtz in 1878 that man could not possibly by his own muscular exertions raise his own weight into the air and keep it suspended. Time after time the "flapping wings" were resorted to by ambitious aviators with results akin to those attained by Darius Green. One of the earliest was a French locksmith named Besnier, who had four collapsible planes on two rods balanced across his shoulders. These he vigorously moved up and down with his hands and feet, the planes opening like covers of a book as they came down, and closing as they came up. Besnier made no attempt to raise himself from the ground, but believed that once launched in the air from an elevation he could maintain himself, and glide gradually to earth at a considerable distance. It is said that he and one or two of his students did in a way accomplish this. Others, however, experimenting with the same method came to sorry disaster. Among these was an Italian friar whom King James IV. of Scotland had made Prior of Tongland. Equipped with a pair of large feather wings operated on the Besnier principle, he launched himself from the battlements of Stirling Castle in the presence of King James and his court. But gravity was too much for his apparatus, and turning over and over in mid-air he finally landed ingloriously on a manure heap--at that period of nascent culture a very common feature of the pleasure grounds of a palace. He had a soul above his fate however, for he ascribed his fall not to vulgar mechanical causes, but wholly to the fact that he had overlooked the proper dignity of flight by pluming his wings with the feathers of common barn-yard fowl instead of with plumes plucked from the wings of eagles! In sharp competition with the aspiring souls who sought to fly with wings--the forerunners of the airplane devotees of to-day--were those who tried to find some direct lifting device for a car which should contain the aviators. Some of their ideas were curiously logical and at the same time comic. There was, for example, a priest, Le Père Galien of Avignon. He observed that the rarified air at the summit of the Alps was vastly lighter than that in the valleys below. What then was to hinder carrying up empty sacks of cotton or oiled silk to the mountain tops, opening them to the lighter air of the upper ranges, and sealing them hermetically when filled by it. When brought down into the valleys they would have lifting power enough to carry tons up to the summits again. The good Father's education in physics was not sufficiently advanced to warn him that the effort to drag the balloons down into the valley would exact precisely the force they would exert in lifting any load out of the valley--if indeed they possessed any lifting power whatsoever, which is exceedingly doubtful. Another project, which sounded logical enough, was based on the irrefutable truth that as air has some weight--to be exact 14.70 pounds for a column one inch square and the height of the earth's atmosphere--a vacuum must be lighter, as it contains nothing, not even air. Accordingly in the seventeenth century, one Francisco Lana, another priest, proposed to build an airship supported by four globes of copper, very thin and light, from which all the air had been pumped. The globes were to be twenty feet in diameter, and were estimated to have a lifting force of 2650 pounds. The weight of the copper shells was put at 1030 pounds, leaving a margin of possible weight for the car and its contents of 1620 pounds. It seemed at first glance a perfectly reasonable and logical plan. Unhappily one factor in the problem had been ignored. The atmospheric pressure on each of the globes would be about 1800 tons. Something more than a thin copper shell would be needed to resist this crushing force and an adequate increase in the strength of the shells would so enhance their weight as to destroy their lifting power. [Illustration: Lana's Vacuum Balloon.] To tell at length the stories of attempt and failure of the earliest dabblers in aeronautics would be unprofitable and uninteresting. Not until the eighteenth century did the experimenters with lighter-than-air devices show any practical results. Not until the twentieth century did the advocates of the heavier-than-air machines show the value of their fundamental idea. The former had to discover a gaseous substance actually lighter, and much lighter, than the surrounding atmosphere before they could make headway. The latter were compelled to abandon wholly the effort to imitate the flapping of a bird's wings, and study rather the method by which the bird adjusts the surface of its wings to the wind and soars without apparent effort, before they could show the world any promising results. Nearly every step forward in applied science is accomplished because of the observation by some thoughtful mind of some common phenomenon of nature, and the later application of those observations to some useful purpose. It seems a far cry from an ancient Greek philosopher reposing peacefully in his bath to a modern Zeppelin, but the connection is direct. Every schoolboy knows the story of the sudden dash of Archimedes, stark and dripping from his tub, with the triumphant cry of "Eureka!"--"I have found it!" What he had found was the rule which governed the partial flotation of his body in water. Most of us observe it, but the philosophical mind alone inquired "Why?" Archimedes' answer was this rule which has become a fundamental of physics: "A body plunged into a fluid is subjected by this fluid to a pressure from below to above equal to the weight of the fluid displaced by the body." A balloon is plunged in the air--a fluid. If it is filled with air there is no upward pressure from below, but if it is filled with a gas lighter than air there is a pressure upward equal to the difference between the weight of that gas and that of an equal quantity of air. Upon that fact rests the whole theory and practice of ballooning. The illustration of James Watt watching the steam rattle the cover of a teapot and from it getting the rudimentary idea of the steam engine is another case in point. Sometimes however the application of the hints of nature to the needs of man is rather ludicrously indirect. Charles Lamb gravely averred that because an early Chinaman discovered that the flesh of a pet pig, accidentally roasted in the destruction by fire of his owner's house, proved delicious to the palate, the Chinese for years made a practice of burning down their houses to get roast pig with "crackling." Early experimenters in aviation observed that birds flapped their wings and flew. Accordingly they believed that man to fly must have wings and flap them likewise. Not for hundreds of years did they observe that most birds flapped their wings only to get headway, or altitude, thereafter soaring to great heights and distances merely by adjusting the angle of their wings to the various currents of air they encountered. In a similar way the earliest experimenters with balloons observed that smoke always ascended. "Let us fill a light envelope with smoke," said they, "and it will rise into the air bearing a burden with it." All of which was true enough, and some of the first balloonists cast upon their fires substances like sulphur and pitch in order to produce a thicker smoke, which they believed had greater lifting power than ordinary hot air. In the race for actual accomplishment the balloonists, the advocates of lighter-than-air machines, took the lead at first. It is customary and reasonable to discard as fanciful the various devices and theories put forward by the experimenters in the Middle Ages and fix the beginning of practical aeronautical devices with the invention of hot-air balloons by the Montgolfiers, of Paris, in 1783. The Montgolfier brothers, Joseph and Jacques, were paper-makers of Paris. The family had long been famous for its development of the paper trade, and the many ingenious uses to which they put its staple. Just as the tanners of the fabled town in the Middle Ages thought there was "nothing like leather" with which to build its walls and gates, thereby giving a useful phrase to literature, so the Montgolfiers thought of everything in terms of paper. Sitting by their big open fireplace one night, so runs the story, they noticed the smoke rushing up the chimney. "Why not fill a big paper bag with smoke and make it lift objects into the air?" cried one. The experiment was tried next day with a small bag and proved a complete success. A neighbouring housewife looked in, and saw the bag bumping about the ceiling, but rapidly losing its buoyancy as the smoke escaped. [Illustration: Montgolfier's Experimental Balloon.] "Why not fasten a pan below the mouth of the bag," said she, "and put your fire in that? Its weight will keep the bag upright, and when it rises will carry the smoke and the pan up with it." Acting upon the hint the brothers fixed up a small bag which sailed up into the air beyond recapture. After various experiments a bag of mixed paper and linen thirty-five feet in diameter was inflated and released. It soared to a height of six thousand feet, and drifted before the wind a mile or more before descending. The ascent took place at Avonay, the home at the time of the Montgolfiers, and as every sort of publicity was given in advance, a huge assemblage including many officials of high estate gathered to witness it. A roaring fire was built in a pit over the mouth of which eight men held the great sack, which rolled, and beat about before the wind as it filled and took the form of a huge ball. The crowd was unbelieving and cynical, inclined to scoff at the idea that mere smoke would carry so huge a construction up into the sky. But when the signal was given to cast off, the balloon rose with a swiftness and majesty that at first struck the crowd dumb, then moved it to cheers of amazement and admiration. It went up six thousand feet and the Montgolfiers were at once elevated to almost an equal height of fame. The crowd which watched the experiment was wild with enthusiasm; the Montgolfiers elated with the first considerable victory over the force of gravity. They had demonstrated a principle and made their names immortal. What remained was to develop that principle and apply it to practical ends. That development, however, proceeded for something more than a century before anything like a practical airship was constructed. But for the moment the attack on the forces which had kept the air virgin territory to man was not allowed to lag. In Paris public subscriptions were opened to defray the cost of a new and greater balloon. By this time it was known that hydrogen gas, or "inflammable air" as it was then called, was lighter than air. But its manufacture was then expensive and public aid was needed for the new experiment which would call at the outset for a thousand pounds of iron filings and 498 pounds of sulphuric acid wherewith to manufacture the gas. The first experiment had been made in the provinces. This one was set for Paris, and in an era when the French capital was intellectually more alert, more eager for novelty, more interested in the advancement of physical science and in new inventions than ever in its long history of hospitality to the new idea. They began to fill the bag August 23, 1783 in the _Place des Victoires_, but the populace so thronged that square that two days later it was moved half filled to Paris's most historic point, the _Champ de Mars_. The transfer was made at midnight through the narrow dark streets of mediæval Paris. Eyewitnesses have left descriptions of the scene. Torch-bearers lighted on its way the cortège the central feature of which was the great bag, half filled with gas, flabby, shapeless, monstrous, mysterious, borne along by men clutching at its formless bulk. The state had recognized the importance of the new device and cuirassiers in glittering breastplates on horseback, and halbardiers in buff leather on foot guarded it in its transit through the sleeping city. But Paris was not all asleep. An escort of the sensation-loving rabble kept pace with the guards. The cries of the quarters rose above the tramp of the armed men. Observers have recorded that the passing cab drivers were so affected by wonder that they clambered down from their boxes and with doffed hats knelt in the highway while the procession passed. The ascension, which occurred two days later, was another moving spectacle. In the centre of the great square which has seen so many historic pageants, rose the swaying, quivering balloon, now filled to its full capacity of twenty-two thousand feet. Whether from the art instinct indigenous to the French, or some superstitious idea like that which impels the Chinese to paint eyes on their junks, the balloon was lavishly decorated in water colours, with views of rising suns, whirling planets, and other solar bodies amongst which it was expected to mingle. Ranks of soldiers kept the populace at a distance, while within the sacred precincts strolled the King and the ladies and cavaliers of his court treading all unconsciously on the brink of that red terror soon to engulf the monarchy. The gas in the reeling bag was no more inflammable than the air of Paris in those days just before the Revolution. With a salvo of cannon the guy-ropes were released and the balloon vanished in the clouds. Benjamin Franklin, at the moment representing in France the American colonies then struggling for liberty, witnessed this ascension! "Of what use is a new-born child?" he remarked sententiously as the balloon vanished. 'Twas a saying worthy of a cautious philosopher. Had Franklin been in Paris in 1914 he would have found the child, grown to lusty manhood, a strong factor in the city's defence. It is worth noting by the way that so alert was the American mind at that period that when the news of the Montgolfiers' achievement reached Philadelphia it found David Rittenhouse and other members of the Philosophical Society already experimenting with balloons. [Illustration: _A Rescue at Sea._ _From the painting by Lieutenant Farré._ Photo by Peter A. Juley.] A curious sequel attended the descent of the Montgolfier craft which took place in a field fifteen miles from Paris. Long before the days of newspapers, the peasants had never heard of balloons, and this mysterious object, dropping from high heaven into their peaceful carrot patch affrighted them. Some fled. Others approached timidly, armed with the normal bucolic weapons--scythes and pitchforks. Attacked with these the fainting monster, which many took for a dragon, responded with loud hisses and emitted a gas of unfamiliar but most pestiferous odour. It suggested brimstone, which to the devout in turn implied the presence of Satan. With guns, flails, and all obtainable weapons they fell upon the emissary of the Evil One, beat him to the ground, crushed out of him the vile-smelling breath of his nostrils, and finally hitched horses to him and dragged him about the fields until torn to tatters and shreds. When the public-spirited M. Charles who had contributed largely to the cost of this experiment came in a day or two to seek his balloon he found nothing but some shreds of cloth, and some lively legends of the prowess of the peasants in demolishing the devil's own dragon. The government, far-sightedly, recognizing that there would be more balloons and useful ones, thereupon issued this proclamation for the discouragement of such bucolic valour: A discovery has been made which the government deems it wise to make known so that alarm may not be occasioned to the people. On calculating the different weights of inflammable and common air it has been found that a balloon filled with inflammable air will rise toward heaven until it is in equilibrium with the surrounding air; which may not happen till it has attained to a great height. Anyone who should see such a globe, resembling the moon in an eclipse, should be aware that far from being an alarming phenomenon it is only a machine made of taffetas, or light canvas covered with paper, that cannot possibly cause any harm and which will some day prove serviceable to the wants of society. Came now the next great step in the progress of aeronautics. It had been demonstrated that balloons could lift themselves. They had even been made to lift dumb animals and restore them to earth unhurt. But if the conquest of the air was to amount to anything, men must go aloft in these new machines. Lives must be risked to demonstrate a theory, or to justify a calculation. Aeronautics is no science for laboratory or library prosecution. Its battles must be fought in the sky, and its devotees must be willing to offer their lives to the cause. In that respect the science of aviation has been different from almost any subject of inquiry that has ever engaged the restless intellect of man, unless perhaps submarine navigation, or the invention of explosives. It cannot be prosecuted except with a perfect willingness to risk life. No doubt this is one of the reasons why practical results seemed so long in the coming. Nor have men been niggardly in this enforced sacrifice. Though no records of assured accuracy are available, the names of forty-eight aeronauts who gave up their lives in the century following the Montgolfiers' invention are recorded. That record ended in 1890. How many have since perished, particularly on the battlefields of Europe where aircraft are as commonplace as cannon, it is too early yet to estimate. [Illustration: Montgolfier's Passenger Balloon.] After the success of the ascension from the _Champ de Mars_, the demand at once arose for an ascension by a human being. It was a case of calling for volunteers. The experiments already made showed clearly enough that the balloon would rise high in air. Who would risk his life soaring one thousand feet or more above the earth, in a flimsy bag, filled with hot air, or inflammable gas, without means of directing its course or bringing it with certainty and safety back to a landing place? It was a hard question, and it is interesting to note that it was answered not by a soldier or sailor, not by an adventurer, or devil-may-care spirit, but by a grave and learned professor of physical science, Pilatre de Rozier. Presently he was joined in his enterprise by a young man of the fashionable world and sporting tastes, the Marquis d'Arlandes. Aristocratic Paris took up aviation in the last days of the eighteenth century, precisely as the American leisure class is taking it up in the first days of the twentieth. The balloon for this adventure was bigger than its predecessors and for the first time a departure was taken from the spherical variety--the gas bag being seventy-four feet high, and forty-eight feet in diameter. Like the first Montgolfier balloons it was to be inflated with hot air, and the car was well packed with bundles of fuel with which the two aeronauts were to fill the iron brazier when its fires went down. The instinct for art and decoration, so strong in the French mind, had been given full play by the constructors of this balloon and it was painted with something of the gorgeousness of a circus poster. A tremendous crowd packed the park near Paris whence the ascent was made. Always the spectacle of human lives in danger has a morbid attraction for curiosity seekers, and we have seen in our own days throngs attracted to aviation congresses quite as much in the expectation of witnessing some fatal disaster, as to observe the progress made in man's latest conquest over nature. But in this instance the occasion justified the widest interest. It was an historic moment--more epoch-making than those who gathered in that field in the environs of Paris could have possibly imagined. For in the clumsy, gaudy bag, rolling and tossing above a smoky fire lay the fundamentals of those great airships that, perfected by the persistence of Count Zeppelin, have crossed angry seas, breasted fierce winds, defied alike the blackest nights and the thickest fogs to rain their messages of death on the capital of a foe. Contemporary accounts of this first ascension are but few, and those that have survived have come down to us in but fragmentary form. It was thought needful for two to make the ascent, for the car, or basket, which held the fire hung below the open mouth of the bag, and the weight of a man on one side would disturb the perfect equilibrium which it was believed would be essential to a successful flight. The Marquis d'Arlandes in a published account of the brief flight, which sounds rather as if the two explorers of an unknown element were not free from nervousness, writes: "Our departure was at fifty-four minutes past one, and occasioned little stir among the spectators. Thinking they might be frightened and stand in need of encouragement I waved my arm." This solicitude for the fears of the spectators, standing safely on solid earth while the first aeronauts sailed skywards, is characteristically Gallic. The Marquis continues: M. de Rozier cried: "You are doing nothing, and we are not rising." I stirred the fire and then began to scan the river, but Pilatre again cried: "See the river. We are dropping into it!" We again urged the fire, but still clung to the river bed. Presently I heard a noise in the upper part of the balloon, which gave a shock as though it had burst. I called to my companion: "Are you dancing?" The balloon by this time had many holes burnt in it and using my sponge I cried that we must descend. My companion however explained that we were over Paris and must now cross it; therefore raising the fire once more we turned south till we passed the Luxembourg, when, extinguishing the flames, the balloon came down spent and empty. If poor Pilatre played the part of a rather nervous man in this narrative he had the nerve still to go on with his aeronautical experiments to the point of death. In 1785 he essayed the crossing of the English Channel in a balloon of his own design, in which he sought to combine the principles of the gas and hot-air balloons. It appears to have been something like an effort to combine nitro-glycerine with an electric spark. At any rate the dense crowds that thronged the coast near Boulogne to see the start of the "Charles--Montgolfier"--as the balloon was named after the originators of the rival systems--saw it, after half an hour's drift out to sea, suddenly explode in a burst of flame. De Rozier and a friend who accompanied him were killed. A monument still recalls their fate, which however is more picturesquely recorded in the signs of sundry inns and cafés of the neighbourhood which offer refreshment in the name of _Les Aviateurs Perdus_. Thereafter experimenters with balloons multiplied amazingly. The world thought the solution of the problem of flight had been found in the gas bag. Within two months a balloon capable of lifting eighteen tons and carrying seven passengers ascended three thousand feet at Lyons, and, though sustaining a huge rent in the envelope, because of the expansion of the gas at that height, returned to earth in safety. The fever ran from France to England and in 1784, only a year after the first Montgolfier experiments, Lunardi, an Italian aeronaut made an ascension from London which was viewed by King George III. and his ministers, among them William Pitt. But the early enthusiasm for ballooning quickly died down to mere curiosity. It became apparent to all that merely to rise into the air, there to be the helpless plaything of the wind, was but a useless and futile accomplishment. Pleasure seekers and mountebanks used balloons for their own purposes, but serious experimenters at once saw that if the invention of the balloon was to be of the slightest practical value some method must be devised for controlling and directing its flight. To this end some of the brightest intellects of the world directed their efforts, but it is hardly overstating the case to say that more than a century passed without any considerable progress toward the development of a dirigible balloon. [Illustration: Charles's Balloon.] But even at the earlier time it was evident enough that the Quaker philosopher, from the American Colonies, not yet the United States, whose shrewd and inquiring disposition made him intellectually one of the foremost figures of his day, foresaw clearly the great possibilities of this new invention. In letters to Sir Joseph Banks, then President of the Royal Society of London, Franklin gave a lively account of the first three ascensions, together with some comments, at once suggestive and humorous, which are worth quoting: Some think [he wrote of the balloon] Progressive Motion on the Earth may be advanc'd by it, and that a Running Footman or a Horse slung and suspended under such a Globe so as to have no more of Weight pressing the Earth with their Feet than Perhaps 8 or 10 Pounds, might with a fair Wind run in a straight Line across Countries as fast as that Wind, and over Hedges, Ditches and even Waters. It has been even fancied that in time People will keep such Globes anchored in the Air to which by Pullies they may draw up Game to be preserved in the Cool and Water to be frozen when Ice is wanted. And that to get Money it will be contriv'd, by running them up in an Elbow Chair a Mile high for a guinea, etc., etc. With his New England lineage Franklin could hardly have failed of this comparison: "A few Months since the Idea of Witches riding through the Air upon a broomstick, and that of Philosophers upon a Bag of Smoke would have appeared equally impossible and ridiculous." To-day when aircraft are the eyes of the armies in the greatest war of history, and when it appears that, with the return of peace, the conquest of the air for the ordinary uses of man will be swiftly completed, Franklin's good-humoured plea for the fullest experimentation is worth recalling. And the touch of piety with which he concludes his argument is a delightful example of the whimsical fashion in which he often undertook to bolster up a mundane theory with a reference to things supernatural. [Illustration: _A French Observation Balloon on Fire._ © U. & U.] I am sorry this Experiment is totally neglected in England, where mechanic Genius is so strong. I wish I could see the same Emulation between the two Nations as I see between the two Parties here. Your Philosophy seems to be too bashful. In this Country we are not so much afraid of being laught at. If we do a foolish thing, we are the first to laugh at it ourselves, and are almost as much pleased with a _Bon Mot_ or a _Chanson_, that ridicules well the Disappointment of a Project, as we might have been with its success. It does not seem to me a good reason to decline prosecuting a new Experiment which apparently increases the power of Man over Matter, till we can see to what Use that Power may be applied. When we have learnt to manage it, we may hope some time or other to find Uses for it, as men have done for Magnetism and Electricity, of which the first Experiments were mere Matters of Amusement. This Experience is by no means a trifling one. It may be attended with important Consequences that no one can foresee. We should not suffer Pride to prevent our progress in Science. Beings of a Rank and Nature far superior to ours have not disdained to amuse themselves with making and launching Balloons, otherwise we should never have enjoyed the Light of those glorious objects that rule our Day & Night, nor have had the Pleasure of riding round the Sun ourselves upon the Balloon we now inhabit. B. FRANKLIN. The earliest experimenters thought that oars might be employed to propel and direct a balloon. The immediate failure of all endeavours of this sort, led them, still pursuing the analogy between a balloon and a ship at sea, to try to navigate the air with sails. This again proved futile. It is impossible for a balloon, or airship to "tack" or manoeuvre in any way by sail power. It is in fact a monster sail itself, needing some other power than the wind to make headway or steerage way against the wind. The sail device was tested only to be abandoned. Only when a trail rope dragging along the ground or sea is employed does the sail offer sufficient resistance to the wind to sway the balloon's course this way or that. And a trailer is impracticable when navigating great heights. [Illustration: Roberts Brothers' Dirigible.] For these reasons the development of the balloon lagged, until Count Zeppelin and M. Santos-Dumont consecrated their fortunes, their inventive minds, and their amazing courage to the task of perfecting a dirigible. In a book, necessarily packed with information concerning the rapid development of aircraft which began in the last decade of the nineteenth century and was enormously stimulated during the war of all the world, the long series of early experiments with balloons must be passed over hastily. Though interesting historically these experiments were futile. Beyond having discovered what could _not_ be done with a balloon the practitioners of that form of aeronautics were little further along in 1898 when Count Zeppelin came along with the first plan for a rigid dirigible than they were when Blanchard in 1786, seizing a favourable gale drifted across the English Channel to the French shore, together with Dr. Jefferies, an American. It was just 124 years later that Bleriot, a Frenchman, made the crossing in an airplane independently of favouring winds. It had taken a century and a quarter to attain this independence. In a vague way the earliest balloonists recognized that power, independent of wind, was necessary to give balloons steerage way and direction. Steam was in its infancy during the early days of ballooning, but the efforts to devise some sort of an engine light enough to be carried into the air were untiring. Within a year after the experiments of the Montgolfier brothers, the suggestion was made that the explosion of small quantities of gun-cotton and the expulsion of the resulting gases might be utilized in some fashion to operate propelling machinery. Though the suggestion was not developed to any useful point it was of interest as forecasting the fundamental idea of the gas engines of to-day which have made aviation possible--that is, the creation of power by a series of explosions within the motor. In the effort to make balloons dirigible one of the first steps was to change the form from the spherical or pear-shaped bag to a cylindrical, or cigar-shape. This device was adopted by the brothers Robert in France as early as 1784. Their balloon further had a double skin or envelope, its purpose being partly to save the gas which percolated through the inner skin, partly to maintain the rigidity of the structure. As gas escapes from an ordinary balloon it becomes flabby, and can be driven through the air only with extreme difficulty. In the balloon of the Robert brothers air could from time to time be pumped into the space between the two skins, keeping the outer envelope always fully distended and rigid. In later years this idea has been modified by incorporating in the envelope one large or a number of smaller balloons or "balloonets," into which air may be pumped as needed. The shape too has come to approximate that of a fish rather than a bird, in the case of balloons at least. "The head of a cod and the tail of a mackerel," was the way Marey-Monge, the French aeronaut described it. Though most apparent in dirigible balloons, this will be seen to be the favourite design for airplanes if the wings be stripped off, and the body and tail alone considered. Complete, these machines are not unlike a flying fish. In England, Sir George Cayley, as early as 1810 studied and wrote largely on the subject of dirigibles but, though the English call him the "father of British aeronautics," his work seems to have been rather theoretical than practical. He did indeed demonstrate mathematically that no lifting power existed that would support the cumbrous steam-engine of that date, and tried to solve this dilemma by devising a gas engine, and an explosive engine. With one of the latter, driven by a series of explosions of gunpowder, each in a separate cell set off by a detonator, he equipped a flying machine which attained a sufficient height to frighten Cayley's coachman, whom he had persuaded to act as pilot. The rather unwilling aviator, fearing a loftier flight, jumped out and broke his leg. Though by virtue of this martyrdom his name should surely have descended to fame with that of Cayley it has been lost, together with all record of any later performances of the machine, which unquestionably embodied some of the basic principles of our modern aircraft, though it antedated the first of these by nearly a century. [Illustration: Giffard's Dirigible.] We may pass over hastily some of the later experiments with dirigibles that failed. In 1834 the Count de Lennox built an airship 130 feet long to be driven by oars worked by man power. When the crowd that gathered to watch the ascent found that the machine was too heavy to ascend even without the men, they expressed their lively contempt for the inventor by tearing his clothes to tatters and smashing his luckless airship. In 1852, another Frenchman, Henry Giffard, built a cigar-shaped balloon 150 feet long by 40 feet in diameter, driven by steam. The engine weighed three hundred pounds and generated about 3 H.-P.--about 1/200 as much power as a gas engine of equal weight would produce. Even with this slender power, however, Giffard attained a speed, independent of the wind, of from five to seven miles an hour--enough at least for steerage way. This was really the first practical demonstration of the possibilities of the mechanical propulsion of balloons. Several adaptations of the Giffard idea followed, and in 1883 Renard and Krebs, in a fusiform ship, driven by an electric motor, attained a speed of fifteen miles an hour. By this time inventive genius in all countries--save the United States which lagged in interest in dirigibles--was stimulated. Germany and France became the great protagonists in the struggle for precedence and in the struggle two figures stand out with commanding prominence--the Count von Zeppelin and Santos-Dumont, a young Brazilian resident in Paris who without official countenance consecrated his fortune to, and risked his life in, the service of aviation. CHAPTER III THE SERVICES OF SANTOS-DUMONT In his book _My Airships_ the distinguished aviator A. Santos-Dumont tells this story of the ambition of his youth and its realization in later days: I cannot say at what age I made my first kites, but I remember how my comrades used to tease me at our game of "pigeon flies." All the children gather round a table and the leader calls out "Pigeon Flies! Hen flies! Crow flies! Bee flies!" and so on; and at each call we were supposed to raise our fingers. Sometimes, however, he would call out "Dog flies! Fox flies!" or some other like impossibility to catch us. If any one raised a finger then he was made to pay a forfeit. Now my playmates never failed to wink and smile mockingly at me when one of them called "Man flies!" for at the word I would always raise my finger very high, as a sign of absolute conviction, and I refused with energy to pay the forfeit. The more they laughed at me the happier I was, hoping that some day the laugh would be on my side. Among the thousands of letters which I received after winning the Deutsch prize (a prize offered in 1901 for sailing around the Eiffel Tower) there was one that gave me peculiar pleasure. I quote from it as a matter of curiosity: "Do you remember, my dear Alberto, when we played together 'Pigeon Flies!'? It came back to me suddenly when the news of your success reached Rio. 'Man flies!' old fellow! You were right to raise your finger, and you have just proved it by flying round the Eiffel Tower. "They play the old game now more than ever at home; but the name has been changed, and the rules modified since October 19, 1901. They call it now 'Man flies!' and he who does not raise his finger at the word pays the forfeit." The story of Santos-Dumont affords a curious instance of a boy being obsessed by an idea which as a man he carried to its successful fruition. It offers also evidence of the service that may accrue to society from the devotion of a dilettante to what people may call a "fad," but what is in fact the germ of a great idea needing only an enthusiast with enthusiasm, brains, and money for its development. Because the efforts of Santos-Dumont always smacked of the amateur he has been denied his real place in the history of aeronautics, which is that of a fearless innovator, and a devoted worker in the cause. Born on one of those great coffee plantations of Brazil, where all is done by machinery that possibly can be, Santos-Dumont early developed a passion for mechanics. In childhood he made toy airplanes. He confesses that his favourite author was Jules Verne, that literary idol of boyhood, who while writing books as wildly imaginative as any dime tale of redskins, or nickel novel of the doings of "Nick Carter" had none the less the spirit of prophecy that led him to forecast the submarine, the automobile, and the navigation of the air. At fifteen Santos-Dumont saw his first balloon and marked the day with red. [Illustration: © U. & U. _A British Kite Balloon._ (_The open sack at the lower end catches the breeze and keeps the balloon steady._)] I too desired to go ballooning [he writes]. In the long sun-bathed Brazilian afternoons, when the hum of insects, punctuated by the far-off cry of some bird lulled me, I would lie in the shade of the veranda and gaze into the fair sky of Brazil where the birds fly so high and soar with such ease on their great outstretched wings; where the clouds mount so gaily in the pure light of day, and you have only to raise your eyes to fall in love with space and freedom. So, musing on the exploration of the aërial ocean, I, too, devised airships and flying-machines in my imagination. [Illustration: © U. & U. _A British "Blimp" Photographed from Above._] From dreaming, the boy's ambitions rapidly developed into actions. Good South Americans, whatever the practice of their northern neighbours, do not wait to die before going to Paris. At the age of eighteen the youth found himself in the capital of the world. To his amazement he found that the science of aeronautics, such as it was, had stopped with Giffard's work in 1852. No dirigible was to be heard of in all Paris. The antiquated gas ball was the only way to approach the upper air. When the boy tried to arrange for an ascension the balloonist he consulted put so unconscionable a price on one ascent that he bought an automobile instead--one of the first made, for this was in 1891--and with it returned to Brazil. It was not until six years later that, his ambition newly fired by reading of Andrée's plans for reaching the Pole in a balloon, Santos-Dumont took up anew his ambition to become an aviator. His own account of his first ascent does not bear precisely the hall-mark of the enthusiast too rapt in ecstasy to think of common things. "I had brought up," he notes gravely, "a substantial lunch of hard-boiled eggs, cold roast beef and chicken, cheese, ice cream, fruits and cakes, champagne, coffee, and chartreuse!" The balloon with its intrepid voyagers nevertheless returned to earth in safety. A picturesque figure, an habitué of the clubs and an eager sportsman, Santos-Dumont at once won the liking of the French people, and attracted attention wherever people gave thought to aviation. Liberal in expenditure of money, and utterly fearless in exposing his life, he pushed his experiments for the development of a true dirigible tirelessly. Perhaps his major fault was that he learned but slowly from the experiences of others. He clung to the spherical balloon long after the impossibility of controlling it in the air was accepted as unavoidable by aeronauts. But in 1898 having become infatuated with the performances of a little sixty-six pound tricycle motor he determined to build a cigar-shaped airship to fit it, and with that determination won success. Amateur he may have been, was indeed throughout the greater part of his career as an airman. Nevertheless Santos-Dumont has to his credit two very notable achievements. He was the first constructor and pilot of a dirigible balloon that made a round trip, that is to say returned to its starting place after rounding a stake at some distance--in this instance the Eiffel Tower, 3-1/2 miles from St. Cloud whence Santos-Dumont started and whither he returned within half an hour, the time prescribed. This was not, indeed, the first occasion on which a round trip, necessitating operation against the wind on at least one course, had been made. In 1884 Captain Renard had accomplished this feat for the first time with the fish-shaped balloon _La France_, driven by an electric motor of nine horse-power. But though thus antedated in his exploit, Santos-Dumont did in fact accomplish more for the advancement and development of dirigible balloons. To begin with he was able to use a new and efficient form of motor destined to become popular, and capable, as the automobile manufacturers later showed, of almost illimitable development in the direction of power and lightness. Except for the gasoline engine, developed by the makers of motor cars, aviation to-day would be where it was a quarter of a century ago. Moreover by his personal qualities, no less than by his successful demonstration of the possibilities inherent in the dirigible, Santos-Dumont persuaded the French Government to take up aeronautics again, after abandoning the subject as the mere fad of a number of visionaries. Turning from balloons to airplanes the Brazilian was the first aviator to make a flight with a heavier-than-air machine before a body of judges. This triumph was mainly technical. The Wrights had made an equally notable flight almost a year before but not under conditions that made it a matter of scientific record. But setting aside for the time the work done by Santos-Dumont with machines heavier than air, let us consider his triumphs with balloons at the opening of his career. He had come to France about forty years after Henry Giffard had demonstrated the practicability of navigating a balloon 144 feet long and 34 feet in diameter with a three-horse-power steam-engine. But no material success attended this demonstration, important as it was, and the inventor turned his attention to captive balloons, operating one at the Paris Exposition of 1878 that took up forty passengers at a time. There followed Captain Renard to whose achievement we have already referred. He had laid down as the fundamentals of a dirigible balloon these specifications: A cigar, or fishlike shape. An internal sack or ballonet into which air might be pumped to replace any lost gas, and maintain the shape of the balloon. A keel, or other longitudinal brace, to maintain the longitudinal stability of the balloon and from which the car containing the motor might be hung. A propeller driven by a motor, the size and power of both to be as great as permitted by the lifting power of the balloon. A rudder capable of controlling the course of the ship. Santos-Dumont adopted all of these specifications, but added to them certain improvements which gave his airships--he built five of them before taking his first prize--notable superiority over that of Renard. To begin with he had the inestimable advantage of having the gasoline motor. He further lightened his craft by having the envelope made of Japanese silk, in flat defiance of all the builders of balloons who assured him that the substance was too light and its use would be suicidal. "All right," said the innovator to his favourite constructor, who refused to build him a balloon of that material, "I'll build it myself." In the face of this threat the builder capitulated. The balloon was built, and the silk proved to be the best fabric available at that time for the purpose. A keel made of strips of pine banded together with aluminum wire formed the backbone of the Santos-Dumont craft, and from it depended the car about one quarter of the length of the balloon and hung squarely amidships. The idea of this keel occurred to the inventor while pleasuring at Nice. Later it saved his life. One novel and exceedingly simple device bore witness to the ingenuity of the inventor. He had noticed in his days of free ballooning that to rise the aeronaut had to throw out sand-ballast; to descend he had to open the valves and let out gas. As his supply of both gas and sand was limited it was clear that the time of his flight was necessarily curtailed every time he ascended or descended. Santos-Dumont thought to husband his supplies of lifting force and of ballast, and make the motor raise and lower the ship. It was obvious that the craft would go whichever way the bow might be pointed, whether up or down. But how to shift the bow? The solution seems so simple that one wonders it ever perplexed aviators. From the peak of the bow and stern of his craft Santos-Dumont hung long ropes caught in the centre by lighter ropes by which they could be dragged into the car. In the car was carried a heavy bag of sand, which so long as it was there held the ship in a horizontal plane. Was it needful to depress the bow? Then the bow rope was hauled in, the bag attached, and swung out to a position where it would pull the forward tip of the delicately adjusted gas bag toward the earth. If only a gentle inclination was desired the bag was not allowed to hang directly under the bow, but was held at a point somewhere between the car and the bow so that the pull would be diagonal and the great cylinder would be diverted but little from the horizontal. If it were desired to ascend, a like manipulation of the ballast on the stern rope would depress the stern and point the bow upwards. For slight changes in direction it was not necessary even to attach the sand bag. Merely drawing the rope into the car and thus changing the line of its "pull" was sufficient. The Deutsch prize which stimulated Santos-Dumont to his greatest achievements with dirigibles was a purse of twenty thousand dollars, offered by Mr. Henry Deutsch, a wealthy patron of the art of aviation. Not himself an aviator, M. Deutsch greatly aided the progress of the air's conquest. Convinced that the true solution of the problem lay in development of the gasoline engine, he expended large sums in developing and perfecting it. When he believed it was sufficiently developed to solve the problem of directing the flight of balloons he offered his prize for the circuit of the Eiffel Tower. The conditions of the contest were not easy. The competitor had to sail from the Aero Club at St. Cloud, pass twice over the Seine which at that point makes an abrupt bend, sail over the Bois de Boulogne, circle the Tower, and return to the stopping place within a half an hour. The distance was about seven miles, and it is noteworthy that in his own comment on the test Santos-Dumont complains that that required an average speed of fifteen miles an hour of which he could not be sure with his balloon. To-day dirigibles make sixty miles an hour, and airplanes not infrequently reach 130 miles. Moreover there could be no picking of a day on which atmospheric conditions were especially good. Mr. Deutsch had stipulated that the test must be made in the presence of a Scientific Commission whose members must be notified twenty-four hours in advance. None could tell twenty-four hours ahead what the air might be like, and as for utilizing the aviator's most favourable hour, the calm of the dawn, M. Santos-Dumont remarked: "The duellist may call out his friends at that sacred hour, but not the airship captain." The craft with which the Brazilian first strove to win the Deutsch prize he called _Santos-Dumont No. V._ It was a cylinder, sharp at both ends, 109 feet long and driven by a 12-horse-power motor. A new feature was the use of piano wire for the support of the car, thus greatly reducing the resistance of the air which in the case of the old cord suspensions was almost as great as that of the balloon itself. Another novel feature was water ballast tanks forward and aft on the balloon itself and holding together twelve gallons. By pulling steel wires in the car the aviator could open the stop-cocks. The layman scarcely appreciates the very slight shift in ballast which will affect the stability of a dirigible. The shifting of a rope a few feet from its normal position, the dropping of two handfuls of sand, or release of a cup of water will do it. A humorous writer describing a lunch with Santos-Dumont in the air says: "Nothing must be thrown overboard, be it a bottle, an empty box or a chicken bone without the pilot's permission." After unofficial tests of his "No. 5" in one of which he circled the Tower without difficulty, Santos-Dumont summoned the Scientific Commission for a test. In ten minutes he had turned the Tower, and started back against a fierce head-wind, which made him ten minutes late in reaching the time-keepers. Just as he did so his engine failed, and after drifting for a time his ship perched in the top of a chestnut tree on the estate of M. Edmond Rothschild. Philosophical as ever the aeronaut clung to his craft, dispatched an excellent lunch which the Princess Isabel, Comtesse d'Eu, daughter of Dom Pedro, the deposed Emperor of Brazil, sent to his eyrie in the branches, and finally extricated himself and his balloon--neither much the worse for the accident. He had failed but his determination to win was only whetted. The second trial for the Deutsch prize like the first ended in failure, but that failure was so much more dramatic even than the success which attended the third effort that it is worth telling and can best be told in M. Santos-Dumont's own words. The quotation is from his memoir, _My Airships_: And now I come to a terrible day--8th of August, 1901. At 6:30 A.M. in presence of the Scientific Commission of the Aero Club, I started again for the Eiffel Tower. I turned the tower at the end of nine minutes and took my way back to St. Cloud; but my balloon was losing hydrogen through one of its two automatic gas valves whose spring had been accidentally weakened. I had perceived the beginning of this loss of gas even before reaching the Eiffel Tower, and ordinarily, in such an event, I should have come at once to earth to examine the lesion. But here I was competing for a prize of great honour and my speed had been good. Therefore I risked going on. The balloon now shrunk visibly. By the time I had got back to the fortifications of Paris, near La Muette, it caused the suspension wires to sag so much that those nearest to the screw-propeller caught in it as it revolved. I saw the propeller cutting and tearing at the wires. I stopped the motor instantly. Then, as a consequence, the airship was at once driven back toward the tower by the wind which was strong. [Illustration: Photo by International Film Service Co. _A Kite Balloon Rising from the Hold of a Ship._] At the same time I was falling. The balloon had lost much gas. I might have thrown out ballast and greatly diminished the fall, but then the wind would have time to blow me back on the Eiffel Tower. I therefore preferred to let the airship go down as it was going. It may have seemed a terrific fall to those who watched it from the ground but to me the worst detail was the airship's lack of equilibrium. The half-empty balloon, fluttering its empty end as an elephant waves his trunk, caused the airship's stern to point upward at an alarming angle. What I most feared therefore was that the unequal strain on the suspension wires would break them one by one and so precipitate me to the ground. Why was the balloon fluttering an empty end causing all this extra danger? How was it that the rotary ventilator was not fulfilling its purpose in feeding the interior air balloon and in this manner swelling out the gas balloon around it? The answer must be looked for in the nature of the accident. The rotary ventilator stopped working when the motor itself stopped, and I had been obliged to stop the motor to prevent the propeller from tearing the suspension wires near it when the balloon first began to sag from loss of gas. It is true that the ventilator which was working at that moment had not proved sufficient to prevent the first sagging. It may have been that the interior balloon refused to fill out properly. The day after the accident when my balloon constructor's man came to me for the plans of a "No. 6" balloon envelope I gathered from something he said that the interior balloon of "No. 5," not having been given time for its varnish to dry before being adjusted, might have stuck together or stuck to the sides or bottom of the outer balloon. Such are the rewards of haste. I was falling. At the same time the wind was carrying me toward the Eiffel Tower. It had already carried me so far that I was expecting to land on the Seine embankment beyond the Trocadero. My basket and the whole of the keel had already passed the Trocadero hotels, and had my balloon been a spherical one it would have cleared the building. But now at the last critical moment, the end of the long balloon that was still full of gas came slapping down on the roof just before clearing it. It exploded with a great noise; struck after being blown up. This was the terrific explosion described in the newspaper of the day. I had made a mistake in my estimate of the wind's force, by a few yards. Instead of being carried on to fall on the Seine embankment, I now found myself hanging in my wicker basket high up in the courtyard of the Trocadero hotels, supported by my airship's keel, that stood braced at an angle of about forty-five degrees between the courtyard wall above and the roof of a lower construction farther down. The keel, in spite of my weight, that of the motor and machinery, and the shock it had received in falling, resisted wonderfully. The thin pine scantlings and piano wires of Nice (the town where the idea of a keel first suggested itself) had saved my life! After what seemed tedious waiting, I saw a rope being lowered to me from the roof above. I held to it and was hauled up, when I perceived my rescuers to be the brave firemen of Paris. From their station at Passy they had been watching the flight of the airship. They had seen my fall and immediately hastened to the spot. Then, having rescued me, they proceeded to rescue the airship. The operation was painful. The remains of the balloon envelope and the suspension wires hung lamentably; and it was impossible to disengage them except in strips and fragments! The later balloon "No. VI." with which Santos-Dumont won the Deutsch prize may fairly be taken as his conception of the finished type of dirigible for one man. In fact his aspirations never soared as high as those of Count Zeppelin, and the largest airship he ever planned--called "the _Omnibus_"--carried only four men. It is probable that the diversion of his interest from dirigibles to airplanes had most to do with his failure to carry his development further than he did. "No. VI." was 108 feet long, and 20 feet in diameter with an eighteen-horse-power gasoline engine which could drive it at about nineteen miles an hour. Naturally the aeronaut's first thought in his new construction was of the valves. The memory of the anxious minutes spent perched on the window-sill of the Trocadero Hotel or dangling like a spider at the end of the firemen's rope were still fresh. The ballonet which had failed him in "No. V." was perfected in its successor. Notwithstanding the care with which she was constructed the prize-winner turned out to be a rather unlucky ship. On her trial voyage she ran into a tree and was damaged, and even on the day of her greatest conquest she behaved badly. The test was made on October 1, 1901. The aeronaut had rounded the Tower finely and was making for home when the motor began to miss and threatened to stop altogether. While Santos-Dumont was tinkering with the engine, leaving the steering wheel to itself, the balloon drifted over the Bois de Boulogne. As usual the cool air from the wood caused the hydrogen in the balloon to contract and the craft dropped until it appeared the voyage would end in the tree tops. Hastily shifting his weights the aeronaut forced the prow of the ship upwards to a sharp angle with the earth. Just at this moment the reluctant engine started up again with such vigour that for a moment the ship threatened to assume a perpendicular position, pointing straight up in the sky. A cry went up from the spectators below who feared a dire catastrophe was about to end a voyage which promised success. But with incomparable _sang-froid_ the young Brazilian manipulated the weights, restored the ship to the horizontal again without stopping the engines, and reached the finishing stake in time to win the prize. Soon after it was awarded him the Brazilian Government presented him with another substantial prize, together with a gold medal bearing the words: _Por ceos nunca d'antes navegados_ ("Through heavens hitherto unsailed"). In a sense the reference to the heavens is a trifle over-rhetorical. Santos-Dumont differed from all aviators (or pilots of airplanes) and most navigators of dirigibles in always advocating the strategy of staying near the ground. In his flights he barely topped the roofs of the houses, and in his writings he repeatedly refers to the sense of safety that came to him when he knew he was close to the tree tops of a forest. This may have been due to the fact that in his very first flight in a dirigible he narrowly escaped a fatal accident due to flying too high. As he descended, the gas which had expanded now contracted. The balloon began to collapse in the middle. Cords subjected to unusual stress began to snap. The air pump, which should have pumped the ballonet full of air to keep the balloon rigid failed to work. Seeing that he was about to fall into a field in which his drag rope was already trailing the imperilled airman had a happy thought. Some boys were there flying kites. He shouted to them to seize his rope and run against the wind. The balloon responded to the new force like a kite. The rapidity of its fall was checked, and its pilot landed with only a serious shaking. But thereafter Santos-Dumont preached the maxim--rare among airmen--"Keep near the ground. That way lies safety!" Most aviators however, prefer the heights of the atmosphere, as the sailor prefers the wide and open sea to a course near land. After winning the Deutsch prize, Santos-Dumont continued for a time to amuse himself with dirigibles. I say "amuse" purposely, for never did serious aeronaut get so much fun out of a rather perilous pastime as he. In his "No. IX." he built the smallest dirigible ever known. The balloon had just power enough to raise her pilot and sixty-six pounds more beside a three-horse-power motor. But she attained a speed of twelve miles an hour, was readily handled, and it was her owner's dearest delight to use her for a taxicab, calling for lunch at the cafés in the Bois, and paying visits to friends upon whom he looked in, literally, at their second-story windows. He ran her in and out of her hangar as one would a motor-car from its garage. One day he sailed down the Avenue des Champs Élysées at the level of the second-and third-story windows of the palaces that line that stately street. Coming to his own house he descended, made fast, and went in to _déjeuner_, leaving his aërial cab without. In the city streets he steered mainly by aid of a guide rope trailing behind him. With this he turned sharp corners, went round the Arc de Triomphe, and said: "I might have guide-roped under it had I thought myself worthy." On occasion he picked up children in the streets and gave them a ride. Though before losing his interest in dirigibles Santos-Dumont carried the number of his construction up to ten, he cannot be said to have devised any new and useful improvements after his "No. VI." The largest of his ships was "No. X.," which had a capacity of eighty thousand cubic feet--about ten times the size of the little runabout with which he played pranks in Paris streets. In this balloon he placed partitions to prevent the gas shifting to one part of the envelope, and to guard against losing it all in the event of a tear. The same principle was fundamental in Count Zeppelin's airships. In 1904 he brought a dirigible to the United States expecting to compete for a prize at the St. Louis Exposition. But while suffering exasperating delay from the red-tape which enveloped the exposition authorities, he discovered one morning that his craft had been mutilated almost beyond repair in its storage place. In high dudgeon he left at once for Paris. The explanation of the malicious act has never been made clear, though many Americans had an uneasy feeling that the gallant and sportsman-like Brazilian had been badly treated in our land. On his return to Paris he at once began experimenting with heavier-than-air machines. Of his work with them we shall give some account later. Despite his great personal popularity the airship built by Santos-Dumont never appealed to the French military authorities. Probably this was largely due to the fact that he never built one of a sufficient size to meet military tests. The amateur in him was unconquerable. While von Zeppelin's first ship was big enough to take the air in actual war the Frenchman went on building craft for one or two men--good models for others to seize and build upon, but nothing which a war office could actually adopt. But he served his country well by stimulating the creation of great companies who built largely upon the foundations he had laid. First and greatest of these was the company formed by the Lebaudy Brothers, wealthy sugar manufacturers. Their model was semi-rigid, that is, provided with an inflexible keel or floor to the gas bag, which was cigar shaped. The most successful of the earlier ships was 190 feet long, with a car suspended by cables ten feet below the balloon and carrying the twin motors, together with passengers and supplies. Although it made many voyages without accident, it finally encountered what seems to be the chief peril of dirigible balloons, being torn from its moorings at Châlons and dashed against trees to the complete demolition of its envelope. Repaired in eleven weeks she was taken over by the French Department of War, and was in active service at the beginning of the war. Her two successors on the company's building ways were less fortunate. _La Patrie_, after many successful trips, and manoeuvres with the troops, was insecurely moored at Verdun, the famous fortress where she was to have been permanently stationed. Came up a heavy gale. Her anchors began to drag. The bugles sounded and the soldiers by hundreds rushed from the fort to aid. Hurled along by the wind she dragged the soldiers after her. Fearing disaster to the men the commandant reluctantly ordered them to let go. The ship leaped into the black upper air and disappeared. All across France, across that very country where in 1916 the trenches cut their ugly zigzags from the Channel to the Vosges, she drifted unseen. By morning she was flying over England and Wales. Ireland caught a glimpse of her and days thereafter sailors coming into port told of a curious yellow mass, seemingly flabby and disintegrating like the carcass of a whale, floating far out at sea. Her partner ship _La République_ had a like tragic end. She too made many successful trips, and proved her stability and worth. But one day while manoeuvring near Paris one of her propellers broke and tore a great rent in her envelope. As the _Titanic_, her hull ripped open by an iceberg, sunk with more than a thousand of her people, so this airship, wounded in a more unstable element, fell to the ground killing all on board. Two airships were built in France for England in 1909. One, the _Clement-Bayard II._, was of the rigid type and built for the government; the other, a _Lebaudy_, was non-rigid and paid for by popular subscriptions raised in England by the _Morning Post_. Both were safely delivered near London having made their voyages of approximately 242 miles each at a speed exceeding forty miles an hour. These were the first airships acquired for British use. In the United States the only serious effort to develop the dirigible prior to the war, and to apply it to some definite purpose, was made not by the government but by an individual. Mr. Walter Wellman, a distinguished journalist, fired by the effort of Andrée to reach the North Pole in a drifting balloon, undertook a similar expedition with a dirigible in 1907. A balloon was built 184 feet in length and 52 feet in diameter, and was driven by a seventy-to eighty-horse-power motor. A curious feature of this craft was the guide rope or, as Wellman called it, the equilibrator, which was made of steel, jointed and hollow. At the lower end were four steel cylinders carrying wheels and so arranged that they would float on water or trundle along over the roughest ice. The idea was that the equilibrator would serve like a guide rope, trailing on the water or ice when the balloon hung low, and increasing the power of its drag if the balloon, rising higher, lifted a greater part of its length into the air. Wellman had every possible appliance to contribute to the safety of the airship, and many believe that had fortune favoured him the glory of the discovery of the Pole would have been his. Unhappily he encountered only ill luck. One season he spent at Dane's Island, near Spitzenberg whence Andrée had set sail, waiting vainly for favourable weather conditions. The following summer, just as he was about to start, a fierce storm destroyed his balloon shed and injured the balloon. Before necessary repairs could be accomplished Admiral Peary discovered the Pole and the purpose of the expedition was at an end. Wellman, however, had become deeply interested in aeronautics and, balked in one ambition, set out to accomplish another. With the same balloon somewhat remodelled he tried to cross the Atlantic, setting sail from Atlantic City, N. J., October 16, 1911. But the device on which the aeronaut most prided himself proved his undoing. The equilibrator, relied upon both for storage room and as a regulator of the altitude of the ship, proved a fatal attachment. In even moderate weather it bumped over the waves and racked the structure of the balloon with its savage tugging until the machinery broke down and the adventurers were at the mercy of the elements. Luckily for them after they had been adrift for seventy-two hours, and travelled several hundred miles they were rescued by the British steamer _Trent_. Not long after Wellman's chief engineer Vanniman sought to cross the Atlantic in a similar craft but from some unexplained cause she blew up in mid-air and all aboard were lost. Neither Great Britain nor the United States has reason to be proud of the attitude of its government towards the inventors who were struggling to subdue the air to the uses of man. Nor has either reason to boast much of its action in utterly ignoring up to the very day war broke that aid to military service of which Lord Kitchener said, "One aviator is worth a corps of cavalry." It will be noted that to get its first effective dirigible Great Britain had to rely upon popular subscriptions drummed up by a newspaper. That was in 1909. To-day, in 1917, the United States has only one dirigible of a type to be considered effective in the light of modern standards, though our entrance upon the war has caused the beginning of a considerable fleet. In aviation no less than in aerostatics the record of the United States is negligible. Our country did indeed produce the Wright Brothers, pioneers and true conquerors of the air with airplanes. But even they were forced to go to France for support and indeed for respectful attention. So far as the development of dirigible balloons is concerned there is no more need to devote space to what was done in England and the United States than there was for the famous chapter on Snakes in Iceland. CHAPTER IV THE COUNT VON ZEPPELIN The year that witnessed the first triumphs of Santos-Dumont saw also the beginning of the success of his great German rival, the Count von Zeppelin. These two daring spirits, struggling to attain the same end, were alike in their enthusiasm, their pertinacity, and their devotion to the same cause. Both were animated by the highest patriotism. Santos-Dumont offered his fleet to France to be used against any nation except those of the two Americas. He said: "It is in France that I have met with all my encouragement; in France and with French material I have made all my experiments. I excepted the two Americas because I am an American." Count Zeppelin for his part, when bowed down in apparent defeat and crushed beneath the burden of virtual bankruptcy, steadily refused to deal with agents of other nations than Germany--which at that time was turning upon him the cold shoulder. He declared that his genius had been exerted for his own country alone, and that his invention should be kept a secret from all but German authorities. A secret it would be to-day, except that accident and the fortunes of war revealed the intricacies of the Zeppelin construction to both France and England. Santos-Dumont had the fire, enthusiasm, and resiliency of youth; Zeppelin, upon whom age had begun to press when first he took up aeronautics, had the dogged pertinacity of the Teuton. Both were rich at the outset, but Zeppelin's capital melted away under the demands of his experimental workshops, while the ancestral coffee lands of the Brazilian never failed him. Of the two Zeppelin had the more obstinacy, for he held to his plan of a rigid dirigible balloon even in face of its virtual failure in the supreme test of war. Santos-Dumont was the more alert intellectually for he was still in the flood tide of successful demonstration with his balloons when he saw and grasped the promise of the airplane and shifted his activities to that new field in which he won new laurels. Zeppelin won perhaps the wider measure of immediate fame, but whether enduring or not is yet to be determined. His airships impressive, even majestic as they are, have failed to prove their worth in war, and are yet to be fully tested in peace. That they remain a unique type, one which no other individual nor any other nation has sought to copy, cannot be attributed wholly to the jealousy of possible rivals. If the monster ship, of rigid frame, were indeed the ideal form of dirigible it would be imitated on every hand. The inventions of the Wrights have been seized upon, adapted, improved perhaps by half a hundred airplane designers of every nation. But nobody has been imitating the Zeppelins. [Illustration: _The Giant and the Pigmies._ _Painting by John E. Whiting._] That, however, is a mere passing reflection. If the Zeppelin has not done all in war that the sanguine German people expected of it, nevertheless it is not yet to be pronounced an entire failure. And even though a failure in war, the chief service for which its stout-hearted inventor designed it, there is still hope that it may ultimately prove better adapted to many ends of peace than the airplanes which for the time seem to have outdone it. Stout-hearted indeed the old _Luftgraaf_--"Air Scout"--as the Germans call him, was. His was a Bismarckian nature, reminiscent of the Iron Chancellor alike physically and mentally. In appearance he recalls irresistibly the heroic figure of Bismarck, jack-booted and cuirassed at the Congress of Vienna, painted by von Werner. Heir to an old land-owning family, ennobled and entitled to bear the title _Landgraf_, Count von Zeppelin was a type of the German aristocrat. But for his title and aristocratic rank he could never have won his long fight for recognition by the bureaucrats who control the German army. In youth he was anti-Prussian in sentiment, and indeed some of his most interesting army experiences were in service with the army of South Germany against Prussia and her allied states. But all that was forgotten in the national unity that followed the defeat of France in 1872. Before that, however, the young count--he was born in 1838--had served with gallantry, if not distinction, in the Union Army in our Civil War, had made a balloon ascension on the fighting line, had swum in the Niagara River below the falls, being rescued with difficulty, and together with two Russian officers and some Indian guides had almost starved in trying to discover the source of the Mississippi River--a spot which can now be visited without undergoing more serious hardships than the upper berth in a Pullman car. It was at the siege of Paris that Zeppelin's mind first became engaged with the problem of aërial navigation. From his post in the besieging trenches he saw the almost daily ascent of balloons in which mail was sent out, and persons who could pay the price sought to escape from the beleaguered city. As a colonel of cavalry, he had been employed mainly in scouting duty throughout the war. He was impressed now with the conviction that those globes, rising silently into the air, above the enemy's cannon shot and drifting away to safety would be the ideal scouts could they but return with their intelligence. Was there no way of guiding these ships in the air, as a ship in the ocean is guided? The young soldier was hardly home from the war when he began to study the problem. He studied it indeed so much to the exclusion of other military matters that in 1890 the General Staff abruptly dismissed him from his command. They saw no reason why a major-general of cavalry should be mooning around with balloons and kites like a schoolboy. The dismissal hurt him, but deterred him in no way from the purpose of his life. Indeed the fruit of his many years' study of aeronautic conditions was ready for the gathering at this very moment. On the surface of the picturesque Lake Constance, on the border line between Germany and Switzerland, floated a huge shed, open to the water and more than five hundred feet long. In it, nearing completion, floated the first Zeppelin airship. In the long patient study which the Count had given to his problem he had reached the fixed conclusion that the basis of a practical dirigible balloon must be a rigid frame over which the envelope should be stretched. His experiments were made at the same time as those of Santos-Dumont, and he could not be ignorant of the measure of success which the younger man was attaining with the non-rigid balloon. But it was a fact that all the serious accidents which befell Santos-Dumont and most of the threatened accidents which he narrowly escaped were fundamentally caused by the lack of rigidity in his balloon. The immediate cause may have been a leaky valve permitting the gas to escape, or a faulty air-pump which made prompt filling of the ballonet impossible. But the effect of these flaws was to deprive the balloon of its rigidity, cause it to buckle, throwing the cordage out of gear, shifting stresses and strains, and resulting in ultimate breakdown. Whether he observed the vicissitudes of his rival or not, Count Zeppelin determined that the advantages of a rigid frame counted for more than the disadvantage of its weight. Moreover that disadvantage could be compensated for by increasing the size, and therefore the lifting power of the balloon. In determining upon a rigid frame the Count was not a pioneer even in his own country. While his experiments were still under way, a rival, David Schwartz, who had begun, without completing, an airship in St. Petersburg, secured in some way aid from the German Government, which was at the moment coldly repulsing Zeppelin. He planned and built an aluminum airship but died before its completion. His widow continued the work amidst constant opposition from the builders. The end was one of the many tragedies of invention. Nobody but the widow ever believed the ship would rise from its moorings. It was in charge of a man who had never made an ascent. To his amazement and to the amazement of the spectators the engine was hardly started when the ship mounted and made headway against a stiff breeze. On the ground the spectators shouted in wonder; the widow, overwhelmed by this reward for her faith in her husband's genius, burst into tears of joy. But the amateur pilot was no match for the situation. Affrighted to find himself in mid-air, too dazed to know what to do, he pulled the wrong levers and the machine crashed to earth. The pilot escaped, but the airship which had taken four years to build was irretrievably wrecked. The widow's hopes were blasted, and the way was left free for the Count von Zeppelin. Freed, though unwillingly, from the routine duties of his military rank, Zeppelin thereafter devoted himself wholly to his airships. He was fifty-three years old, adding one more to the long list of men who found their real life's work after middle age. With him was associated his brother Eberhard, the two forming a partnership in aeronautical work as inseparable as that of Wilbur and Orville Wright. Like Wilbur Wright, Eberhard von Zeppelin did not live to witness the fullest fruition of the work, though he did see the soundness of its principles thoroughly established and in practical application. There is a picturesque story that when Eberhard lay on his death-bed his brother, instead of watching by his side, took the then completed airship from its hangar, and drove it over and around the house that the last sounds to reach the ears of his faithful ally might be the roar of the propellers in the air--the grand pæan of victory. [Illustration: Photo by Press Illustrating Service. _A French "Sausage"._] Though Count von Zeppelin had begun his experiments in 1873 it was not until 1890 that he actually began the construction of his first airship. The intervening years had been spent in constructing and testing models, in abstruse calculations of the resistance of the air, the lifting power of hydrogen, the comparative rigidity and weight of different woods and various metals, the power and weight of the different makes of motors. In these studies he spent both his time and his money lavishly, with the result that when he had built a model on the lines of which he was willing to risk the construction of an airship of operative size, his private fortune was gone. It is the common lot of inventors. For a time the Count suffered all the mortification and ignominy which the beggar, even in a most worthy cause, must always experience. Hat in hand he approached every possible patron with his story of certain success if only supplied with funds with which to complete his ship. A stock company with a capital of $225,000 of which he contributed one half, soon found its resources exhausted and retired from the speculation. Appeals to the Emperor met with only cold indifference. An American millionaire newspaper owner, resident in Europe, sent contemptuous word by his secretary that he "had no time to bother with crazy inventors." That was indeed the attitude of the business classes at the moment when the inventors of dirigibles were on the very point of conquering the obstacles in the way of making the navigation of air a practical art. A governmental commission at Berlin rejected with contempt the plans which Zeppelin presented in his appeal for support. Members of that commission were forced to an about-face later and became some of the inventor's sturdiest champions. But in his darkest hour the government failed him, and the one friendly hand stretched out in aid was that of the German Engineers' Society which, somewhat doubtfully, advanced some funds to keep the work in operation. [Illustration: © U. & U. _A British "Blimp"._] With this the construction of the first Zeppelin craft was begun. Though there had been built up to the opening of the war twenty-five "Zeps"--nobody knows how many since--the fundamental type was not materially altered in the later ones, and a description of the first will stand for all. In connection with this description may be noted the criticisms of experts some of which proved only too well founded. The first Zeppelin was polygonal, 450 feet long, 78 broad, and 66 feet high. This colossal bulk, equivalent to that of a 7500-ton ship necessary to supply lifting power for the metallic frame, naturally made her unwieldy to handle, unsafe to leave at rest, outside of a sheltering shed, and a particularly attractive target for artillery in time of war. Actual action indeed proved that to be safe from the shells of anti-aircraft guns, the Zeppelins were forced to fly so high that their own bombs could not be dropped with any degree of accuracy upon a desired target. The balloon's frame is made of aluminum, the lightest of metals, but not the least costly. A curious disadvantage of this construction was made apparent in the accident which destroyed _Zeppelin IV._ That was the first of the airships to be equipped with a full wireless outfit which was used freely on its flight. It appeared that the aluminum frame absorbed much of the electricity generated for the purpose of the wireless. The effect of this was two-fold. It limited the radius of operation of the wireless to 150 miles or less, and it made the metal frame a perilous storehouse of electricity. When _Zeppelin IV._ met with a disaster by a storm which dragged it from its moorings, the stored electricity in her frame was suddenly released by contact with the trees and set fire to the envelope, utterly destroying the ship. The balloon frame was divided into seventeen compartments, each of which held a ballonet filled with hydrogen gas. The purpose of this was similar to the practice of dividing a ship's hulls into compartments. If one or more of the ballonets, for any reason, were injured the remainder would keep the ship afloat. The space between the ballonets and the outer skin was pumped full of air to keep the latter taut and rigid. Moreover it helped to prevent the radiation of heat to the gas bags from the outer envelope whose huge expanse, presented to the sun, absorbed an immense amount of heat rays. Two cars were suspended from the frame of the Zeppelin, forward and aft, and a corridor connected them. A sliding weight was employed to raise or depress the bow. In each car of the first Zeppelin was a sixteen-horse-power gasoline motor, each working two screws, with four foot blades, revolving one thousand times a minute. The engines were reversible, thus making it possible to work the propellers against each other and aid materially in steering the ship. Rudders at bow and stern completed the navigating equipment. In the first Zeppelins, the corridor connecting the two cars was wholly outside the frame and envelope of the car. Later the perilous experiment was tried of putting it within the envelope. This resulted in one of the most shocking of the many Zeppelin disasters. In the case of the ship _L-II._, built in 1912, the corridor became filled with gas that had oozed out of the ballonets. At one end or the other of the corridor this gas, then mixed with air, came in contact with fire,--perhaps the exhaust of the engines,--a violent explosion followed while the ship was some nine hundred feet aloft, and the mass of twisted and broken metal, with the flaming envelope, fell to the ground carrying twenty-eight men, including members of the Admiralty Board, to a horrible death. But to return to the first Zeppelin. Her trial was set for July 2, 1900, and though the immediate vicinity of the floating hangar was barred to the public by the military authorities, the shores and surface of the lake were black with people eager to witness the test. Boats pulled out of the wide portal the huge cigar-shaped structure, floating on small rafts, its polished surface of pegamoid glittering in the sun. As large as a fair-sized ocean steamship, it looked, on that little lake dotted with pleasure craft, like a leviathan. Men were busy in the cars, fore and aft. The mooring ropes were cast off as the vessel gained an offing, and ballast being thrown out she began to rise slowly. The propellers began to whir, and the great craft swung around breasting the breeze and moved slowly up the lake. The crowd cheered. Count von Zeppelin, tense with excitement, alert for every sign of weakness watched his monster creation with mingled pride and apprehension. Two points were set at rest in the first two minutes--the lifting power was great enough to carry the heaviest load ever imposed upon a balloon and the motive power was sufficient to propel her against an ordinary breeze. But she was hardly in mid-air when defects became apparent. The apparatus for controlling the balancing weight got out of order. The steering lines became entangled so that the ship was first obliged to stop, then by reversing the engines to proceed backwards. This was, however, a favourable evidence of her handiness under untoward circumstances. After she had been in the air nearly an hour and had covered four or five miles, a landing was ordered and she dropped to the surface of the lake with perfect ease. Before reaching her shed, however, she collided with a pile--an accident in no way attributable to her design--and seriously bent her frame. The story told thus baldly does not sound like a record of glorious success. Nevertheless not Count Zeppelin alone but all Germany was wild with jubilation. _Zeppelin I._ had demonstrated a principle; all that remained was to develop and apply this principle and Germany would have a fleet of aërial dreadnoughts that would force any hostile nation to subjection. There was little or no discussion of the application of the principle to the ends of peace. It was as an engine of war alone that the airship appealed to the popular fancy. But at the time that fancy proved fickle. With a few repairs the airship was brought out for another test. In the air it did all that was asked for it, but it came to earth--or rather to the surface of the lake--with a shock that put it out of commission. When Count Zeppelin's company estimated the cost of further repairs it gave a sigh and abandoned the wreck. Thereupon the pertinacious inventor laid aside his tools, got into his old uniform, and went out again on the dreary task of begging for further funds. It was two years before he could take up again the work of construction. He lectured, wrote magazine articles, begged, cajoled, and pleaded for money. At last he made an impression upon the Emperor who, indeed, with a keen eye for all that makes for military advantage, should have given heed to his efforts long before. Merely a letter of approval from the all-powerful Kaiser was needed to turn the scale and in 1902 this was forthcoming. The factories of the empire agreed to furnish materials at cost price, and sufficient money was soon forthcoming to build a second ship. This ship took more than two years to build, was tested in January, 1906, made a creditable flight, and was dashed to pieces by a gale the same night! The wearisome work of begging began again. But this time the Kaiser's aid was even more effectively given and in nine months _Zeppelin III._ was in the air. More powerful than its predecessors it met with a greater measure of success. On one of its trials a propeller blade flew off and penetrated the envelope, but the ship returned to earth in safety. In October, 1906, the Minister of War reported that the airship was extremely stable, responded readily to her helm, had carried eleven persons sixty-seven miles in two hours and seventeen minutes, and had made its landing in ease and safety. Accepted by the government "No. III." passed into military service and Zeppelin, now the idol of the German people, began the construction of "No. IV." That ship was larger than her predecessors and carried a third cabin for passengers suspended amidships. Marked increase in the size of the steering and stabling planes characterized the appearance of the ship when compared with earlier types. She was at the outset a lucky ship. She cruised through Alpine passes into Switzerland, and made a circular voyage carrying eleven passengers and flying from Friedrichshaven to Mayence and back via Basle, Strassburg, Mannheim, and Stuttgart. The voyage occupied twenty-one hours--a world's record. The performance of the ship on both voyages was perfection. Even in the tortuous Alpine passes which she was forced to navigate on her trip to Lucerne she moved with the steadiness and certainty of a great ship at sea. The rarification of the air at high altitudes, the extreme and sudden variations in temperature, the gusts of wind that poured from the ice-bound peaks down through the narrow canyons affected her not at all. When to this experience was added the triumphant tour of the six German cities, Count von Zeppelin might well have thought his triumph was complete. But once again the cup of victory was dashed from his lips. After his landing a violent wind beat upon the ship. An army of men strove to hold her fast, while an effort was made to reduce her bulk by deflation. That effort, which would have been entirely successful in the case of a non-rigid balloon, was obviously futile in that of a Zeppelin. Not the gas in the ballonets, but the great rigid frame covered with water-proofed cloth constituted the huge bulk that made her the plaything of the winds. In a trice she was snatched from the hands of her crew and hurled against the trees in a neighbouring grove. There was a sudden and utterly unexpected explosion and the whole fabric was in flames. The precise cause of the explosion will always be in doubt, but, as already pointed out, many scientists believe that the great volume of electricity accumulated in the metallic frame was suddenly released in a mighty spark which set fire to the stores of gasoline on board. With this disaster the iron nerve of the inventor was for the first time broken. It followed so fast upon what appeared to be a complete triumph that the shock was peculiarly hard to bear. It is said that he broke down and wept, and that but for the loving courage and earnest entreaties of his wife and daughter he would then have abandoned the hope and ambition of his life. But after all it was but that darkest hour which comes just before the dawn. The demolition of "No. IV." had been no accident which reflected at all upon the plan or construction of the craft--unless the great bulk of the ship be considered a fundamental defect. What it did demonstrate was that the Zeppelin, like the one-thousand-foot ocean liner, must have adequate harbour and docking facilities wherever it is to land. The one cannot safely drop down in any convenient meadow, any more than the other can put into any little fishing port. Germany has learned this lesson well enough and since the opening of the Great War her territory is plentifully provided with Zeppelin shelters at all strategic points. [Illustration: _The Death of a Zeppelin._ Photo by Paul Thompson.] Fortunately for the Count the German people judged his latest reverse more justly than he did. They saw the completeness of the triumph which had preceded the disaster and recognized that the latter was one easily guarded against in future. Enthusiasm ran high all over the land. Begging was no longer necessary. The Emperor, who had heretofore expressed rather guarded approval of the enterprise, now flung himself into it with that enthusiasm for which he is notable. He bestowed upon the Count the Order of the Black Eagle, embraced him in public three times, and called aloud that all might hear, "Long life to his Excellency, Count Zeppelin, the Conqueror of the Air." He never wearied of assuring his hearers that the Count was the "greatest German of the century." With such august patronage the Count became the rage. Next to the Kaiser's the face best known to the people of Germany, through pictures and statues, was that of the inventor of the Zeppelin. The pleasing practice of showing affection for a public man by driving nails into his wooden effigy had not then been invented by the poetic Teutons, else von Zeppelin would have outdone von Hindenburg in weight of metal. The story that Zeppelin had refused repeated offers from other governments was widely published and evoked patriotic enthusiasm. With it went shrewd hints that in these powerful aircraft lay the way to overcome the hated English navy, and even to carry war to the very soil of England. It was then eight years before the greatest war of history was to break out, but even at that date hatred of England was being sedulously cultivated among the German people by those in authority. As a result of this national attitude Count Zeppelin's enterprise was speedily put on a sound financial footing. Though "No. IV." had been destroyed by an accident it had been the purpose of the government to buy her, and $125,000 of the purchase price was now put at the disposal of the Count von Zeppelin. A popular Zeppelin fund of $1,500,000 was raised and expended in building great works. Thenceforward there was no lack of money for furthering what had truly become a great national interest. But the progress of the construction of Zeppelins for the next few years was curiously compounded of success and failure. Fate seemed to have decreed to every Zeppelin triumph a disaster. Each mischance was attributed to exceptional conditions which never could happen again, but either they did occur, or some new but equally effective accident did. Outside of Germany, where the public mind had become set in an almost idolatrous confidence in Zeppelin, the great airships were becoming a jest and a byword notwithstanding their unquestioned accomplishments. Indeed when the record was made up just before the declaration of war in 1914 it was found that of twenty-five Zeppelins thus far constructed only twelve were available. Thirteen had been destroyed by accident--two of them modern naval airships only completed in 1913. The record was not one to inspire confidence. In 1909, during a voyage in which he made nine hundred miles in thirty-eight hours, the rumour was spread that von Zeppelin would continue it to Berlin. Some joker sent a forged telegram to the Kaiser to that effect signed "Zeppelin." It was expected to be the first appearance of one of the great ships at the capital, and the Emperor hastened to prepare a suitable welcome. A great crowd assembled at the Templehoff Parade Ground. The Berlin Airship Battalion was under orders to assist in the landing. The Kaiser himself was ready to hasten to the spot should the ship be sighted. But she never appeared. If von Zeppelin knew of the exploit which rumour had assigned to him--which is doubtful--he could not have carried it out. His ship collided with a tree--an accident singularly frequent in the Zeppelin records--so disabling it that it could only limp home under half power. A rather curt telegram from his Imperial master is said to have been Count von Zeppelin's first intimation that he had broken an engagement. However, he kept it two months later, flying to Berlin, a distance of 475 miles. He was greeted with mad enthusiasm and among the crowd to welcome him was Orville Wright the American aviator. It is a curious coincidence that on the day the writer pens these words the New York newspapers contain accounts of Mr. Wright's proffer of his services, and aeronautical facilities, to the President in case an existing diplomatic break with Germany should reach the point of actual war. Mr. Wright accompanied his proffer by an appeal for a tremendous aviation force, "but," said he, "I strongly advise against spending any money whatsoever on dirigible balloons of any sort." Thereafter the progress of Count von Zeppelin was without interruption for any lack of financial strength. His great works at Friedrichshaven expanded until they were capable of putting out a complete ship in eight weeks. He was building, of course, primarily for war, and never concealed the fact that the enemy he expected to be the target of his bomb throwers was England. What the airships accomplished in this direction, how greatly they were developed, and the strength and weakness of the German air fleet, will be dwelt upon in another chapter. But, though building primarily for military purposes, Zeppelin did not wholly neglect the possibilities of his ship for non-military service. He built one which made more than thirty trips between Munich and Berlin, carrying passengers who paid a heavy fee for the privilege of enjoying this novel form of travel. The car was fitted up like our most up-to-date Pullmans, with comfortable seats, bright lights, and a kitchen from which excellent meals were served to the passengers. The service was not continued long enough to determine whether it could ever be made commercially profitable, but as an aid to firing the Teutonic heart and an assistance in selling stock it was well worth while. The spectacle of one of these great cars, six hundred or more feet long, floating grandly on even keel and with a steady course above one of the compact little towns of South Germany, was one to thrill the pulses. But the ill luck which pursued Count von Zeppelin even in what seemed to be his moments of assured success was remorseless. In 1912 he produced the monster _L-I_, 525 feet long, 50 feet in diameter, of 776,900 cubic feet capacity, and equipped with three sets of motors, giving it a speed of fifty-two miles an hour. This ship was designed for naval use and after several successful cross-country voyages she was ordered to Heligoland, to participate in naval manoeuvres with the fleet there stationed. One day, caught by a sudden gust of wind such as are common enough on the North Sea, she proved utterly helpless. Why no man could tell, her commander being drowned, but in the face of the gale she lost all control, was buffeted by the elements at their will, and dropped into the sea where she was a total loss. Fifteen of her twenty-two officers and men were drowned. The accident was the more inexplicable because the craft had been flying steadily overland for nearly twelve months and had covered more miles than any ship of Zeppelin construction. It was reported that her captain had said she was overloaded and that he feared that she would be helpless in a gale. But after the disaster his mouth was stopped by the waters of the North Sea. [Illustration: _A German Dirigible, Hansa Type._ © U.& U.] This calamity was not permitted long to stand alone. Indeed one of the most curious facts about the Zeppelin record is the regular, periodical recurrence of fatal accidents at almost equal intervals and apparently wholly unaffected by the growing perfection of the airships. While _L-I_ was making her successful cross-country flights, _L-II_ was reaching completion at Friedrichshaven. She was shorter but bulkier than her immediate predecessor and carried engines giving her nine hundred horse power, or four hundred more than _L-I._ On its first official trip this ship exploded a thousand feet in air, killing twenty-eight officers and men aboard, including all the officials who were conducting the trials. The calamity, as explained on an earlier page, was due to the accumulation of gas in the communicating passage between the three cars. [Illustration: _A Wrecked Zeppelin at Salonika._ Photo by Press Illustrating Service.] This new disaster left the faith and loyalty of the German people unshaken. But it did decidedly estrange the scientific world from Count von Zeppelin and all his works. It was pointed out, with truth, that the accident paralleled precisely one which had demolished the _Severo Pax_ airship ten years earlier, and which had caused French inventors to establish a hard and fast rule against incorporating in an airship's design any inclosed space in which waste gas might gather. This rule and its reason were known to Count von Zeppelin and by ignoring both he lent new colour to the charge, already current in scientific circles, that he was loath to profit by the experiences of other inventors. Whether this feeling spread to the German Government it is impossible to say. Nor it is easy to estimate how much official confidence was shaken by it. The government, even before the war, was singularly reticent about the Zeppelins, their numbers and plans. It is certain that orders were not withheld from the Count. Great numbers of his machines were built, especially after the war was entered upon. But he was not permitted longer to have a monopoly of government aid for manufacturers of dirigibles. Other types sprung up, notably the Schutte-Lanz, the Gross, and the Parseval. But being first in the field the Zeppelin came to give its name to all the dirigibles of German make and many of the famous--or infamous--exploits credited to it during the war may in fact have been performed by one of its rivals. It would be futile to attempt to enumerate all these rivals here. Among them are the semi-rigid Parseval and Gross types which found great favour among the military authorities during the war. The latter is merely an adaptation of the highly successful French ship the _Lebaudy_, but the Parseval is the result of a slow evolution from an ordinary balloon. It is wholly German, in conception and development, and it is reported that the Kaiser, secretly disgusted that the Zeppelins, to the advancement of which he had given such powerful aid, should have recorded so many disasters, quietly transferred his interest to the new and simpler model. Despite the hope of a more efficient craft, however, both the Gross and the Parseval failed in their first official trials, though later they made good. The latter ship was absolutely without any wooden or metallic structure to give her rigidity. Two air ballonets were contained in the envelope at bow and stern and the ascent and descent of the ship was regulated by the quantity of air pumped into these. A most curious device was the utilization of heavy cloth for the propeller blades. Limp and flaccid when at rest, heavy weights in the hem of the cloth caused these blades to stand out stiff and rigid as the result of the centrifugal force created by their rapid revolution. One great military advantage of the Parseval was that she could be quickly deflated in the presence of danger at her moorings, and wholly knocked down and packed in small compass for shipment by rail in case of need. To neither of these models did there ever come such a succession of disasters as befell the earlier Zeppelins. It is fair to say however that prior to the war not many of them had been built, and that both their builders and navigators had opportunity to learn from Count von Zeppelin's errors. Among the chief German rivals to the Zeppelin is the Schutte-Lanz, of the rigid type, broader but not so long as the Zeppelin, framed of wood bound with wire and planned to carry a load of five or six tons, or as many as thirty passengers. No. I of this type met its fate as did so many Zeppelins by encountering a storm while improperly moored. Called to earth to replenish its supply of gas it was moored to an anchor sunk six feet in the ground, and as an additional precaution three hundred soldiers were called from a neighbouring barracks to handle it. It seems to have been one of the advantages of Germany as a place in which to manoeuvre dirigibles, that, even in time of peace, there were always several hundred soldiers available wherever a ship might land. But this force was inadequate. A violent gust tore the ship from their hands. One poor fellow instinctively clung to his rope until one thousand feet in the air when he let go. The ship itself hovered over the town for an hour or more, then descended and was dashed to pieces against trees and stone walls. The danger which was always attached to the landing of airships has led some to suggest that they should never be brought to earth, but moored in mid-air as large ships anchor in midstream. It is suggested that tall towers be built to the top of which the ship be attached by a cable, so arranged that she will always float to the leeward of the tower. The passengers would be landed by gangplanks, and taken up and down the towers in elevators. Kipling suggests this expedient in his prophetic sketch _With the Night Mail_. The airship would only return to earth--as a ship goes into dry dock--when in need of repairs. A curious mishap that threatened for a time to wreck the peace of the world, occurred in April, 1913, when a German Zeppelin was forced out of its course and over French territory. The right of alien machines to pass over their territory is jealously guarded by European nations, and during the progress of the Great War the Dutch repeatedly protested against the violation of their atmosphere by German aviators. At the time of this mischance, however, France and Germany were at peace--or as nearly so as racial and historic antipathies would permit. Accordingly when officers of a brigade of French cavalry engaged in manoeuvring near the great fortress of Luneville saw a shadow moving across the field and looking up saw a huge Zeppelin betwixt themselves and the sun they were astonished and alarmed. Signs and faint shouts from the aeronauts appeared to indicate that their errand was at least friendly, if not involuntary. The soldiers stopped their drill; the townspeople trooped out to the Champs de Mars where the phenomenon was exhibited and began excitedly discussing this suspicious invasion. Word was speedily sent to military headquarters asking whether to welcome or to repel the foe. [Illustration: © U. & U. _British Aviators about to Ascend._ _Note position of gunner on lower seat._] Meantime the great ship was drifting perilously near the housetops, and the uniformed officers in the cars began making signals to the soldiers below. Ropes were thrown out, seized by willing hands and made fast. The crew of Germans descended to find themselves prisoners. The international law was clear enough. The ship was a military engine of the German army. Its officers, all in uniform, had deliberately steered her into the very heart of a French fortress. Though the countries were at peace the act was technically one of war--an armed invasion by the enemy. Diplomacy of course settled the issue peacefully but not before the French had made careful drawings of all the essential features of the Zeppelin, and taken copies of its log. As Germany had theretofore kept a rigid secrecy about all the details of Zeppelin construction and operation this angered the military authorities beyond measure. The unlucky officers who had shared in the accident were savagely told that they should have blown the ship up in mid-air and perished with it rather than to have weakly submitted it to French inspection. They suffered court-martial but escaped with severe reprimands. The story of the dirigibles of France and Germany is practically the whole story of the development to a reasonable degree of perfection of the lighter-than-air machine. Other nations experimented somewhat, but in the main lagged behind these pioneers. Out of Spain indeed came a most efficient craft--the Astra-Torres, of which the British Government had the best example prior to the war, while both France and Russia placed large orders with the builders. How many finally went into service and what may have been their record are facts veiled in the secrecy of wartime. Belgium and Italy both produced dirigibles of distinctive character. The United States is alone at the present moment in having contributed nothing to the improvement of the dirigible balloon. CHAPTER V THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE AIRPLANE The story of the development of the heavier-than-air machine--which were called aëroplanes at first, but have been given the simpler name of airplanes--is far shorter than that of the balloons. It is really a record of achievement made since 1903 when the plane built by Professor Langley of the Smithsonian Institution came to utter disaster on the Potomac. In 1917, at the time of writing this book, there are probably thirty distinct types of airplanes being manufactured for commercial and military use, and not less than fifty thousand are being used daily over the battlefields of Europe. No invention save possibly the telephone and the automobile ever attained so prodigious a development in so brief a time. Wise observers hold that the demand for these machines is yet in its infancy, and that when the end of the war shall lead manufacturers and designers to turn their attention to the commercial value of the airplane the flying craft will be as common in the air as the automobiles at least on our country roads. The idea of flying like a bird with wings, the idea basicly underlying the airplane theory, is old enough--almost as old as the first conception of the balloon, before hydrogen gas was discovered. In an earlier chapter some account is given of early experiments with wings. No progress was made along this line until the hallucination that man could make any headway whatsoever against gravity by flapping artificial wings was definitely abandoned. There was more promise in the experiments made by Sir George Cayley, and he was followed in the first half of the nineteenth century by half a dozen British experimenters who were convinced that a series of planes, presenting a fixed angle to the breeze and driven against it by a sufficiently powerful motor, would develop a considerable lifting power. This was demonstrated by Henson, in 1842, Stringfellow, in 1847, Wenham, who arranged his planes like slats in a Venetian blind and first applied the modern term "aeroplane" to his invention, and Sir Hiram Maxim, who built in 1890 the most complicated and impressive looking 'plane the world has yet seen. But though each of these inventors proved the theorem that a heavier-than-air machine could be made to fly, all failed to get practical results because no motor had then been invented which combined the necessary lightness with the generation of the required power. In America we like to think of the brothers Wright as being the true inventors of the airplane. And indeed they did first bring it to the point of usefulness, and alone among the many pioneers lived to see the adoption of their device by many nations for serious practical use. But it would be unjust to claim for them entire priority in the field of the glider and the heavier-than-air machine. Professor Langley preceded them with an airplane which, dismissed with ridicule as a failure in his day, was long after his death equipped with a lighter motor and flown by Glenn Curtis, who declared that the scientist had solved the problem, had only the explosive engine been perfected in his time. Despite, however, the early period of the successful experiments of the Wrights and Professor Langley, it would be unjust for America to arrogate to herself entire priority in airplane invention. Any story of that achievement which leaves out Lilienthal, the German, and Pilcher, the Englishman, is a record in which the truth is subordinated to national pride. [Illustration: Langley's Airplane.] Otto Lilienthal and his brother Gustav--the two like the Wrights were always associated in their aviation work--had been studying long the problem of flight when in 1889 they jointly published their book _Bird Flight as the Basis of the Flying Art_. Their investigations were wholly into the problem of flight without a motor. At the outset they even harked back to the long-abandoned theory that man could raise himself by mere muscular effort, and Otto spent many hours suspended at the end of a rope flapping frantically a pair of wings before he abandoned this effort as futile. Convinced that the soaring or gliding of the birds was the feat to emulate, he made himself a pair of fixed, bat-like wings formed of a light fabric stretched over a willow frame. A tail composed of one vertical and one horizontal plane extended to the rear, and in the middle the aviator hung by his armpits, in an erect position. With this device he made some experimental glides, leaping from slight eminences. With his body, which swung at will from its cushioned supports, he could balance, and even steer the fabric which supported him, and accomplished long glides against the wind. Not infrequently, running into the teeth of the breeze down a gentle slope he would find himself gently wafted into the air and would make flights of as much as three hundred yards, steering to either side, or rising and falling at will. He was even able to make a circuitous flight and return to his starting place--a feat that was not accomplished with a motor-driven airplane until years later. Lilienthal achieved it with no mechanical aid, except the wings. He became passionately devoted to the art, made more than two thousand flights, and at the time of his death had just completed a motor-driven airplane, which he was never able to test. His earlier gliding wings he developed into a form of biplane, with which he made several successful flights, but met his death in 1896 by the collapse of this machine, of the bad condition of which he had been warned. [Illustration: © Kadel & Herbert. _French Airdrome near the Front._] Lilienthal was more of a factor in the conquest of the air than his actual accomplishments would imply. His persistent experiments, his voluminous writings, and above all his friendly and intelligent interest in the work of other and younger men won him a host of disciples in other lands who took up the work that dropped from his lifeless hands. [Illustration: Lilienthal's Glider.] In England Percy S. Pilcher emulated the Lilienthal glides, and was at work on a motor-propelled machine when he was killed by the breakage of a seemingly unimportant part of his machine. He was on the edge of the greater success, not to that moment attained by anyone, of building a true airplane propelled by motor. Many historians think that to Lilienthal and Pilcher is justly due the title "the first flying men." But Le Bris, a French sailor, utterly without scientific or technical equipment, as far back as 1854 had accomplished a wonderful feat in that line. While on a cruise he had watched an albatross that followed his ship day after day apparently without rest and equally without fatigue. His imagination was fired by the spectacle and probably having never heard of the punishment that befell the Ancient Mariner, he shot the albatross. "I took the wing," he wrote later, "and exposed it to the breeze, and lo, in spite of me, it drew forward into the wind; notwithstanding my resistance it tended to rise. Thus I had discovered the secret of the bird. I comprehend the whole mystery of flight." A trifle too sanguine was sailor Le Bris, but he had just the qualities of imagination and confidence essential to one who sets forth to conquer the air. Had he possessed the accurate mind, the patience, and the pertinacity of the Wrights he might have beaten them by half a century. As it was he accomplished a remarkable feat, though it ended in somewhat laughable failure. He built an artificial bird, on the general plan of his albatross. The wings were not to flap, but their angles to the wind were controlled by a system of levers controlled by Le Bris, who stood up in the basket in the centre. To rise he required something like the flying start which the airplanes of to-day get on their bicycle wheels before leaving the ground. As Le Bris had no motor this method of propulsion was denied him, so he loaded the apparatus in a cart, and fastened it to the rail by a rope knotted in a slip knot which a jerk from him would release. As they started men walked beside the cart holding the wings, which extended for twenty-five feet on either side. As the horses speeded up these assistants released their hold. Feeling the car try to rise under his feet Le Bris cast off the rope, tilted the front end of the machine, and to his joy began to rise steadily into the air. The spectators below cheered madly, but a note of alarm mingled with their cheers, and the untried aviator noticed a strange and inexplicable jerking of his machine. Peering down he discovered, to his amaze, a man kicking and crying aloud in deadly fear. It was evident that the rope he had detached from the cart had caught up the driver, who had thus become, to his intense dismay, a partner in the inventor's triumph. Indeed it is most possible that he contributed to that triumph for the ease and steadiness with which the machine rose to a height estimated at three hundred feet suggests that he may have furnished needed ballast--acted in fact as the tail to the kite. Humanity naturally impelled Le Bris to descend at once, which he did skilfully without injuring his involuntary passenger, and only slightly breaking one of the wings. [Illustration: © U. & U. _A German War Zeppelin._] Had Le Bris won this success twenty years later his fame and fortune would have been secure. But in 1854 the time was not ripe for aeronautics. Le Bris was poor. The public responded but grudgingly to his appeals for aid. His next experiment was less successful--perhaps for lack of the carter--and he ultimately disappeared from aviation to become an excellent soldier of France. [Illustration: Photo by Press Illustrating Service. _A French Observation Balloon Seeking Submarines._] Perhaps had they not met with early and violent deaths, the Lilienthals and Pilcher might have carried their experiments in the art of gliding into the broader domain of power flight. This however was left to the two Americans, Orville and Wilbur Wright, who have done more to advance the art of navigating the air than all the other experimenters whose names we have used. The story of the Wright brothers is one of boyhood interest gradually developed into the passion of a lifetime. It parallels to some degree the story of Santos-Dumont who insisting as a child that "man flies" finally made it a fact. The interest of the Wrights was first stimulated when, in 1878, their father brought home a small toy, called a "helicopter," which when tossed in the air rose up instead of falling. Every child had them at that time, but curiously this one was like the seed which fell upon fertile soil. The boys went mad, as boys will, on the subject of flying. But unlike most boys they nurtured and cultivated the passion and it stayed with them to manhood. From helicopters they passed to kites, and from kites to gliders. By calling they were makers and repairers of bicycles, but their spare time was for years devoted to solving the problem of flight. In time it became their sole occupation and by it they won a fortune and world-wide fame. Their story forms a remarkable testimony to the part of imagination, pertinacity, and courage in winning success. After years of tests with models, and with kites controlled from the ground, the brothers had worked out a type of glider which they believed, in a wind of from eighteen to twenty miles an hour, would lift and carry a man. But they had to find a testing ground. The fields near their home in Ohio were too level, and their firm unyielding surface was not attractive as a cushion on which to light in the event of disaster. Moreover the people round about were getting inquisitive about these grown men "fooling around" with kites and flying toys. To the last the Wrights were noted for their dislike of publicity, and it is entirely probable that the sneering criticisms of their "level headed" and "practical" neighbours had a good deal to do with rooting them in this distaste. Low steep hills down the sides of which they could run and at the proper moment throw themselves upon their glider; a sandy soil which would at least lessen the shock of a tumble; and a vicinage in which winds of eighteen miles an hour or more is the normal atmospheric state were the conditions they sought. These they found at a little hamlet called Kitty-Hawk on the coast of North Carolina. There for uncounted centuries the tossing Atlantic had been throwing up its snowy sand upon the shore, and the steady wind had caught it up, piled it in windrows, rolled it up into towering hills, or carried it over into the dunes which extended far inland. It was a lonely spot, and there secure from observation the Wrights pitched their camp. For them it was a midsummer's holiday. Not at first did they decide to make aviation not a sport but a profession. To their camp came visitors interested in the same study, among them Chanute, a well-known experimenter, and some of his associates. They had thought to give hours at a time to actual flight. When they closed their first season, they found that all their time spent in actual flight footed up less than an hour. Lilienthal, despite all he accomplished, estimated that he, up to a short time before his death, spent only about five hours actually in the air. In that early day of experimentation a glide covering one hundred feet, and consuming eight or ten seconds, was counted a triumph. [Illustration: Chanute's Glider.] But the season was by no means wasted. Indeed such was the estimate that the Wrights put upon it that they folded their tents determined that when they returned the year following it would be as professionals, not amateurs. They were confident of their ability to build machines that would fly, though up to that time they had never mounted a motor on their aircraft. In the clear hot air of a North Carolina midsummer the Wrights used to lie on their backs studying through glasses the methods of flight of the great buzzards--filthy scavenger birds which none the less soaring high aloft against a blue sky are pictures of dignity and grace. Bald eagles, ospreys, hawks, and buzzards give us daily exhibitions of their powers [wrote Wilbur Wright]. The buzzards were the most numerous, and were the most persistent soarers. They apparently never flapped except when it was absolutely necessary, while the eagles and hawks usually soared only when they were at leisure. Two methods of soaring were employed. When the weather was cold and damp and the wind strong the buzzards would be seen soaring back and forth along the hills or at the edge of a clump of trees. They were evidently taking advantage of the current of air flowing upward over these obstructions. On such days they were often utterly unable to soar, except in these special places. But on warm clear days when the wind was light they would be seen high in the air soaring in great circles. Usually, however, it seemed to be necessary to reach a height of several hundred feet by flapping before this style of soaring became possible. Frequently a great number of them would begin circling in one spot, rising together higher and higher till finally they would disperse, each gliding off in whatever direction it wished to go. At such times other buzzards only a short distance away found it necessary to flap frequently in order to maintain themselves. But when they reached a point beneath the circling flock they began to rise on motionless wings. This seemed to indicate that rising columns of air do not exist everywhere, but that the birds must find them. They evidently watch each other and when one finds a rising current the others quickly make their way to it. One day when scarce a breath of wind was stirring on the ground we noticed two bald eagles sailing in circling sweeps at a height of probably five hundred feet. After a time our attention was attracted to the flashing of some object considerably lower down. Examination with a field-glass proved it to be a feather which one of the birds had evidently cast. As it seemed apparent that it would come to earth only a short distance away, some of our party started to get it. But in a little while it was noted that the feather was no longer falling, but on the contrary was rising rapidly. It finally went out of sight upward. It apparently was drawn into the same current in which the eagles were soaring and was carried up like the birds. It was by such painstaking methods as these, coupled with the mathematical reduction of the fruits of such observations to terms of angles and supporting planes, that the Wrights gradually perfected their machine. The first airplane to which they fitted a motor and which actually flew has been widely exhibited in the United States, and is to find final repose in some public museum. Study it as you will you can find little resemblance in those rectangular rigid planes to the wings of a bird. But it was built according to deductions drawn from natural flight. [Illustration: Photo by Paul Thompson. _A German Taube Pursued by British Planes._] 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. [Illustration: The First Wright Glider.] 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. [Illustration: Pilcher's Glider.] 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. [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _The Comparative Strength of Belligerents in Airplanes at the Opening of the War._ _The French Army had at least 500 aëroplanes. England had about 250 aëroplanes of all types Russia had 50 aëroplanes--Austria had at least 50 aëroplanes Germany is about the equal of France, having 500 flyers._] 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. [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _The Comparative Strength of Belligerents in Dirigibles at the Opening of the War._ _France must be credited with at least eighteen airships of various types--England had only seven--Russia had probably not more than three airships available--Belgium had one airship Austria had not less than three, not more than five airships available--Germany had twenty three airships of the rigid, semi-rigid, and non-rigid type._] 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. [Illustration: Wright Glider.] 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. [Illustration: _At a French Airplane Base._ © International Pilot Service.] "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. [Illustration: Stringfellow's Airplane.] "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. [Illustration: "_America"--Built to Cross the Atlantic Ocean._ © U. & U.] 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. [Illustration: _Wright Airplane in Flight._] 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. [Illustration: © U. & U. _The Lafayette Escadrille--First Americans to Fly in France._ (_Lufbery on left, Thaw on right._)] 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. Before describing the exploits of the airmen in actual campaign let us consider some account of how they were trained for their arduous and novel duties. To the non-professional an amazing thing about the employment of aircraft in war has been the rapidity with which pilots are trained. The average layman would think that to learn the art of manoeuvring an airplane with such swiftness as to evade the attacks of an enemy, and to detect precisely the proper moment and method of attacking him in turn, would require long and arduous practice in the air. But as we have seen in earlier chapters, inventors like the Wrights, Bleriot, and Farman learned to fly with but a few hours spent in the air, with flights lasting less than ten minutes each. So too the army aviators spent but little time aloft, though their course of instruction covered in all a period of about four months. Some account of the method of instruction as reported by several out of the hundred or more American boys who went to fly for France may be interesting. As a rule the aviators were from twenty to twenty-five years of age. "Below twenty boys are too rash; above twenty-five they are too prudent," said a sententious French aviator. A slight knowledge of motors such as would be obtained from familiarity with automobiles was a marked advantage at the start, for the first task of the novice was to make himself familiar with every type of airplane engine. The army pilot in all the armies was the aristocrat of the service. Mechanics kept his motor in shape, and helpers housed, cleaned, and brought forth his machine for action. But while all but the actual piloting and fighting was spared him, there was always the possibility of his making an untimely landing back of the enemy's lines with an engine that would not work. To prepare for such an emergency he was taught all the intricacies of motor construction, so that he might speedily correct any minor fault. In our army, and indeed in all others, applicants for appointment to the aviation corps were subjected to scientific tests of their nerves, and their mental and physical alertness. How they would react to the sudden explosion of a shell near their ears, how long it took the candidate to respond to a sudden call for action, how swiftly he reacted to a sensation of touch were all tested and measured by delicate electric apparatus. A standard was fixed, failing to attain which, the applicant was rejected. The practical effect might be to determine how long after suddenly discovering a masked machine gun a given candidate would take before taking the action necessary to avoid its fire. Or how quickly would he pull the lever necessary to guard against a sudden gust of wind. To the layman it would appear that problems of this sort could only be solved in the presence of the actual attack, but science, which enables artillerists to destroy a little village beyond the hills which they never see, was able to devise instruments to answer these questions in the quiet of the laboratory. One of the best known flying schools of the French army was at Pau, where on broad level plains were, in 1917, four separate camps for aviators, each with its group of hangars for the machines, its repair shops, and with a tall wireless tower upstanding in the midst for the daily war news from Paris. On these plains the Wright Brothers had made some of their earliest French flights. A little red barn which they had made their workshop was still standing there when war suddenly turned the spot into a flying school often with as many as five thousand pupils in attendance. "To-day that little red barn," writes Carroll Dana Winslow, one of the Americans who went to fly for France, "stands as a monument to American stupidity, for when we allowed the Wrights to go abroad to perfect their ideas instead of aiding them to carry on their work at home we lost a golden opportunity. Now the United States which gave to the world the first practical airplane is the least advanced in this all-important science." Arrived at the school the tyro studies the fundamentals of flying in the classroom and on the field for two months before he is allowed to go up--to receive as they express it, his _baptême de l'air_. He picks motors to pieces, and puts them together, he learns the principles of airplane construction, and can discourse on such topics as the angle of attack of the cellule, the incidence of the wings, and the carrying power of the tail-plane. More than any other science aviation has a vocabulary of its own, and a peculiarly cosmopolitan one drawn from all tongues, but with the French predominating. America gave the airplane to France, but France has given the science its terminology. The maps of the battlefields of this war are the marvels of military science. Made from the air they show every road and watercourse, every ditch and gully, every patch of woodland, every farmhouse, church, or stonewall. Much of the early work of the aviator is in learning to make such maps, both by sketches and by the employment of the camera. It is no easy task. From an airplane one thousand feet up the earth seems to be all a dead level. Slight hills, gentle elevations, offer no contrast to the general plain. A road is not easy to tell from a trench. All these things the aviator must first learn to see with accuracy, and then to depict on his map with precision. He must learn furthermore to read the maps of his fellows--a task presupposing some knowledge of how they had been made. He must learn to fly by a map, to recognize objects by the technical signs upon it, to estimate his drift before the wind because of which the machine moves sidewise _en crabe_--or like a crab as the French phrase it. His first flight the novice makes in a machine especially fitted for instruction. The levers are fitted with double handles so that both learner and tutor may hold them at once. If the greenhorn pushes when he should pull the veteran's grip is hard on the handle to correct the error before it can cost two lives--for in the air there is little time to experiment. Either set of controls will steer the machine. The pupil grasps his levers, and puts his feet on the pedals. At first the instructor will do the steering, the pupil following with hands and feet as the motions made by the instructor are communicated to him by the moving levers. For a time the two work together. Then as the instructor senses that the student himself is doing the right thing he gradually lessens his own activity, until after a few days' practice the student finds that he is flying with a passenger and directing the machine himself. In France, at any rate, they teach in brief lessons. Each flight for instruction is limited to about five minutes. At first the student operates in a "penguin"--a machine which will run swiftly along the ground but cannot rise. It is no easy trick at first, to control the "penguin" and keep its course direct. Then he will try the "jumps" in a machine that leaps into the air and descends automatically after a twenty to forty yards' flight. As Darius Green expressed it so long ago, the trouble about flying comes when you want to alight. That holds as true to-day with the most perfect airplanes, as in boyhood days when one jumped from the barn in perfect confidence that the family umbrella would serve as a parachute. To alight with an airplane the pilot--supposing his descent to be voluntary and not compelled by accident or otherwise--surveys the country about him for a level field, big and clear enough for the machine to run off its momentum in a run of perhaps two hundred yards on its wheels. Then he gets up a good rate of speed, points the nose of the 'plane down at a sharp angle to the ground, cuts off the engine, and glides. The angle of the fall must be great enough for the force of gravity to keep up the speed. There is a minimum speed at which an airplane will remain subject to control. Loss of speed--"_perte de vitesse_," as the French call it--is the aviator's most common peril in landing. If it occurs after his engine is cut off and he has not the time to start it again, the machine tilts and slides down sideways. If it occurs higher up a _vrille_ is the probable result. In this the plane plunges toward the ground spinning round and round with the corner of one wing as a pivot. In either case a serious accident is almost inevitable. In fact the land is almost as dangerous to the navigator of the air as it is to him of the sea. To make good landings is an art only perfected by constant practice. To shut off the engine at precisely the right moment, to choose an angle of descent that will secure the greatest speed and at the same moment bring you to your landing place, to change at the most favourable time from this angle to one that will bring you to the ground at the most gentle of obtuse angles, and to let your machine, weighing perhaps a ton, drop as lightly as a bird and run along the earth for several hundred feet before coming to a full stop, are all features of making a landing which the aviator has to master. In full air there are but few perils to encounter. All airmen unite in declaring that even to the novice in an airplane there is none of that sense of dizziness or vertigo which so many people experience in looking down from high places. The flyer has no sense of motion. A speed of forty miles an hour and of one hundred miles are the same to him. As he looks down the earth seems to be slipping away from him, and moving by, tailwards, like an old-fashioned panorama being unwound. Everything about the control of an airplane has to be learned mechanically. Once learned the aviator applies his knowledge intuitively. He "senses" the position and progress of the craft by the feel of the controls, as the man at the yacht's tiller tells mysteriously how she is responding to the breeze by "the feel." Even before the 'plane responds to some sudden gust of wind, or drops into a hole in the air, the trained aviator will foresee precisely what is about to happen. He reads it in some little thrill of his lever, a quiver in the frame, as the trained boxer reads in his antagonist's eyes the sort of blow that is coming. This instinctive control of his machine is absolutely essential for the fighting pilot who must keep his eyes on the movements of his enemy, watch out for possible aircraft guns below, and all the time be striving to get an advantageous position whence he can turn his machine gun loose. A row of gauges, dials, a compass, and a map on the frame of the car in which he sits will engage his attention in any moments of leisure. It is needless to remark that the successful pilot must have a quick eye and steady nerves. Nerve and rapidity of thought save the aviator in many a ticklish position. It is perhaps a tribute to the growing perfection of the airplanes that in certain moments of peril the machine is best left wholly to itself. Its stability is such that if freed from control it will often right itself and glide safely to earth. This not infrequently occurs in the moment of the dreaded _perte de vitesse_, to which reference has been made. In his book, _With the French Flying Corps_, Mr. Carroll Dana Winslow, a daring American aviator, tells of two such experiences, the one under his observation, the other happening to himself: The modern airplane is naturally so stable [he says] that if not interfered with it will always attempt to right itself before the dreaded _vrille_ occurs, and fall _en feuille morte_. Like a leaf dropping in an autumn breeze is what this means, and no other words explain the meaning better. A curious instance of this happened one day as I was watching the flights and waiting for my turn. I was particularly interested in a machine that had just risen from the "Grande Piste." It was acting very peculiarly. Suddenly its motor was heard to stop. Instead of diving it commenced to wabble, indicating a _perte de vitesse_. It slipped off on the wing and then dove. I watched it intently, expecting it to turn into the dreaded spiral. Instead it began to climb. Then it went off on the wing, righted itself, again slipped off on the wing, volplaned, and went off once more. This extraordinary performance was repeated several times, while each time the machine approached nearer and nearer to the ground. I thought that the pilot would surely be killed. Luck was with him, however, for his slip ceased just as he made contact with the ground and he settled in a neighbouring field. It was a very bumpy landing but the airplane was undamaged. The officers rushed to the spot to find out what was the matter. They found the pilot unconscious, but otherwise unhurt. Later in the hospital he explained that the altitude had affected his heart and that he had fainted. As he felt himself going he remembered his instructions and relinquished the controls, at the same time stopping his motor. His presence of mind and his luck had saved his life--his luck I say, for had the machine not righted itself at the moment of touching the ground it would have been inevitably wrecked. The spectacle, though terrifying, proved valuable as an education to young Winslow who a few days later was ordered to a test of ascension of two thousand feet. This is his story: I had a narrow escape. I had received orders to make a flight during a snow-storm. I rose to the prescribed height and then prepared to make my descent. A whirling squall caught me in the act of making a spiral. I felt the tail of my machine go down and the nose point up. I had a classical _perte de vitesse_. I looked out and saw that I was less than eight hundred feet above the ground and approaching it at an alarming rate of speed. I had already shut off the motor for the spiral, and turning it on, I knew, would not help me in the least. Suddenly I remembered the pilot who fainted. I let go of everything, and with a sickening feeling I looked down at the up-rushing ground. At that instant I felt the machine give a lurch and right itself. I grabbed the controls, turned on the motor, and resumed my line of flight only two hundred feet in the air. All this happened in a few seconds, but my helplessness seemed to have lasted for hours. I had had a very close call--not as close as the man who fainted, but sufficiently so for me. [Illustration: _Distinguishing Marks of American Planes._] We have said that the process of training a flyer is remarkably expeditious. So far as the fundamentals of his profession are concerned it is. But his education in fact never ends. In the mere matter of reconnaissance, for example, experience is everything. One might imagine that ten thousand men marching on a road would look alike in numbers whatever the nationality. Not so. To the untrained eye five thousand or six thousand French troops will look as numerous as ten thousand British or Germans. Why? Because the French march in much more extended order. Into their democratic military methods the precision and mechanical exactitude of German drill do not enter. With the same number of troops they will extend further along the road by at least a third than would a detachment of either of the other armies. [Illustration: _What an Aviator must Watch._ 1 _Watch_ 2 _Altimeter-registering height_ 3 _Compass_ 4 _Pressure gauges for two gasoline tanks_ 5 _Dial registering engine revolutions_ 6 _Inclinometer, registering level fore and aft_ 7 _Oil pulsator_ 8 _Control stick, with thumb switch_ 9 _Switches, two magnetos_ 10 _Air speed indicator_ 11 _Gasolene supply pipe_] And again. Great skill has been developed in the course of the war in the art of concealing positions and particularly in disguising cannon. The art has given a new word to the world--_camouflage_. Correspondents have repeatedly told of their amazement in suddenly coming across a battery of 75's, or a great siege gun so cunningly hidden in the edge of a thicket they would be almost upon it before detecting it. From an airplane 2500 feet or more in the air it requires sharp eyes to penetrate artillery disguises. A French poilu in a little book of reminiscences tells with glee how a German observation aviator deceived his batteries. A considerable body of French troops being halted in an open field, out of sight of the enemy batteries, found the glare of the sun oppressive, and having some time to wait threw down their equipment and betook themselves to the cool shadows of a neighbouring wood. Along came an enemy aviator. From his lofty height the haversacks, blanket-rolls, and other pieces of dark equipment lying upon the grass looked like a body of troops resting. After sailing over and around the field twice as though to make assurance doubly sure he sailed swiftly away. In a very few minutes shells from a concealed battery began dropping into that field at the rate of several a minute. Every foot of it was torn up, and the French soldiers from their retreat in the woods saw their equipment being blown to pieces in every direction. The spectacle was harrowing, but the reflection that the aviator undoubtedly thought that he had turned his guns on a field full of men was cheering to them in their safety. An art which the fighting aviator must master early in his career is that of high diving. Many of us have seen a hawk, soaring high in air, suddenly fold his pinions and drop like a plummet full on the back of some luckless pigeon flapping along ungainly scores of feet below, or a fishhawk drop like a meteor from the sky with a resounding splash upon the bosom of some placid stream and rise again carrying a flapping fish to his eyrie in the distant pines. The hunting methods of the hawk are the fighting methods of the airman. But his dives exceed in height and daring anything known to the feathered warriors of the air. Boelke, most famous of all the German airmen--or for that matter of all aërial fighters of his day--who in 1917 held the record for the number of enemy flyers brought down, was famed for his savage dives. He would fly at a great height, fifteen thousand or more feet, thus assuring himself that there was no enemy above him. When he sighted his prey he would make an absolutely vertical nose dive, dropping at the rate of 150 miles an hour or more and spattering shots from his machine gun as he fell. Six hundred shots a minute and the sight of this charging demon were enough to test the nerve of any threatened aviator. In some fashion Boelke was enabled to give a slight spiral form to his dive so that his victim was enveloped in a ring of bullets that blocked his retreat whichever way he might turn for safety. Personality in fighting counted much for success. Boelke's method, its audacity and fierceness, placed him first in the list of airmen with killing records. Captain Immelman, also a German, who rolled up a score of thirty enemies put out of action before he himself was slain, followed entirely different tactics. His battle manoeuvre savoured much of the circus, including as it did complete loop-the-loop. For instead of approaching his adversary from the side, or as would be said in the sea navy, on the beam, he followed squarely behind him. His study was to get the nose of his machine almost on the tail of the aircraft he was pursuing. This gave him, to begin with, what used to be called in the navy a raking position, for his shots would rake the whole body of the enemy airplane from tail to nose with a fair chance of hitting either the fuel tank, the engine, or the pilot. Failing to secure the position he most coveted, this daring German would surrender it with apparent unconcern to the enemy who usually fell into the trap. For just as the foeman's machine came up to the tail of Immelman's craft the latter would suddenly turn his nose straight to earth, drop like a stone, execute a backward loop, and come up behind his surprised adversary who thus found the tables suddenly turned. These two German aviators long held the record for execution done in single combat. Boelke was killed before the air duel vanished to be replaced by the battle of scores of planes high in air. Immelman survived longer, but with the incoming of the pitched battle his personal prowess counted for less and his fame waned. In July, 1917, arrangements were complete in the United States for the immediate training in the fundamentals of aviation of ten thousand young Americans. The expectation was that long before the end of the year facilities would be provided for the training of many more. Both France and Great Britain sent over squads of their best aviators, some of them so incapacitated from wounds as to be disqualified for further fighting, but still vigorous enough for the work of an instructor. The aërial service took hold upon the imagination and the patriotism of young America as did no other. The flock of volunteers was far beyond the capacity of the government to care for, and many drifted over into private aviation schools which were established in great numbers. The need for the young students was admittedly great. More and more the impression had grown in both Great Britain and France that the airplane was to be the final arbiter in the war. It was hailed at once as the most dangerous enemy of the submarine and the most efficient ally of troops in the field. No number seemed too great for the needs of the entente allies, and their eagerness to increase their flying force was strengthened by the knowledge of the fact that Germany was building feverishly in order that its fleet in the air might not be eclipsed. Perhaps the best description of an idealized aviator was given by Lieutenant Lufbery, of the Lafayette Escadrille, who came to the United States to assist in training the new corps of American flying men. Lufbery himself was a most successful air fighter--an "ace" several times over. Though French by lineage, he was an American citizen and had been a soldier in the United States Army. In October of 1917 his record was thirteen Boches brought down within the allied lines. In the allied air service one gets no credit for the defeated enemy plane if it falls within the enemy lines. While young Americans were being drilled into shape for service in the flying corps, Lufbery gave this outline of the type of men the service would demand: It will take the cream of the American youth between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six to man America's thousands of airplanes, and the double cream of youth to qualify as chasers in the Republic's new aërial army. Intensive and scientific training must be given this cream of youth upon which America's welfare in the war must rest. Experience has shown that for best results the fighting aviator should be not over twenty-six years old or under eighteen. The youth under eighteen has shown himself to be bold, but he lacks judgment. Men over twenty-six are too cautious. The best air fighters, especially a man handling a chaser, must be of perfect physique. He must have the coolest nerve and be of a temperament that longs for a fight. He must have a sense of absolute duty and fearlessness, the keenest sense of action, and perfect sight to gain the absolute "feel" of his machine. He must be entirely familiar with aërial acrobatics. The latter frequently means life or death. Fighting twenty-two thousand feet in the air produces a heavy strain on the heart. It is vital therefore that this organ show not the slightest evidence of weakness. Such weakness would decrease the aviator's fighting efficiency. The American boys who come over to France for this work will be subject to rapid and frequent variations in altitude. It is a common occurrence to dive vertically from six thousand to ten thousand feet with the motor pulling hard. Sharpness of vision is imperative. Otherwise the enemy may escape or the aviator himself will be surprised or mistake a friendly machine for a hostile craft. The differences are often merely insignificant colours and details. America's aviators must be men who will be absolute masters of themselves under fire, thinking out their attacks as their fight progresses. Experience has shown that the chaser men should weigh under 180 pounds. Americans from the ranks of sport, youth who have played baseball, polo, football, or have shot and participated in other sports will make the best fighting aviators. CHAPTER VII SOME METHODS OF THE WAR IN THE AIR The fighting tactics of the airmen with the various armies were developed as the war ran its course. As happens so often in the utilization of a new device, either of war or peace, the manner of its use was by no means what was expected at the outset. For the first year of the war the activities of the airmen fell far short of realizing Tennyson's conception of The nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue. The grappling was only incidental. The flyers seemed destined to be scouts and rangefinders, rather than fighters. Such pitched combats as there were took rather the form of duels, conducted with something of the formality of the days of chivalry. The aviator intent upon a fight would take his machine over the enemy's line and in various ways convey a challenge to a rival--often a hostile aviator of fame for his daring and skill in combat. If the duel was to the death it would be watched usually from the ground by the comrades of the two duellists, and if the one who fell left his body in the enemy's lines, the victor would gather up his identification disk and other personal belongings and drop them the next day in the camp of the dead man's comrades with a note of polite regret. It was all very daring and chivalric, but it was not war according to twentieth century standards and was not long continued. [Illustration: © U. & U. _A Caproni Triplane._] When at first the aviators of one side flew over the enemy's territory diligently mapping out his trenches, observing the movements of his troops, or indicating, by dropping bunches of tinsel for the sun to shine upon or breaking smoke bombs, the position of his hidden battery, the foe thus menaced sought to drive them away with anti-aircraft guns. These proved to be ineffective and it may be said here that throughout the war the swift airplanes proved themselves more than a match for the best anti-aircraft artillery that had been devised. They could complete their reconnaissances or give their signals at a height out of range of these guns, or at least so great that the chances of their being hit were but slight. It was amazing the manner in which an airplane could navigate a stretch of air full of bursting shrapnel and yet escape serious injury. The mere puncture, even the repeated puncture, of the wings did no damage. Only lucky shots that might pierce the fuel tank, hit the engine, touch an aileron or an important stay or strut, could affect the machine, while in due course of time a light armour on the bottom of the fusillage or body of the machine in which the pilot sat, protected the operator to some degree. Other considerations, however, finally led to the rejection of armour. [Illustration: © U. & U. _A Caproni Triplane_ (_Showing Propellers and Fuselage_).] Accordingly it soon became the custom of the commanders who saw their works being spied out by an enemy soaring above to send up one or more aircraft to challenge the invader and drive him away. This led to the second step in the development in aërial strategy. It was perfectly evident that a man could not observe critically a position and draw maps of it, or seek out the hiding place of massed batteries and indicate them to his own artillerists, and at the same time protect himself from assaults. Accordingly the flying corps of every army gradually became differentiated into observation machines and fighting machines--or _avions de réglage_, _avions de bombardement_, and _avions de chasse_, as the French call them. In their order these titles were applied to heavy slow-moving machines used for taking photographs and directing artillery fire, more heavily armed machines of greater weight used in raids and bombing attacks, and the swift fighting machines, quick to rise high, and swift to manoeuvre which would protect the former from the enemy, or drive away the enemy's observation machines as the case might be. In the form which the belligerents finally adopted as most advantageous the fighting airplanes were mainly biplanes equipped with powerful motors seldom of less than 140 horse-power, and carrying often but one man who is not merely the pilot, but the operator of the machine gun with which each was equipped. Still planes carrying two men, and even three of whom one was the pilot, the other two the operators of the machine guns were widely adopted. They had indeed their disadvantages. They were slower to rise and clumsier in the turns. The added weight of the two gunmen cut down the amount of fuel that could be carried and limited the radius of action. But one curious disadvantage which would not at first suggest itself to the lay mind was the fact that the roar of the propeller was so great that no possible communication could pass between the pilot and the gunner. Their co-operation must be entirely instinctive or there could be no unity of action--and in practice it was found that there was little indeed. The smaller machine, carrying but one man, was quicker in the get-away and could rise higher in less time--a most vital consideration, for in the tactics of aërial warfare it is as desirable to get above your enemy as in the days of the old line of battleships it was advantageous to secure a position off the stern of your enemy so that you might rake him fore and aft. The machines ultimately found to best meet the needs of aërial fighting were for the Germans always the Fokker, and the Taube--so called from its resemblance to a flying dove, though it was far from being the dove of peace. The wings are shaped like those of a bird and the tail adds to the resemblance. The Allies after testing the Taube design contemptuously rejected it, and indeed the Germans themselves substituted the Fokker for it in the war's later days. The English used the "Vickers Scout," built of aluminum and steel and until late in the war usually designed to carry two aviators. This machine unlike most of the others has the propeller at the stern, called a "pusher" in contradistinction to the "tractor," acting as the screw of a ship and avoiding the interference with the rifle fire which the pulling, or tractor propeller mounted before the pilot to a certain degree presents. The Vickers machine is lightly armoured. The English also use what was known as the "D. H. 5," a machine carrying a motor of very high horse-power, while the Sopwith and Bristol biplane were popular as fighting craft. The French pinned their faith mainly to the Farman, the Caudron, the Voisin, and the Moraine-Saulnier machines. The Bleriot and the Nieuport, which were for some reason ruled out at the beginning of the war, were afterwards re-adopted and employed in great numbers. It would be gratifying to an American author to be able to describe, or at least to mention, the favourite machine of the American aviators who flocked to France immediately upon the declaration of war, but the mortifying fact is that having no airplanes of our own, our gallant volunteer soldiers of the air had to be equipped throughout by the French with machines of their favourite types. After we entered the war we adopted a 'plane of American design to which was given the name "Liberty plane." It may be worth while to revert for a moment to the distinction drawn in a preceding paragraph between the pusher propeller and the tractor which revolved in front of the aviator and of his machine gun. It would seem almost incredible that two heavy blades of hard wood revolving at a speed not less that twelve hundred times a minute, a speed so rapid that their passage in front of the eyes of the aviator interfered in no way with his vision, should not have blocked a stream of bullets falling from a gun at the rate of more than six hundred a minute. Nevertheless it was claimed during the earlier days of the war that these bullets were not appreciably diverted by the whirling propellers nor were the latter apparently injured by the missiles. The latter assertion, however, must have been to some extent disproved because it came about that the propellers of the later machines were rimmed with a thin coating of steel lest the blades be cut by the bullets. But the amazing ability of modern science to cope with what seemed to be an insoluble problem was demonstrated by the invention of a device light and compact enough to be carried in an airplane, which applied to the machine gun and timed in accordance with the revolutions of the propeller so synchronized the shots with those revolutions that the stream of lead passed between the whirling blades never once striking. The machine was entirely automatic, requiring no attention on the part of the operator after the gun was once started on its discharge. This device was originally used by the Germans who applied it to their Fokker machines. It was claimed for it that by doing away with the wastage caused by the diversion of the course of bullets, which struck the revolving propellers, it actually saved for effective use about thirty per cent. of the ammunition employed. As the amount of ammunition which can be carried by an airplane is rigidly limited this gave to the appliance a positive value. [Illustration: _The Terror that Flieth by Night._ _Painting by William J. Wilson._] Reference has been made to the extraordinary immunity of flying airplanes to the attacks of anti-aircraft guns. The number of wounds they could sustain without being brought to earth was amazing. Grahame-White tells of a comparison made in one of the airdromes of the wounds sustained by the machines after a day's hard scouting and fighting. One was found to have been hit no less than thirty-seven times. Curiously enough the man who navigated it escaped unscathed. Wounds in the wings are harmless. But the puncture of the fuel tank almost certainly means an explosion and the death of the aviator in the flame thousands of feet in the air. During an air battle before Arras, a British aviator encountered this fate. When his tank was struck and the fusillage, or body, of his machine burst into flames, he knew that he was lost. By no possibility could he reach the ground before he should be burned to death. A neighbouring aviator flying not far from him told the story afterwards: Jack was not in the thick of this fight [said he]. He was rather on the outskirts striving to get in when I suddenly saw his whole machine enveloped in a sheet of flame. Instantly he turned towards the nearest German and made at him with the obvious intention of running him down and carrying him to earth in the same cloud of fire. The man thus threatened, twisted and turned in a vain effort to escape the red terror bearing down upon him. But suffering acutely as he must have been, Jack followed his every move until the two machines crashed, and whirling over and over each other like two birds in an aërial combat fell to earth and to destruction. They landed inside the German lines so we heard no more about them. But we could see the smoke from the burning débris for some time. As the range of anti-aircraft guns increased the flyers were driven higher and higher into the air to escape their missiles. At one time 4500 feet was looked upon as a reasonably safe height, but when the war had been under way about two years the weapons designed to combat aircraft were so improved that they could send their shots effectively 10,000 feet into the air. If the aircraft had been forced to operate at that height their usefulness would have been largely destroyed, for it is obvious that for observation purposes the atmospheric haze at such a height would obscure the view and make accurate mapping of the enemy's position impossible. For offensive purposes too the airplanes at so great an elevation would be heavily handicapped, if not indeed rendered impotent. As we shall see later, dropping a bomb from a swiftly moving airplane upon a target is no easy task. It never falls direct but partakes of the motion of the plane. It is estimated that for every thousand feet of elevation a bomb will advance four hundred feet in the direction that the aircraft is moving, provided its speed is not in excess of sixty miles an hour. As a result marksmanship at a height of more than five thousand feet is practically impossible. In the main this situation is met, as all situations in war in which efficiency can only be attained at the expense of great personal danger are met, namely, by braving the danger. When the aviators have an attack in contemplation they fly low and snap their fingers at the puff balls of death as the shrapnel from their appearance when bursting may well be called. Naturally, efforts were made early in the war to lessen the danger by armouring the body of the machine sufficiently to protect the aviator and his engine--for if the aviator escaped a shot which found the engine, his plight would be almost as bad as if the missile had struck him. The main difficulty with armouring the machines grew out of the added weight. The more efficient the armour, the less fuel could be carried and the less ammunition. If too heavily loaded the speed of the machine would be reduced and its ability to climb rapidly upon which the safety of the aviator usually depends, either in reconnaissance or fighting, would be seriously impeded. The first essays in protective armour took the form of the installation of a thin sheet of steel along the bottom of the body of the craft. This turned aside missiles from below provided the plane were not so near the ground as to receive them at the moment of their highest velocity. But it was only an unsatisfactory makeshift. At the higher altitudes it was unnecessary and in conflict with other airplanes it proved worthless, because in a battle in the air the shots of the enemy are more likely to come from above or at least from levels in the same plane. The armoured airplane was quickly found to have less chance of mounting above its enemy, because of the weight it carried, and before long the principle of protecting an airplane as a battleship is protected was abandoned, except in the case of the heavier machines intended to operate as scouts or guides to artillery, holding their flights near the earth and protected from attack from above by their attendant fleet of swift fighting machines. Of these the Vickers machine used mainly by the British is a common type. It is built throughout of steel and aluminum, and the entire fusillage is clothed with steel plating which assures protection to the two occupants from either upward or lateral fire. The sides of the body are carried up so that only the heads of the aviators are visible. But to accomplish this measure of protection for the pilot and the gunner who operates the machine gun from a seat forward of the pilot, the weight of the craft is so greatly increased that it is but little esteemed for any save the most sluggish manoeuvre. Indeed just as aircraft, as a factor in war, have come to be more like the cavalry in the army, or the destroyers and scout cruisers in the navy, so the tendency has been to discard everything in their design that might by any possibility interfere with their speed and their ability to turn and twist, and change direction and elevation with the utmost celerity under the most difficult of conditions. It is possible that should this war run into the indefinite future we may see aircraft built on ponderous lines and heavily armoured, and performing in the air some of the functions that the British "tanks" have discharged on the battlefields. But at the end of three years of war, and at the moment when aërial hostilities seemed to be engaging more fully than even before the inventive genius of the nations, and the dash and skill of the fighting flyers, the tendency is all toward the light and swift machine. [Illustration: Photo by Press Illustrating Service. _A Curtis Seaplane Leaving a Battleship._] The attitude of the fighting airmen is somewhat reminiscent of that of America's greatest sea-fighter, Admiral Farragut. Always opposed to ironclads, the hero of Mobile Bay used to say that when he went to sea he did not want to go in an iron coffin, and that when a shell had made its way through one side of his ship he didn't want any obstacle presented to impede its passing out of the other side. [Illustration: © U. & U. _Launching a Hydroaëroplane._] The all important and even vital necessity for speed also detracted much from the value of aircraft in offensive operations. It was found early that you could not mount on a flying machine guns of sufficient calibre to be of material use in attacking fortified positions. If it was necessary for the planes to proceed any material distance before reaching their objective, the weight of the necessary fuel would preclude the carriage of heavy artillery. In the case of seaplanes which might be carried on the deck of a battleship to a point reasonably contiguous to the object to be attacked, this difficulty was not so serious. This was demonstrated to some extent by the British raids on the German naval bases of Cuxhaven and Wilhelmshaven, but even in these instances it was bombs dropped by aviators, not gunfire that injured the enemy's works. But for the airplane proper this added weight was so positive a handicap as to practically destroy its usefulness as an assailant of fortified positions. The heavier weapons of offence which could be carried by the airplane even of the highest development were the bombs. These once landed might cause the greatest destruction, but the difficulty of depositing them directly upon a desired target was not to be overcome. The dirigible balloon enjoyed a great advantage over the airplane in this respect, for it was able to hover over the spot which it desired to hit and to discharge its bombs in a direct perpendicular line with enough initial velocity from a spring gun to overcome largely any tendency to deviate from the perpendicular. But an airplane cannot stop. When it stops it must descend. If it is moving at the moderate speed of sixty miles an hour when it drops its missile, the bomb itself will move forward at the rate of sixty miles an hour until gravity has overcome the initial forward force. Years before the war broke out, tests were held in Germany and France of the ability of aviators to drop a missile upon a target marked out upon the ground. One such test in France required the dropping of bombs from a height of 2400 feet upon a target 170 feet long by 40 broad--or about the dimensions of a small and rather stubby ship. The results were uniformly disappointing. The most creditable record was made by an American aviator, Lieutenant Scott, formerly of the United States Army. His first three shots missed altogether, but thereafter he landed eight within the limits. In Germany the same year the test was to drop bombs upon two targets, one resembling a captive Zeppelin, the other a military camp 330 feet square. The altitude limit was set at 660 feet. This, though a comparatively easy test, was virtually a failure. Only two competitors succeeded in dropping a bomb into the square at all, while the balloon was hit but once. The character and size of the bombs employed by aircraft naturally differed very widely, particularly as to size, between those carried by dirigibles and those used by airplanes. The Zeppelin shell varied in weight between two hundred and two hundred and fifty pounds. It was about forty-seven inches long by eight and a half inches in diameter. Its charge varied according to the use to which it was to be put. If it was hoped that it would drop in a crowded spot and inflict the greatest amount of damage to human life and limb it would carry a bursting charge, shrapnel, and bits of iron, all of which on the impact of the missile upon the earth would be hurled in every direction to a radius exceeding forty yards. If damage to buildings, on the other hand, was desired, some high explosive such as picric acid would be used which would totally wreck any moderate-sized building upon which the shell might fall. In many instances, particularly in raids upon cities such as London, incendiary shells were used charged with some form of liquid fire, which rapidly spread the conflagration, and which itself was practically inextinguishable. Shells or bombs of these varying types were dropped from airplanes as well as from the larger and steadier Zeppelins. The difference was entirely in the size. It was said that a Zeppelin might drop a bomb of a ton's weight. But so far as attainable records are concerned it is impossible to cite any instance of this being done. The effect on the great gas bag of the sudden release of a load so great would certainly cause a sudden upward flight which might be so quick and so powerful as to affect the very structure of the ship. So far as known 250 pounds was the topmost limit of Zeppelin bombs, while most of them were of much smaller dimensions. The airplane bombs were seldom more than sixty pounds in weight, although in the larger British machines a record of ninety-five pounds has been attained. The most common form of bomb used in the heavier-than-air machines was pear-shaped, with a whirling tail to keep the missile upright as it falls. Steel balls within, a little larger than ordinary shrapnel, are held in place by a device which releases them during the fall. On striking the ground they fall on the explosive charge within and the shell bursts, scattering the two or three hundred steel bullets which it carries over a wide radius. Bombs of this character weigh in the neighbourhood of six pounds and an ordinary airplane can carry a very considerable number. Their exploding device is very delicate so that it will operate upon impact with water, very soft earth, or even the covering of an airship. Other bombs commonly used in airplanes were shaped like darts, winged like an arrow so that they would fall perpendicularly and explode by a pusher at the point which was driven into the body of the bomb upon its impact with any hard substance. It seems curious to read of the devices sometimes quite complicated and at all times the result of the greatest care and thought, used for dropping these bombs. In the trenches men pitched explosive missiles about with little more care than if they had been so many baseballs, but only seldom was a bomb from aloft actually delivered by hand. In the case of the heavier bombs used by the dirigibles this is understandable. They could not be handled by a single man without the aid of mechanical devices. Some are dropped from a cradle which is tilted into a vertical position after the shell has been inserted. Others are fired from a tube not unlike the torpedo tube of a submarine, but which imparts only slight initial velocity to the missile. Its chief force is derived from gravity, and to be assured of its explosion the aviator must discharge it from a height proportionate to its size. In the airplane the aviator's methods are more simple. Sometimes the bombs are carried in a rack beneath the body of the machine, and released by means of a lever at the side. A more primitive method often in use is merely to attach the bomb to a string and lower it to a point at which the aviator is certain that in falling it will not touch any part of the craft, and then cut the string. Half a dozen devices by which the aviator can hold the bomb at arm's length and drop it with the certainty of a perpendicular fall are in use in the different air navies. It will be evident to the most casual consideration that with any one of these devices employed by an aviator in a machine going at a speed of sixty miles an hour or more the matter of hitting the target is one in which luck has a very great share. There is good reason for the pains taken by the aviators to see that their bombs fall swift and true, and clear of all the outlying parts of their machines. The grenadier in the trenches has a clear field for his explosive missile and he may toss it about with what appears to be desperate carelessness--though instances have been known in which a bomb thrower, throwing back his arm preparatory to launching his canned volcano, has struck the back of his own trench with disastrous results. But the aviator must be even more careful. His bombs must not hit any of the wires below his machine in falling--else there will be a dire fall for him. And above all they must not get entangled in stays or braces. In such case landing will bring a most unpleasant surprise. A striking case was that of a bomber who had been out over the German trenches. He had a two-man machine, had made a successful flight and had dropped, effectively as he supposed, all his bombs. Returning in serene consciousness of a day's duty well done, he was about to spiral down to the landing place when his passenger looked over the side of the car to see if everything was in good order. Emphatically it was not. To his horror he discovered that two of the bombs had not fallen, but had caught in the running gear of his machine. To attempt a landing with the bombs in this position would have been suicidal. The bombs would have instantly exploded, and annihilated both machine and aviators. But to get out of the car, climb down on the wires, and try to unhook the bombs seemed more desperate still. Stabilizers, and other devices, now in common use, had not then been invented and to go out on the wing of a biplane, or to disturb its delicate balance, was unheard of. Nevertheless it was a moment for desperate remedies. The pilot clung to his controls, and sought to meet the shifting strains, while the passenger climbed out on the wing and then upon the running gear. To trust yourself two thousand feet in mid-air with your feet on one piano wire, and one hand clutching another, while with the other hand you grope blindly for a bomb charged with high explosive, is an experience for which few men would yearn. But in this case it was successful. The bombs fell--nobody cared where--and the two imperilled aviators came to ground safely. A form of offensive weapon which for some reason seems peculiarly horrible to the human mind is the fléchette. These are steel darts a little larger than a heavy lead pencil and with the upper two thirds of the stem deeply grooved so that the greater weight of the lower part will cause them to fall perpendicularly. These are used in attacks upon dense bodies of troops. Particularly have they proved effective in assailing cavalry, for the nature of the wounds they produce invariably maddens the horses who suffer from them and causes confusion that will often bring grave disaster to a transport or artillery train. Though very light, these arrows when dropped from any considerable height inflict most extraordinary wounds. They have been known to penetrate a soldier's steel helmet, to pass through his body and that of the horse he bestrode, and bury themselves in the earth. In the airplane they are carried in boxes of one hundred each, placed over an orifice in the floor. A touch of the aviator's foot and all are discharged. The speed of the machine causes them to fall at first in a somewhat confused fashion, with the result that before all have finally assumed their perpendicular position they have been scattered over a very considerable extent of air. Once fairly pointed downward they fall with unerring directness points downward to their mark. [Illustration: _At a United States Training Camp._ © U. & U.] It is a curious fact that not long after these arrows first made their appearance in the French machines, they were imitated by the Germans, but the German darts had stamped upon them the words: "Made in Germany, but invented by the French." [Illustration: _A "Blimp" with Gun Mounted on Top._ © U. & U.] One of the duties of the fighting airmen is to destroy the observation balloons which float in great numbers over both the lines tugging lazily at the ropes by which they are held captive while the observers perched in their baskets communicate the results of their observations by telephone to staff officers at a considerable distance. These balloons are usually anchored far enough back of their own lines to be safe from the ordinary artillery fire of their enemies. They were therefore fair game for the mosquitoes of the air. But they were not readily destroyed by such artillery as could be mounted on an ordinary airplane. Bullets from the machine-guns were too small to make any rents in the envelope that would affect its stability. Even if incendiary they could not carry a sufficiently heavy charge to affect so large a body. The skin of the "sausages," as the balloons were commonly called from their shape, was too soft to offer sufficient resistance to explode a shell of any size. The war was pretty well under way before the precise weapon needed for their destruction was discovered. This proved to be a large rocket of which eight were carried on an airplane, four on each side. They were discharged by powerful springs and a mechanism started which ignited them as soon as they had left the airplane behind. The head of each rocket was of pointed steel, very sharp and heavy enough to pierce the balloon skin. Winslow was fortunate enough to be present when the first test of this weapon was made. In his book, _With the French Flying Corps_, he thus tells the story: Swinging lazily above the field was a captive balloon. At one end of Le Bourget was a line of waiting airplanes. "This is the second; they have already brought down one balloon," remarked the man at my elbow. The hum of a motor caused me to look up. A wide-winged double motor, Caudron, had left the ground and was mounting gracefully above us. Up and up it went, describing a great circle, until it faced the balloon. Everyone caught his breath. The Caudron was rushing straight at the balloon, diving for the attack. "Now!" cried the crowd. There was a loud crack, a flash, and eight long rockets darted forth leaving behind a fiery trail. The aviator's aim however was wide, and to the disappointment of everyone the darts fell harmlessly to the ground. Another motor roared far down the field, and a tiny _appareil de chasse_ shot upward like a swallow. "A Nieuport," shouted the crowd as one voice. Eager to atone for his _copain's_ failure, and impatient at his delay in getting out of the way, the tiny biplane tossed and tumbled about in the air like a clown in the circus ring. "Look! he's looping! he falls! he slips! no, he rights again!" cried a hundred voices as the skilful pilot kept our nerves on edge. Suddenly he darted into position and for a second hovered uncertain. Then with a dive like that of a dragon-fly, he rushed down to the attack. Again a sheet of flame and a shower of sparks. This time the balloon sagged. The flames crept slowly around its silken envelope. "_Touchez!_" cried the multitude. Then the balloon burst and fell to the ground a mass of flames. High above the little Nieuport saucily continued its pranks, as though contemptuous of such easy prey. [Illustration: _Aviators Descending in Parachutes from a Balloon Struck by Incendiary Shells._ © U. & U.] It may be properly noted at this point that the captive balloons or kite balloons have proved of the greatest value for observations in this war. Lacking of course the mobility of the swiftly moving airplanes, they have the advantage over the latter of being at all times in direct communication by telephone with the ground and being able to carry quite heavy scientific instruments for the more accurate mapping out of such territory as comes within their sphere of observation. They are not easy to destroy by artillery fire, for the continual swaying of the balloon before the wind perplexes gunners in their aim. At a height of six hundred feet, a normal observation post, the horizon is nearly thirty miles from the observer. In flat countries like Flanders, or at sea where the balloon may be sent up from the deck of a ship, this gives an outlook of the greatest advantage to the army or fleet relying upon the balloon for its observations of the enemy's dispositions. [Illustration: _The Balloon from which the Aviators Fled._ © U. & U.] Most of the British and French observation balloons have been of the old-fashioned spherical form which officers in those services find sufficiently effective. The Germans, however, claimed that a balloon might be devised which would not be so very unstable in gusty weather. Out of this belief grew the Parseval-Siegfeld balloon which from its form took the name of the Sausage. In fact its appearance far from being terrifying suggests not only that particular edible, but a large dill pickle floating awkwardly in the air. In order to keep the balloon always pointed into the teeth of the wind there is attached to one end of it a large surrounding bag hanging from the lower half of the main envelope. One end of this, the end facing forward, is left open and into this the wind blows, steadying the whole structure after the fashion of the tail of a kite. The effect is somewhat grotesque as anyone who has studied the numerous pictures of balloons of this type employed during the war must have observed. It looks not unlike some form of tumor growing from a healthy structure. Captive or kite balloons are especially effective as coast guards. Posted fifty miles apart along a threatened coast they can keep a steady watch over the sea for more than twenty-five miles toward the horizon. With their telephonic connections they can notify airplanes in waiting, or for that matter swift destroyers, of any suspicious sight in the distance, and secure an immediate investigation which will perhaps result in the defeat of some attempted raid. Requiring little power for raising and lowering them and few men for their operation, they form a method of standing sentry guard at a nation's front door which can probably be equalled by no other device. The United States at the moment of the preparation of this book is virtually without any balloons of this type--the first one of any pretensions having been tested in the summer of 1917. As late as the third year of the war it could not be said that the possibilities of aërial offense had been thoroughly developed by any nation. The Germans indeed had done more than any of the belligerents in this direction with their raids on the British coast and on London. But, as already pointed out, these raids as serious attacks on strategic positions were mere failures. Advocates of the increased employment of aircraft in this fashion insist that the military value to Germany of the raids lay not so much in the possibility of doing damage of military importance but rather in the fact that the possibility of repeated and more effective raids compelled Great Britain to keep at home a force of thirty thousand to fifty thousand men constantly on guard, who but for this menace would have been employed on the battlefields of France. In this argument there is a measure of plausibility. Indeed between January, 1915, and June 13, 1917, the Germans made twenty-three disastrous raids upon England, killing more than seven hundred persons and injuring nearly twice as many. The amount of damage to property has never been reported nor is it possible to estimate the extent of injury inflicted upon works of a military character. The extreme secrecy with which Great Britain, in common with the other belligerents, has enveloped operations of this character makes it impossible at this early day to estimate the military value of these exploits. Merely to inflict anguish and death upon a great number of civilians, and those largely women and children, is obviously of no military service. But if such suffering is inflicted in the course of an attack which promises the destruction or even the crippling of works of military character like arsenals, munition plants, or naval stores, it must be accepted as an incident of legitimate warfare. The limited information obtainable in wartime seems to indicate that the German raids had no legitimate objective in view but were undertaken for the mere purpose of frightfulness. The methods of defence employed in Great Britain, where all attacks must come from the sea, were mainly naval. What might be called the outer, or flying, defences consisted of fast armed fighting seaplanes and dirigibles. Stationed on the coast and ready on the receipt of a wireless warning from scouts, either aërial or naval, that an enemy air flotilla was approaching the coast, they could at once fly forth and give it battle. A thorough defence of the British territory demanded that the enemy should be driven back before reaching the land. Once over British territory the projectiles discharged whether by friend or foe did equal harm to the people on the ground below. Accordingly every endeavour was made to meet and beat the raiders before they had passed the barrier of sea. Beside the flying defences there were the floating defences. Anti-aircraft guns were mounted on different types of ships stationed far out from the shore and ever on the watch. But these latter were of comparatively little avail, for flying over the Channel or the North Sea the invaders naturally flew at a great height. They had no targets there to seek, steered by their compasses, and were entirely indifferent to the prospect beneath them. Moreover anti-aircraft guns, hard to train effectively from an immovable mount, were particularly untrustworthy when fired from the deck of a rolling and tossing ship in the turbulent Channel. Third in the list of defences of the British coast, or of any other coast which may at any time be threatened with an aërial raid, are defensive stations equipped not only with anti-aircraft guns and searchlights but with batteries of strange new scientific instruments like the "listening towers," equipped with huge microphones to magnify the sound of the motors of approaching aircraft so that they would be heard long before they could be seen, range finders, and other devices for the purpose of gauging the distance and fixing the direction of an approaching enemy. Some brief attention may here be given to the various types of anti-aircraft guns. These differ very materially in type and weight in the different belligerent armies and navies. They have but one quality in common, namely that they are most disappointing in the results attained. Mr. F. W. Lancaster, the foremost British authority on aircraft, says on this subject: "Anti-aircraft firing is very inaccurate, hence numbers of guns are employed to compensate." [Illustration: Photo by International Film Service. _German Air Raiders over England._ _In the foreground three British planes are advancing to the attack._] That is to say that one or two guns can be little relied upon to put a flyer _hors du combat_. The method adopted is to have large batteries which fairly fill that portion of the air through which the adventurous airman is making his way with shells fired rather at the section than at the swiftly moving target. "Archibald," the British airmen call, for some mysterious reason, the anti-aircraft guns employed by their enemies, sometimes referring to a big howitzer which made its appearance late in the war as "Cuthbert." The names sound a little effeminate, redolent somehow of high teas and the dancing floor, rather than the field of battle. Perhaps this was why the British soldiers adopted them as an expression of contempt for the enemy's batteries. But contempt was hardly justifiable in face of the difficulty of the problem. A gun firing a twenty-pound shrapnel shell is not pointed on an object with the celerity with which a practised revolver shot can throw his weapon into position. The gunner on the ground seeing an airplane flying five thousand feet above him--almost a mile up in the air--hurries to get his piece into position for a shot. But while he is aiming the flyer, if a high-speed machine, will be changing its position at a rate of perhaps 120 miles an hour. Nor does it fly straight ahead. The gunner cannot point his weapon some distance in advance as he would were he a sportsman intent on cutting off a flight of wild geese. The aviator makes quick turns--zigzags--employs every artifice to defeat the aim of his enemy below. Small wonder that in the majority of cases they have been successful. The attitude of the airmen toward the "Archies" is one of calm contempt. The German mind being distinctly scientific invented early in the war a method of fixing the range and position of an enemy airplane which would be most effective if the target were not continually in erratic motion. The method was to arrange anti-aircraft guns in a triangle, all in telephonic connection with a central observer. When a flyer enters the territory which these guns are guarding, the gunner at one of the apexes of the triangle fires a shell which gives out a red cloud of smoke. Perhaps it falls short. The central observer notes the result and orders a second gun to fire. Instantly a gunner at another apex fires again, this time a shell giving forth black smoke. This shell discharged with the warning given by the earlier one is likely to come nearer the target, but at any rate marks another point at which it has been missed. Between the two a third gunner instantly corrects his aim by the results of the first two shots. His shell gives out a yellow smoke. The observer then figures from the positions of the three guns the lines of a triangular cone at the apex of which the target should be. Sometimes science wins, often enough for the Germans to cling to the system. But more often the shrewd aviator defeats science by his swift and eccentric changes of his line of flight. At the beginning of the war Germany was very much better equipped with anti-aircraft guns than any of her enemies. This was due to the remarkable foresight of the great munition makers, Krupp and Ehrhardt, who began experimenting with anti-aircraft guns before the aircraft themselves were much more than experiments. The problem was no easy one. The gun had to be light, mobile, and often mounted on an automobile so as to be swiftly transferred from place to place in pursuit of raiders. It was vital that it should be so mounted as to be speedily trained to any position vertical or horizontal. As a result the type determined upon was mounted on a pedestal fixed to the chassis of an automobile or to the deck of a ship in case it was to be used in naval warfare. The heaviest gun manufactured in Germany was of 4-1/4-inch calibre, throwing a shell of forty pounds weight. This could be mounted directly over the rear axle of a heavy motor truck. To protect the structure of the car from the shock of the recoil these guns are of course equipped with hydraulic or other appliances for taking it up. They are manufactured also in the 3-inch size. Germany, France, and England vied with each other in devising armored motor cars equipped with guns of this type--the British using the makes of Vickers and Hotchkiss, and the French their favourite Creusot. The trucks are always armoured, the guns mounted in turrets so that the effect is not unlike that of a small battleship dashing madly down a country road and firing repeatedly at some object directly overhead. But the record has not shown that the success of these picturesque and ponderous engines of war has been great. They cannot manoeuvre with enough swiftness to keep up with the gyrations of an airplane. They offer as good a target for a bomb from above as the aircraft does to their shots from below. Indeed they so thoroughly demonstrated their inefficiency that before the war had passed its third year they were either abandoned or their guns employed only when the car was stationary. Shots fired at full speed were seldom effective. The real measure of the effectiveness of anti-aircraft guns may be judged by the comparative immunity that attended the aviators engaged on the two early British raids on Friedrichshaven, the seat of the great Zeppelin works on Lake Constance, and on the German naval base at Cuxhaven. The first was undertaken by three machines. From Belfort in France, the aviators turned into Germany and flew for 120 miles across hostile territory. The flight was made by day though indeed the adventurous aviators were favoured by a slight mist. Small single seated "avro" machines were used, loaded heavily with bombs as well as with the large amount of fuel necessary for a flight which before its completion would extend over 250 miles. Not only at the frontier, but at many fortified positions over which they passed, they must have exposed themselves to the fire of artillery, but until they actually reached the neighbourhood of the Zeppelin works they encountered no fire whatsoever. There the attack on them was savage and well maintained. On the roofs of the gigantic factory, on neighbouring hillocks and points of vantage there were anti-aircraft guns busily discharging shrapnel at the invaders. It is claimed by the British that fearing this attack the Germans had called from the front in Flanders their best marksmen, for at that time the comparative worthlessness of the Zeppelin had not been demonstrated and the protection of the works was regarded as a prime duty of the army. [Illustration: © U. & U. _One Aviator's Narrow Escape._] The invading machines flew low above the factory roofs. The adventurers had come far on an errand which they knew would awaken the utmost enthusiasm among their fellows at home and they were determined to so perform their task that no charge of having left anything undone could possibly lie. Commander Briggs, the first of the aviators to reach the scene, flew as low as one hundred feet above the roofs, dropping his bombs with deadly accuracy. But he paid for his temerity with the loss of his machine and his liberty. A bullet pierced his petrol tank and there was nothing for him to do save to glide to earth and surrender. The two aviators who accompanied him although their machines were repeatedly hit were nevertheless able to drop all their bombs and to fly safely back to Belfort whence they had taken their departure some hours before. The measure of actual damage done in the raid has never been precisely known. Germany always denied that it was serious, while the British ascribe to it the greatest importance--a clash of opinion common in the war and which will for some years greatly perplex the student of its history. The second raid, that upon Cuxhaven, was made by seaplanes so far as the air fighting was concerned, but in it not only destroyers but submarines also took part. It presented the unique phenomenon of a battle fought at once above, upon, and below the surface of the sea. It is with the aërial feature of the battle alone that we have to do. Christmas morning, 1915, seven seaplanes were quietly lowered to the surface of the water of the North Sea from their mother ships a little before daybreak. The spot was within a few miles of Cuxhaven and the mouth of the River Elbe. As the aircraft rose from the surface of the water and out of the light mist that lay upon it, they could see in the harbour which they threatened, a small group of German warships. Almost at the same moment their presence was detected. The alarms of the bugles rang out from the hitherto quiet craft and in a moment with the smoke pouring from their funnels destroyers and torpedo boats moved out to meet the attack. Two Zeppelins rose high in the air surrounded by a number of the smaller airplanes, eager for the conflict. The latter proceeded at once to the attack upon the raiding air fleet, while the destroyers, the heavier Zeppelins, and a number of submarines sped out to sea to attack the British ships. The mist, which grew thicker, turned the combat from a battle into a mere disorderly raid, but out of it the seaplanes emerged unhurt. All made their way safely back to the fleet, after having dropped their bombs with a degree of damage never precisely known. The weakness of the seaplane is that on returning to its parent ship it cannot usually alight upon her deck, even though a landing platform has been provided. It must, as a rule, drop to the surface of the ocean, and if this be at all rough the machine very speedily goes to pieces. This was the case with four of the seven seaplanes which took part in the raid on Cuxhaven. All however delivered their pilots safely to the awaiting fleet and none fell a victim to the German anti-aircraft guns. In May of 1917, the British Royal Naval Air Service undertook the mapping of the coast of Belgium north from Nieuport, the most northerly seaport held by the British, to the southern boundary of Holland. This section of coast was held by the Germans and in it were included the two submarine bases of Zeebrugge and Ostend. At the latter point the long line of German trenches extending to the boundary of Switzerland rested its right flank on the sea. The whole coast north of that was lined with German batteries, snugly concealed in the rolling sand dunes and masked by the waving grasses of a barren coast. From British ships thirty miles out at sea, for the waters there are shallow and large vessels can only at great peril approach the shore, the seaplanes were launched. Just south of Nieuport a land base was established as a rendezvous for both air-and seaplanes when their day's work was done. From fleet and station the aërial observers took their way daily to the enemy's coast. Every mile of it was photographed. The hidden batteries were detected and the inexorable record of their presence imprinted on the films. The work in progress at Ostend and Zeebrugge, the active construction of basins, locks, and quays, the progress of the great mole building at the latter port, the activities of submarines and destroyers within the harbour, the locations of guns and the positions of barracks were all indelibly set down. These films developed at leisure were made into coherent wholes, placed in projecting machines, and displayed like moving pictures in the ward rooms of the ships hovering off shore, so that the naval forces preparing for the assault had a very accurate idea of the nature of the defences they were about to encounter. This was not done of course without considerable savage fighting in mid-air. The Germans had no idea of allowing their defences and the works of their submarine bases to be pictured for the guidance of their foes. Their anti-aircraft guns barked from dawn to dark whenever a British plane was seen within range. Their own aërial fighters were continually busy, and along that desolate wave-washed coast many a lost lad in leather clothing and goggles, crumpled up in the ruins of his machine after a fall of thousands of feet, lay as a memorial to the prowess of the defenders of the coast and the audacity of those who sought to invade it. But during the long weeks of this extended reconnaissance hardly a spadeful of dirt could be moved, a square yard of concrete placed in position, or a submarine or torpedo boat manoeuvred without its record being entered upon the detailed charts the British were so painstakingly preparing against the day of assault. When peace shall finally permit the publication of the records of the war, now held secret for military reasons, such maps as those prepared by the British air service on the Belgian coast will prove most convincing evidence of the military value of the aërial scouts. What the lads engaged in making these records had to brave in the way of physical danger is strikingly shown by the description of a combat included in one of the coldly matter-of-fact official reports. The battle was fought at about twelve thousand feet above mother earth. We quote the official description accompanied by some explanatory comments added by one who was an eye-witness and who conversed with the triumphant young airman on his return to the safety of the soil. "While exposing six plates," says the official report of this youthful recording angel, "I observed five H. A.'s cruising." "H. A." stands for "hostile aeroplane." "Not having seen the escort since returning inland, the pilot prepared to return. The enemy separated, one taking up a position above the tail and one ahead. The other three glided toward us on the port side, firing as they came. The two diving machines fired over 100 rounds, hitting the pilot in the shoulder." As a matter of fact, the bullet entered his shoulder from above, behind, breaking his left collarbone, and emerged just above his heart, tearing a jagged rent down his breast. Both his feet, furthermore, were pierced by bullets; but the observer is not concerned with petty detail. The observer held his fire until H. A., diving on tail, was within five yards. Here it might be mentioned that the machines were hurtling through space at a speed in the region of one hundred miles an hour. The pilot of H. A., having swooped to within speaking distance, pushed up his goggles, and laughed triumphantly as he took sight for the shot that was to end the fight. But the observer, had his own idea how the fight should end. "I then shot one tray into the enemy pilot's face," he says, with curt relish, "and watched him sideslip and go spinning earthward in a train of smoke." He then turned his attention to his own pilot. The British machine was barely under control, but as the observer rose in his seat to investigate the foremost gun was fired, and the aggressor ahead went out of control and dived nose first in helpless spirals. Suspecting that his mate was badly wounded in spite of this achievement, the observer swung one leg over the side of the fusillage and climbed on to the wing--figure for a minute the air pressure on his body during this gymnastic feat--until he was beside the pilot, faint and drenched with blood, who had nevertheless got his machine back into complete control. "Get back, you ass!" he said through white lips in response to inquiries how he felt. So the ass got back the way he came, and looked around for the remainder of the H. A.'s. These, however, appeared to have lost stomach for further fighting and fled. The riddled machine returned home at one hundred knots while the observer, having nothing better to do, continued to take photographs. "The pilot, though wounded, made a perfect landing"--thus the report concludes. When the time came for the assault upon Zeebrugge the value of these painstaking preparations was made evident. The attack was made from sea and air alike. Out in the North Sea the great British battleships steamed in as near the coast as the shallowness of the water would permit. From the forward deck of each rose grandly a seaplane until the air was darkened by their wings, and they looked like a monstrous flock of the gulls which passengers on ocean-going liners watch wheeling and soaring around the ship as it ploughs its way through the ocean. These gulls though were birds of prey. They were planes of the larger type, biplanes or triplanes carrying two men, usually equipped with two motors and heavily laden with high explosive bombs. As they made their way toward the land they were accompanied by a fleet of light draft monitors especially built for this service, each mounting two heavy guns and able to manoeuvre in shallow water. With them advanced a swarm of swift, low-lying, dark-painted destroyers ready to watch out for enemy torpedo boats or submarines. They mounted anti-aircraft guns too and were prepared to defend the monitors against assaults from the heavens above as well as from the sinister attack of the underwater boats. Up from the land base at Nieuport came a great fleet of airplanes to co-operate with their naval brethren. Soon upon the German works, sheltering squadrons of the sinister undersea boats, there rained a hell of exploding projectiles from sea and sky. Every gunner had absolute knowledge of the precise position and range of the target to which he was assigned. The great guns of the monitors roared steadily and their twelve and fourteen-inch projectiles rent in pieces the bomb proofs of the Germans, driving the Boches to cover and reducing their works to mere heaps of battered concrete. Back and forth above flew seaplanes and airplanes, giving battle to the aircraft which the Germans sent up in the forlorn hope of heading off that attack and dropping their bombs on points carefully mapped long in advance. It is true that the aim of the aviators was necessarily inaccurate. That is the chief weakness of a bombardment from the sky. But what was lacking in individual accuracy was made up by the numbers of the bombing craft. One might miss a lock or a shelter, but twenty concentrating their fire on the same target could not all fail. This has become the accepted principle of aërial offensive warfare. The inaccuracy of the individual must be corrected by the multiplication of the number of the assailants. The attack on Zeebrugge was wholly successful. Though the Germans assiduously strove to conceal the damage done, the later observations of the ruined port by British airmen left no doubt that as a submarine base it had been put out of commission for months to come. The success of the attack led to serious discussion, in which a determination has not yet been reached, of the feasibility of a similar assault upon Heligoland, Kiel, or Cuxhaven, the three great naval bases in which the German fleet has lurked in avoidance of battle with the British fleet. Many able naval strategists declared that it was time for the British to abandon the policy of a mere blockade and carry out the somewhat rash promise made by Winston Churchill when First Lord of the Admiralty, to "dig the rats out of their holes." Such an attack it was urged should be made mainly from the air, as the land batteries and sunken mines made the waters adjacent to these harbours almost impassable to attacking ships. Rear-Admiral Fiske, of the United States Navy, strongly urging such an attack, wrote in an open letter: The German Naval General Staff realizes the value of concentration of power and mobility in as large units as possible. The torpedo plane embodies a greater concentration of power and mobility than does any other mechanism. For its cost, the torpedo plane is the most powerful and mobile weapon which exists at the present day. An attack by allied torpedo planes, armed with guns to defend themselves from fighting airplanes, would be a powerful menace to the German fleet and, if made in sufficient numbers, would give the Allies such unrestricted command of the North Sea, even of the shallow parts near the German coast, that German submarines would be prevented from coming from a German port, the submarine menace abolished, and all chance of German success wiped out. I beg also to point out that an inspection of the map of Europe shows that in the air raids over land the strategical advantage lies with Germany, because her most important towns, like Berlin, are farther inland than the most important towns of the Allies, like London, so that aëroplanes of the Allies, in order to reach Berlin, would have to fly over greater distances, while exposed to the fire of other aëroplanes, than do aëroplanes of the Germans in going to London for raids on naval vessels. However, the strategical advantage over water lies with the British, because their control of the deep parts of the North Sea enables them to establish a temporary aeronautical base of mother ships sufficiently close to the German fleet to enable the British to launch a torpedo-plane attack from it on the German fleets in Kiel and Wilhelmshaven, while the Germans could not possibly establish an aeronautical base sufficiently close to the British fleet. [Illustration: © Press Illustrating Service. _Downed in the Enemy's Country._] This gives the Allies the greatest advantage of the offensive. It would seem possible, provided a distinct effort is made, for the Allies to send a large number of aeroplane mother ships to a point, say, fifty miles west of Heligoland, and for a large force of fighting aëroplanes and torpedo planes to start from this place about two hours before dawn, reach Kiel Bay and Wilhelmshaven about dawn, attack the German fleets there and sink the German ships. The distance from Heligoland to Kiel is about ninety land miles, and to Wilhelmshaven about forty-five. The torpedo planes referred to are an invention of Admiral Fiske's which, in accordance with what seems to be a fixed and fatal precedent in the United States, has been ignored by our own authorities but eagerly adopted by the naval services of practically all the belligerents. One weakness of the aërial attack upon ships of war is that the bombs dropped from the air, even if they strike the target, strike upon the protective deck which in most warships above the gunboat class is strong enough to resist, or at least to minimize, the effect of any bomb capable of being carried by an airplane. The real vulnerable part of a ship of war is the thin skin of its hull below water and below the armor belt. This is the point at which the torpedo strikes. Admiral Fiske's device permits an airplane to carry two torpedoes of the regular Whitehead class and to launch them with such an impetus and at such an angle that they will take the water and continue their course thereunder exactly as though launched from a naval torpedo tube. His idea was adopted both by Great Britain and Germany. British torpedo planes thus equipped sank four Turkish ships in the Sea of Marmora, a field of action which no British ship could have reached after the disastrous failure to force the Dardanelles. The Germans by employment of the same device sank at least two Russian ships in the Baltic and one British vessel in the North Sea. The blindness of the United States naval authorities to the merits of this invention was a matter arousing at once curiosity and indignation among observers during the early days of our entrance upon the war. CHAPTER VIII INCIDENTS OF THE WAR IN THE AIR In time, no doubt, volumes will be written on the work of the airmen in the Great War. Except the submarine, no such novel and effective device was introduced into the conduct of this colossal struggle as the scouting airplane. The development of the service was steady from the first day when the Belgian flyers proved their worth at Liège. From mere observation trips there sprang up the air duels, from the duels developed skirmishes, and from these in time pitched battles in which several hundred machines would be engaged on each side. To this extent of development aërial tactics had proceeded by midsummer of 1917. Their further development must be left to some future chronicler to record. It must be noted, however, that at that early day the Secretary of the Treasury of the United States, pleading for a larger measure of preparation for the perils of war, asserted that the time was not far distant when this country would have to prepare to repel invading fleets of aircraft from European shores. This may have been an exaggeration. At that moment no aircraft had crossed the Atlantic and no effort to make the passage had been made save those of Wellman and Vanniman. When the guns began to roar on the Belgian frontier there was floating on Keuka Lake, New York, a huge hydro-airplane with which it was planned to make the trans-Atlantic voyage. The project had been financed by Mr. Rodman Wanamaker, of Philadelphia, and the tests of the ship under the supervision of a young British army officer who was to make the voyage were progressing most promisingly. But the event that plunged the world into war put a sudden end to experiments like this for the commercial development of the airplane. There is every reason to believe, however, that such a flight is practicable and that it will ultimately be made not long after the world shall have returned to peace and sanity. [Illustration: Photo by Kadel & Herbert. _Later Type of French Scout._ _The gun mounted on the upper wing is aimed by pointing the machine and is fired by the pilot._] Airmen are not, as a rule, of a romantic or a literary temperament. Pursuing what seems to the onlooker to be the most adventurous and exhilarating of all forms of military service, they have been chary of telling their experiences and singularly set upon treating them as all in the day's work and eliminating all that is picturesque from their narratives. Sergeant James R. McConnell, one of the Americans in the French flying corps, afterwards killed, tells of a day's service in his most readable book, _Flying for France_, in a way that gives some idea of the daily routine of an operator of an _avion de chasse_. He is starting just as the sky at dawn is showing a faint pink toward the eastern horizon, for the aviator's work is best done in early morning when, as a rule, the sky is clear and the wind light: [Illustration: © U. & U. _Position of Gunner in Early French Machines._] Drawing forward out of line, you put on full power, race across the grass, and take the air. The ground drops as the hood slants up before you and you seem to be going more and more slowly as you rise. At a great height you hardly realize you are moving. You glance at the clock to note the time of your departure, and at the oil gauge to see its throb. The altimeter registers 650 feet. You turn and look back at the field below and see others leaving. In three minutes you are at about four thousand feet. You have been making wide circles over the field and watching the other machines. At forty-five hundred feet you throttle down and wait on that level for your companions to catch up. Soon the escadrille is bunched and off for the lines. You begin climbing again, gulping to clear your ears in the changing pressure. Surveying the other machines, you recognize the pilot of each by the marks on its side--or by the way he flies. The country below has changed into a flat surface of varicoloured figures. Woods are irregular blocks of dark green, like daubs of ink spilled on a table; fields are geometrical designs of different shades of green and brown, forming in composite an ultra-cubist painting; roads are thin white lines, each with its distinctive windings and crossings--from which you determine your location. The higher you are the easier it is to read. In about ten minutes you see the Meuse sparkling in the morning light, and on either side the long line of sausage-shaped observation balloons far below you. Red-roofed Verdun springs into view just beyond. There are spots in it where no red shows and you know what has happened there. In the green pasture land bordering the town, round flecks of brown indicate the shell holes. You cross the Meuse. Immediately east and north of Verdun there lies a broad, brown band. From the Woevre plain it runs westward to the "S" bend in the Meuse, and on the left bank of that famous stream continues on into the Argonne Forest. Peaceful fields and farms and villages adorned that landscape a few months ago--when there was no Battle of Verdun. Now there is only that sinister brown belt, a strip of murdered Nature. It seems to belong to another world. Every sign of humanity has been swept away. The woods and roads have vanished like chalk wiped from a blackboard; of the villages nothing remains but grey smears where stone walls have tumbled together. The great forts of Douaumont and Vaux are outlined faintly, like the tracings of a finger in wet sand. One cannot distinguish any one shell crater, as one can on the pockmarked fields on either side. On the brown band the indentations are so closely interlocked that they blend into a confused mass of troubled earth. Of the trenches only broken, half-obliterated links are visible. Columns of muddy smoke spurt up continually as high explosives tear deeper into this ulcered area. During heavy bombardment and attacks I have seen shells falling like rain. The countless towers of smoke remind one of Gustave Doré's picture of the fiery tombs of the arch-heretics in Dante's "Hell." A smoky pall covers the sector under fire, rising so high that at a height of one thousand feet one is enveloped in its mist-like fumes. Now and then monster projectiles hurtling through the air close by leave one's plane rocking violently in their wake. Airplanes have been cut in two by them. For us the battle passes in silence, the noise of one's motor deadening all other sounds. In the green patches behind the brown belt myriads of tiny flashes tell where the guns are hidden; and those flashes, and the smoke of bursting shells, are all we see of the fighting. It is a weird combination of stillness and havoc, the Verdun conflict viewed from the sky. Far below us, the observation and range-finding planes circle over the trenches like gliding gulls. At a feeble altitude they follow the attacking infantrymen and flash back wireless reports of the engagement. Only through them can communication be maintained when, under the barrier fire, wires from the front lines are cut. Sometimes it falls to our lot to guard these machines from Germans eager to swoop down on their backs. Sailing about high above a busy flock of them makes one feel like an old mother hen protecting her chicks. The pilot of an _avion de chasse_ must not concern himself with the ground, which to him is useful only for learning his whereabouts. The earth is all-important to the men in the observation, artillery-regulating, and bombardment machines, but the fighting aviator has an entirely different sphere. His domain is the blue heavens, the glistening rolls of clouds below the fleecy banks towering above the vague aërial horizon, and he must watch it as carefully as a navigator watches the storm-tossed sea. On days when the clouds form almost a solid flooring, one feels very much at sea, and wonders if one is in the navy instead of aviation. The diminutive Nieuports skirt the white expanse like torpedo boats in an arctic sea, and sometimes, far across the cloud-waves, one sights an enemy escadrille, moving as a fleet. Principally our work consists of keeping German airmen away from our lines, and in attacking them when opportunity offers. We traverse the brown band and enter enemy territory to the accompaniment of an anti-aircraft cannonade. Most of the shots are wild, however, and we pay little attention to them. When the shrapnel comes uncomfortably close, one shifts position slightly to evade the range. One glances up to see if there is another machine higher than one's own. Low, and far within the German lines, are several enemy planes, a dull white in appearance, resembling sandflies against the mottled earth. High above them one glimpses the mosquito-like forms of two Fokkers. Away off to one side white shrapnel puffs are vaguely visible, perhaps directed against a German crossing the lines. We approach the enemy machines ahead, only to find them slanting at a rapid rate into their own country. High above them lurks a protection plane. The man doing the "ceiling work," as it is called, will look after him for us. Getting started is the hardest part of an attack. Once you have begun diving you're all right. The pilot just ahead turns tail up like a trout dropping back to water, and swoops down in irregular curves and circles. You follow at an angle so steep your feet seem to be holding you back in your seat. Now the black Maltese crosses on the German's wings stand out clearly. You think of him as some sort of a big bug. Then you hear the rapid tut-tut-tut of his machine-gun. The man that dived ahead of you becomes mixed up with the topmost German. He is so close it looks as if he had hit the enemy machine. You hear the staccato barking of his mitrailleuse and see him pass from under the German's tail. The rattle of the gun that is aimed at you leaves you undisturbed. Only when the bullets pierce the wings a few feet off do you become uncomfortable. You see the gunner crouched down behind his weapon, but you aim at where the pilot ought to be--there are two men aboard the German craft--and press on the release hard. Your mitrailleuse hammers out a stream of bullets as you pass over and dive, nose down, to get out of range. Then, hopefully, you redress and look back at the foe. He ought to be dropping earthward at several miles a minute. As a matter of fact, however, he is sailing serenely on. They have an annoying habit of doing that, these Boches. Zeppelins as well as the stationary kite balloons and the swiftly flying airplanes often tempted the fighting aviators to attack. One of the most successful of the British champions of the air, though his own life was ended in the second year of the war, was sub-Lieutenant R. A. J. Warneford, of the British Flying Corps. In his brief period of service Warneford won more laurels than any of the British aviators of the time. He was absolutely fearless, with a marvelous control of the fast Vickers scout which he employed, and fertile in every resource of the chase and of the flight. In an interview widely printed at the time, Lieutenant Warneford thus told the story of his casual meeting of a German Zeppelin high in air between Ghent and Brussels and his prompt and systematic destruction of the great balloon. The story as told in his own language reads like the recountal of an everyday event. That to meet an enemy more than a mile above the earth and demolish him was anything extraordinary does not seem to have occurred to the aviator. I proceeded on my journey at an increased height [he says]. It was just three o'clock in the morning when all of a sudden I perceived on the horizon about midway between Ghent and Brussels a Zeppelin flying fast at an altitude of about six thousand feet. I immediately flew toward it and when I was almost over the monster I descended about fifteen metres, and flung six bombs at it. The sixth struck the envelope of the ship fair and square in the middle. There was instantly a terrible explosion. The displacement of the air round about me was so great that a tornado seemed to have been produced. My machine tossed upward and then flung absolutely upside down, I was forced to loop the loop in spite of myself. I thought for a moment that the end of everything had come. In the whirl I had the pleasure of seeing my victim falling to the earth in a cloud of flames and smoke. Then by some miracle my machine righted herself and I came to earth in the enemy's country. I was not long on the ground you may be sure. I speedily put myself and my machine into working order again; then I set my engine going. This time the fortunate aviator returned safely to his own territory. He had then served only four months, had attained the age of twenty-three, and even in so brief a service had received the Cross of the Legion of Honour from France and the Victoria Cross from the British. Only one week after this courageous exploit he was killed while on a pleasure flight and with him a young American journalist, Henry Beach Needham, to whom he was showing the battlefield. During the early years of the war all of the governments were peculiarly secretive concerning all matters relative to their aviation services. This was probably due to the fact that the flying corps was a brand new branch of the service. No nation was adequately equipped with flyers. Each was afraid to let its enemies know how insufficient were its air guards, or what measures were being taken to bring the aërial fleet up to the necessary point of efficiency. Investigators were frowned upon and the aviators themselves were discouraged from much conversation about their work. About the beginning of 1916 the British suddenly awoke to the fact that even in war publicity has its value. It was necessary to arouse the enthusiastic support of the people for recruiting or for the conscription which ultimately was ordered. To do this graphic descriptions of what was doing at the front in the various branches of the service seemed necessary. The best writers in England were mobilized for this work. Kipling wrote of the submarines, Conan Doyle of the fighting on the fields of France. The Royal Flying Corps gave out a detailed story the authorship of which was not stated, but which describes most picturesquely the day of a flying man. In the United States it appeared in the _Sun_, of New York, and sections of it are reprinted here: "The following bombing will be carried out by No.--Squadron at night (10 P.M., 12 midnight, and 2 A.M.). At each of these times three machines, each carrying eight twenty-pound bombs, will bomb respectively P----, C----, H----." Thus the operation order read one evening in France. Just an ordinary order too, for bombing is carried out day and night incessantly. Bombing by night is usually carried out on towns and villages known to be resting places of the German troops, and it is part of the work of the Royal Flying Corps to see that the Hun never rests. Fritz after a hard spell in the trenches is withdrawn to some shell torn village behind his lines to rest. He enters the ruined house, that forms his billet, and with a sigh of contentment at reaching such luxury after the miseries of trench life prepares to sleep in peace. He dreams of home, and then out of the night comes the terror of the air. A bomb falls in his billet, exploding with a terrific report and doing more damage to the already ruined walls. Possibly a few of his comrades are wounded or killed. Other explosions take place close by and the whole village is in turmoil. Fritz does not sleep again. His nerves are jangled and all possibility of sleep is gone. The next day he is in a worse condition than after a night in the trenches. This continues night after night. The damage to German morale is enormous. From the aërial point of view things are different. A pilot warned for night flying takes it as he takes everything else, with apparent unconcern. He realizes that he will have an uninteresting ride in the dark; the danger from "Archie" will be small, for an airplane is a difficult target to keep under observation with a searchlight, and the danger from hostile aircraft will be smaller still. Over the trenches the star shells of the infantry may be seen, occasionally the flash of a badly concealed gun glints in the darkness or the exploding bombs of a trench raiding party cause tiny sparks to glimmer far below. Probably the enemy, hearing the sound of engines, will turn on his searchlights and sweep the sky with long pencils of light. The pilot may be picked up for a second, and a trifle later the angry bang, bang, bang of "Archie" may be heard, firing excitedly at the place where the aeroplane ought to be but is not--the pilot has probably dipped and changed his course since he was in the rays of the searchlight. He may be caught again for an instant and the performance is repeated. Before long the vicinity of the target is reached and he prepares to drop his bombs, usually eight in number. A little before he is over the spot the first bombs will be released, for the trajectory of the bomb follows the course of the machine if the latter keeps on a straight course and when it explodes the airplane is still overhead. Down far below will be seen a tiny burst of flame; possibly a large fire blazes up and the pilot knows that his work is good. He then turns and repeats his performance until all his bombs are exhausted, when he turns for home. Bombs are usually dropped from a low altitude at night in order to be surer of getting the target. If during the performance any local searchlights are turned on "Archie" gets busy and a merry game of hide and seek in and out the beams takes place. If the airplane is very low, and bombs are sometimes dropped from a height of only a few hundred feet, it is highly probable that the bursting shells do more damage than the airplane's bombs, and it is almost impossible to wing an airplane by night. [Illustration: Photo by Press Illustrating Service. _A French Scout Airplane._] Over the lines the pilot probably meets more searchlights, dodges them, and gradually descends. Below him he sees the aerodromes of the surrounding squadrons lighted up for landing purposes. Should he be in doubt as to which is his own he fires a certain combination of signal lights and is answered from below. He then lands, hands his machine over to the mechanics, and turns in. [Illustration: Photo by International Film Service. "_Showing Off._" _A Nieuport performing aërial acrobatics around a heavier bombing machine._] So much for night bombing. By day it is different. Though at night it is the billets which usually form the target, by day bombing is carried out for the purpose of damaging specific objects. Railroads, dumps of stores and ammunition, and enemy aerodromes are the favourite targets. The raiding machines fly in formation and are surrounded by other machines used solely for protective purposes. Generally a raid is carried out by machines from two squadrons, the bomb carriers belonging to a corps wing and the escorting machines to an army wing. All the machines meet at a prearranged rendezvous well on our side of the line at a certain time and a given altitude. There they manoeuvre into their correct formation. A flight commander leads the raid and his machine is distinguished by streamers tied to it. Once over the target the fighters scatter and patrol the neighbourhood while the bombers discharge their missiles on the objective. Usually, unless anti-aircraft fire is very heavy, they descend a few thousand feet to make surer of the target, and when their work is completed rise again to the level of the escort. Results can usually be fairly judged by day. An ammunition dump quickly shows if it is hit and stores soon burst into flame. Railway stations or junctions show clearly damage to buildings or overturned trucks, but the damage to the track itself is hard to estimate. Aerodromes may be bombed for the purpose of destroying enemy machines in their hangars or merely in order to spoil the landing by blowing holes all over the place. It is with great delight that a pilot remarks in his report that a hostile machine, surrounded by mechanics, was about to ascend, but that instead he had descended to within a few hundred feet and obtained a direct hit, with the result that the enemy machine, including the surrounding men, seemed to be severely damaged. One officer on a bomb raid saw his chance in this way, descended to four hundred feet under intense rifle fire, successfully bombed the enemy machine, which was just emerging from its hangar, and then tried to make off. Unfortunately at this moment his engine petered out, possibly on account of the enemy's fire, and he had to descend. By skillful planing he managed to descend about three quarters of a mile away, in full view of the enemy. Instead of giving up the ghost and at once firing his machine, this officer jumped out and, utterly unperturbed by the German fire or by the Huns making across country to take him prisoner, commenced to inspect the engine. Luckily he found the cause of the trouble at once, put it right,--it was only a trifling mishap,--adjusted the controls, and swung the propeller. The engine started, he jumped in, with the nearest Hun only a hundred yards off, and opening the throttle raced over the ground and into the air pursued by a futile fusillade of bullets. His engine held out and he safely regained his aerodrome, after having been reported missing by his comrades. For this escapade he received the Military Cross--a well-earned reward. When all the bombs have been dropped and the formation resumed the machines head for home. It is on the homeward journey that events may be expected, for time enough has elapsed for the Hun to detail a squadron to intercept our returning machines and pick off any stragglers that may fall behind. It is a favourite Boche manoeuvre to detail some of his slow machines to entice our fighters away from the main body, and when this has been accomplished, to attack the remainder with Fokkers, which dive from aloft onto the bombing machines. This trick is now well-known and the fighters rarely leave their charges until the latter are in comparative safety. Sometimes a Hun of more sporting character than his brothers will wait alone for the returning convoy, hiding himself thousands of feet up in the clouds until he sees his moment. Then singling out a machine he will dive at it, pouring out a stream of bullets as he falls. Sometimes he achieves his object and a British machine falls to earth, but whatever the result, the Hun does not alter his tactics. He dives clean through the whole block of machines, down many thousands of feet, only flattening out when close to the ground. The whole affair is so swift--just one lightning dive--that long before a fighter can reach the Hun the latter is away thousands of feet below and heading for home and safety. Every Fokker pilot knows that once his surprise dive is over he has no chance against another machine--the build of the Fokker only allows this one method of attack--and he does not stop to argue about it. His offensive dive becomes a defensive one--that is the sole difference. Sometimes a large squadron of German machines, composed of various types of airplanes, intercepts a returning formation. If it attacks a grand aërial battle ensues. The British fighting machines spread out in a screen to allow the bombing machines a chance of escape and then attack the Huns as they arrive. In one place one British airplane will be defending itself from two or three German machines; close by two or three of our busses will be occupied in sending a Hun to his death; elsewhere more equal combats rage and the whole sky becomes an aërial battlefield, where machines perform marvellous evolutions, putting the best trick flying of pre-war days very much in the shade. No sooner has a pilot accounted for his foe, by killing him, forcing him to descend, or making him think discretion the better part of valour, than he turns to the help of a hard-pressed brother, surprising the enemy by an attack from the rear or otherwise creating a diversion. A single shot in the petrol tank proves fatal; loss of pressure ensues, the engine fails, and the pilot is forced to descend. He can usually land safely, but should he be in enemy territory he must fire his machine and prepare for a holiday in Germany. Should he be fortunate enough to plane over our lines little damage is done; the tank can be repaired and the machine made serviceable again. But for the time being he is out of the fight. Sometimes the escaping petrol may ignite and the pilot and observer perish in the flames--the most terrible fate of all. The aërial battle ends in one of two ways: one side is outmanoeuvred, outnumbered, and has lost several machines and flies to safety, or, the more usual ending, both sides exhaust their ammunition, only a limited quantity perforce being carried, and the fight is of necessity broken off. Meanwhile the bombing machines have probably crossed the line in safety, and their duty is finished. Should they be attacked by a stray machine they are armed and quite capable of guarding themselves against any attack except one in force. During these bomb raids photographs of the target are frequently obtained or should the staff require any district crossed on the journey and taken they are generally secured by bombing machines. It is wonderful what minute details may be seen in a photograph taken at a height of from eight to twelve thousand feet, and our prints, which are far superior to those taken by the Hun, have revealed many useful points which would otherwise have remained unknown. When it is remembered that a single machine crossing the line is heavily shelled it may be conceived what an immense concentration of "Archies" is made on the raiders on their return. It is remarkable what feeble results are obtained considering the intensity of the bombardment, but rarely is a machine brought down, though casualties naturally occur occasionally. Lieutenant C., in company with other machines, had successfully bombed his target and had meanwhile been heavily shelled, with the result that his engine was not giving its full number of revolutions and he lagged a little behind the rest of the formation. No hostile aircraft appeared and all went well until he was about to cross the lines, when a terrific bombardment was opened on him. He dodged and turned to the best of his ability, but a well-aimed shell burst just above him and a piece of the "Archie" hit him on the head, not seriously wounding him, but knocking him unconscious. The machine, deprived of the guiding hand, immediately got into a dive and commenced a rapid descent from ten thousand feet, carrying the unconscious pilot with it, to be dashed to pieces on the ground. Whether the rush of air, the sudden increase of pressure, or the passing off of the effect of the blow caused the disabled man to come to his senses is not known, but when the machine was only a few hundred feet from the ground, Lieutenant C. recovered his senses sufficiently to realize his position and managed to pull the machine up and make a landing. He then lapsed into unconsciousness again. Had he remained in his state of collapse half a minute longer, he would inevitably have been killed. Another curious case of wounding was that of Lieutenant H., who was also returning from a bomb raid. When passing through the heavily shelled zone his machine was hit by a shell, which passed through the floor by the pilot's seat and out at the top without exploding. Lieutenant H. thought it must have been very close to his leg, but he was so fully occupied with manoeuvring to dodge other shells that he had no time to think of it. He crossed the line and began to plane down when he was aware of a feeling of faintness, but pulling himself together he landed his machine, taxied up to the sheds, and attempted to get out. It was only then that he realized that his leg was shot almost completely off above the knee; the lower part was merely hanging by a piece of skin. Incredible as it may seem the shell which hit his machine also tore through the leg--luckily without exploding--unknown to Lieutenant H. Probably the force of the blow and excitement of the moment caused it to pass unnoticed and the torn nature of the wound helped to close the arteries and prevent his bleeding to death. He recovered, and though no longer flying is still engaged in doing his duty for the duration of the war. [Illustration: _Raid on a Troop Train by John E. Whiting._] The courage and dash of the American aviators, serving with the French Army, led the Allies to expect great things of our flying corps which should be organized immediately after our declaration of war. About the time of that declaration Major L. W. B. Rees, of the British Flying Corps, came to the United States for the purpose of giving to our authorities the benefit of British experience in raising and equipping aërial fleets and in the development of the most efficient tactics. Major Rees in an official statement set forth many facts of general interest concerning the various flying services of the belligerent armies. The British, he said, fly on three levels with three different kinds of machines. Nearest the ground, about six thousand feet up, are the artillery directors who hover about cutting big figure eights above the enemy trenches and flash back directions by wireless to the British artillerists. These observers are, of course, exposed to attack from anti-aircraft guns, the effective range of which had by the middle of war become as great as ten thousand feet. Yet, as has already been noted, the amount of execution done by these weapons was surprisingly small. The observers are protected from attack from above, first by the heavy fighting planes, flying at ten thousand feet, carrying two men to the plane and able to keep the air for four hours at a time at a speed of 110 miles an hour. They are supposed to use every possible vigilance to keep the enemy's fighters away from the slower and busy observing machines. In this they are seconded by the lighter one-man fighting machines which cruise about at a height of fifteen thousand feet at a speed of 130 miles an hour and able to make a straight upward dash at the rate of ten thousand feet in ten minutes. The aviators of these latter machines came to describe their task as "ceiling work," suggesting that they operated at the very top of the world's great room. They are able to keep the air only about two hours at a time. Americans, perhaps, gave exaggerated importance to the work of the Lafayette Escadrille which was manned wholly by American boys, and which, while in service from the very beginning of the war, was the first section of the French Army permitted to display the flag of the United States in battle after our declaration of war. It was made up, in the main, of young Americans of good family and independent means, most of them being college students who had laid down their books for the more exciting life of an airman. They paid heavily in the toll of death for their adventure and for the conviction which led them to take the side of democracy and right in the struggle against autocracy and barbarism months, even years, before their nation finally determined to join with them. In the first two and a half years of the war, seven of the aviators in this comparatively small body lost their lives. Harvard College was particularly well represented in the American Flying Corps--although this is a proper and pertinent place to say that the sympathy shown for the allied cause by the young collegians of the United States was a magnificent evidence of the lofty righteousness of their convictions and the spirit of democracy with which they looked out upon the world. When the leash was taken off by the declaration of war by the United States the college boys flocked to training camps and enlistment headquarters in a way that bade fair to leave those institutions of learning without students for some years to come. But to hark back to Harvard, it had in the Lafayette Escadrille five men in 1916; three of these, Kiffen Rockwell, Norman Prince, and Victor Chapman, were killed in that year. A letter published in _Harvard Volunteers in Europe_ tells of the way these young gladiators started the day's work: Rockwell called me up at three: "Fine day, fine day, get up!" It was very clear. We hung around at Billy's [Lieutenant Thaw] and took chocolate made by his ordonnance. Hall and the Lieutenant were guards on the field; but Thaw, Rockwell, and I thought we would take _a tour chez les Boches_. Being the first time the _mechanaux_ were not there and the machine gun rolls not ready. However it looked misty in the Vosges, so we were not hurried. "Rendezvous over the field at a thousand metres," shouted Kiffen. I nodded, for the motor was turning; and we sped over the field and up. [Illustration: © U. & U. _A Burning Balloon, Photographed from a Parachute by the Escaping Balloonist._] In my little cockpit from which my shoulders just protrude I have several diversions besides flying. The compass, of course, and the map I keep tucked in a tiny closet over the reservoir before my knees, a small clock and one altimetre. But most important is the contour, showing revolutions of the motor which one is constantly regarding as he moves the manettes of gasoline and gas back and forth. To husband one's fuel and tease the motor to round eleven takes attention, for the carburetor changes with the weather and the altitude.... The earth seemed hidden under a fine web such as the Lady of Shalott wove. Soft purple in the west, changing to shimmering white in the east. Under me on the left the Vosges like rounded sand dunes cushioned up with velvety light and dark masses (really forests), but to the south standing firmly above the purple cloth like icebergs shone the Alps. My! they look steep and jagged. The sharp blue shadows on their western slopes emphasized the effect. One mighty group standing aloof to the west--Mount Blanc perhaps. Ah, there are quantities of worm-eaten fields my friends the trenches--and that town with the canal going through it must be M----. Right beside the capote of my engine, showing through the white cloth a silver snake--the Rhine! What, not a quarter to six, and I left the field at five! Thirty-two hundred metres. Let's go north and have a look at the map. While thus engaged a black puff of smoke appeared behind my tail and I had the impression of hearing a piece of iron hiss by. "Must have got my range first shot!" I surmised, and making a steep bank piqued heavily. "There, I have lost them now." The whole art of avoiding shells is to pay no attention till they get your range and then dodge away, change altitude, and generally avoid going in a straight line. In point of fact, I could see bunches of exploding shells up over my right shoulder not a kilometre off. They continued to shell that section for some time; the little balls of smoke thinning out and merging as they crossed the lines. In the earlier days of the war, when the American aviators were still few, their deeds were widely recounted in their home country, and their deaths were deplored as though a personal loss to many of their countrymen. Later they went faster and were lost in the daily reports. Among those who had early fixed his personality in the minds of those who followed the fortunes of the little band of Americans flying in France was Kiffen Rockwell, mentioned in an earlier paragraph, and one of the first to join the American escadrille. Rockwell was in the war from sincere conviction of the righteousness of the Allies' cause. "I pay my part for Lafayette, and Rochambeau," he said proudly, when asked what he was doing in a French uniform flying for France. And pay he did though not before making the Germans pay heavily for their part. Once, flying alone over Thann, he came upon a German scout. Without hesitation the battle was on. Rockwell's machine was the higher, had the better position. As aërial tactics demanded he dived for the foe, opening fire as soon as he came within thirty or forty yards. At his fourth shot the enemy pilot fell forward in his seat and his machine fell heavily to earth. He lighted behind the German lines much to the victor's disgust, for it was counted a higher achievement to bring your foe to earth in your own territory. But Rockwell was able to pursue his victim far enough to see the wreck burst into flames. Though often wounded, Rockwell scorned danger. He would go into action so bandaged that he seemed fitter to go to an hospital. He was always on the attack--"shoved his gun into the enemy's face" as his fellows in the escadrille expressed it. So in September, 1916, he went out after a big German machine, he saw flying in French territory. He had but little difficulty in climbing above it, and then dashed down in his usual impetuous manner, his machine gun blazing as he came on. But the German was of heavier metal mounting two machine guns. Just as to onlookers it seemed that the two machines would crash together, the wings of one side of Rockwell's plane suddenly collapsed and he fell like a stone between the lines. The Germans turned their guns on the pile of wreckage where he lay, but French gunners ran out and brought his body in. His breast was all blown to pieces with an explosive bullet--criminal, of course, barbarous and uncivilized, but an everyday practice of the Germans. Rockwell was given an impressive funeral. All the British pilots, and five hundred of their men marched, and the bier was followed by a battalion of French troops. Over and around the little French graveyard aviators flew dropping flowers. In later days less ceremony attended the last scene of an American aviator's career. Another American aviator, also a Harvard man, who met death in the air, was Victor Chapman of New York, a youth of unusual charm, high ideals, and indomitable courage. At the very outbreak of the war he enlisted in the French Foreign Legion--a rough entourage for a college-bred man. Into the Foreign Legion drifted everything that was doubtful, and many that were criminal. No questions were asked of those who sought its hospitable ranks, and readers of Ouida's novel _Under Two Flags_ will recall that it enveloped in its convenient obscurity British lordlings and the lowest of Catalonian thieves. But in time of actual war its personnel was less mixed, and Chapman's letters showed him serving there contentedly as pointer of a mitrailleuse. But not for long. Most of the spirited young Americans who entered the French Army aspired to serve in the aviation corps, and Chapman soon was transferred to that field. There he developed into a most daring flyer. On one occasion, with a bad scalp wound, after a brush with four German machines, he made his landing with his machine so badly wrecked that he had to hold together the broken ends of a severed control with one hand, while he steered with the other. Instead of laying up for the day he had his mechanician repair his machine while a surgeon repaired him, then, patched up together, man and machine took the air again in search for the Boches. In June, 1916, though still suffering from a wound in the head, he started in his machine to carry some oranges to a comrade lying desperately wounded in a hospital some miles away. On the way he saw in the distance behind the German lines two French airmen set upon by an overwhelming force of Germans. Instantly he was off to the assistance of his friends, plunging into so unequal a fight that even his coming left the other Americans outnumbered. But he had scarce a chance to strike a blow. Some chance shot from a German gun put him out of action. All that the other two Americans, Lufbery and Prince, knew was that they saw a French machine come flying to their aid, and suddenly tip and fall away to earth. Until nightfall came and Chapman failed to return none was sure that he was the victim. The part played by young Americans as volunteers for France before the United States entered upon the war was gallant and stimulating to national pride. It showed to the world--and to our own countrymen who needed the lesson as much as any--that we had among our youth scores who, moved by high ideals, stood ready to risk their lives for a sentiment--stood ready to brave the myriad discomforts of the trenches, the bursting shrapnel, the mutilating liquid fire, the torturing gas that German autocracy should be balked of its purpose of dominating the world. And the service of these boys aided far more than they knew. The fact that our countrymen in numbers were flying for France kept ever before the American people the vision of that war in the air of which poets and philosophers had dreamed for ages. It brought home to our people the importance of aviation before our statesmen could begin to see it. It set our boys to reading of aircraft, building model planes, haunting the few aviation fields which at the time our country possessed. And it finally so filled the consciousness of our people with conviction of the supreme importance of aviation as an arm of the national armed service that long before the declaration of war the government was embarrassed by the flood of volunteers seeking to be enrolled in the flying forces of the nation. CHAPTER IX THE UNITED STATES AT WAR The entrance of the United States upon the war was the signal for a most active agitation of the question of overwhelming the enemy with illimitable fleets of aircraft. Though the agitation was most vociferous in this country whence it was hoped the enormous new fleets of aircraft would come, it was fomented and earnestly pressed by our Allies. France sent a deputation of her leading flyers over to supervise the instruction of our new pilots. England contributed experts to advise as to the construction of our machines. The most comprehensive plans were urged upon Congress and the Administration for the creation of a navy of the air. A bill for an initial appropriation of $640,000,000, for aircraft purposes alone, was passed and one for a Department of Aeronautics to be established, co-ordinate with those of War and the Navy, its secretary holding a seat in the cabinet, was introduced in Congress. Many of the most eminent retired officers of the navy joined in their support. Retired officers only because officers in active service were estopped from political agitation. There was every possible reason for this great interest in the United States in wartime aviation. The nation had long been shamefaced because the development of the heavier-than-air machines, having their origin undoubtedly in the inventive genius of Professor Langley and the Wrights, had been taken away from us by the more alert governments of France and Germany. The people were ready to buy back something of our lost prestige by building the greatest of air fleets at the moment when it should exercise the most determinative influence upon the war. But more. We entered upon the war in our chronic state of unpreparedness. We were without an army and without equipment for one. To raise, equip, and drill an army of a million, the least number that would have any appreciable effect upon the outcome of the war, would take months. When completed we would have added only to the numerical superiority of the Allies on the Western Front. The quality of a novel and decisive contribution to the war would be lacking. So too it was with our navy. The British Navy was amply adequate to deal with the German fleet should the latter ever leave its prudent retreat behind Helgoland and in the bases of Kiel and Wilhelmshaven. True it was not capable of crushing out altogether the submarine menace, but it did hold the German underwater boats down to a fixed average of ships destroyed, which was far less than half of what the Germans had anticipated. In this work our ships, especially our destroyers, took a notable part. The argument for a monster fleet of fighting aircraft, thus came to the people of the United States in a moment of depression and perplexity. By land the Germans had dug themselves in, holding all of Belgium and the thousands of square miles of France they had won in their first dash to the Marne. What they had won swiftly and cheaply could only be regained slowly and at heavy cost. True, the Allies were, day by day, driving them back from their position, but the cost was disheartening and the progress but slow. By sea the Germans refused to bring their fleet to battle with their foes. But from every harbour of Belgium, and from Wilhelmshaven and Kiel, they sent out their sinister submarines to prey upon the commerce of the world--neutral as well as belligerent. Against them the navies of the world were impotent. To the threat that by them Germany would starve England into cowering surrender, the only answer was the despairing effort to build new ships faster than the submarines could sink those afloat--even though half a million tons a month were sent to the bottom in wasteful destruction. [Illustration: Photo by Levick. _A Caproni Biplane Circling the Woolworth Building._] Faced by these disheartening conditions, wondering what they might do that could be done quickly and aid materially in bringing the war to a triumphant conclusion, the American people listened eagerly to the appeals and arguments of the advocates of a monster aërial fleet. [Illustration: © International Film Service. _Cruising at 2000 Feet._ _One Biplane photographed from another._] Listen [said these advocates], we show you a way to spring full panoplied into the war, and to make your force felt with your first stroke. We are not preaching dreadnoughts that take four years to build. We are not asking for a million men taking nearly a year to gather, equip, drill, and transport to France, in imminent danger of destruction by the enemy's submarines every mile of the way. We ask you for a cheap, simple device of wood, wire, and cloth, with an engine to drive it. All its parts are standardized. In a few weeks the nation can be equipped to turn out 2000 of them weekly. We want within the year 100,000 of them. We do not ask for a million men. We want 10,000 bright, active, hardy, plucky American boys between 20 and 25 years of age. We want to give them four months' intensive training before sending them into the air above the enemy's lines. In time we shall want 25,000 to 35,000 but the smaller number will well do to open the campaign. And what will they effect? Do you know that to-day the eyes of an army are its airplanes? Cavalry has disappeared practically. If a general wishes to pick out a weak point in his enemy's line to assault he sends out airmen to find it. If he is annoyed by the fire of some distant unseen battery over the hills and far away he sends a man in an airplane who brings back its location, its distance, and perhaps a photograph of it in action. If he suspects that his foe is abandoning his trenches, or getting ready for an attack, the ready airmen bring in the facts. And of course the enemy's airmen serve their side in the same manner. They spy out what their foe is doing, and so far as their power permits prevent him from seeing what they are doing. Now suppose one side has an enormous preponderance of aircraft--six to one, let us say. It is not believed, for example, that at this moment Germany has more than 10,000 aircraft on the whole western front. Let us imagine that through the enterprise of the United States our Allies were provided with 25,000 on one sector which we intended to make the scene of an attack on the foe. Say the neighbourhood of Arras and Lille. For days, weeks perhaps, we would be drawing troops toward this sector from every part of the line. Through the reports of spies the enemy's suspicions would be aroused. It is the business of an efficient general to be suspicious. He would send out his airplanes to report on the activities of the other side. Few would come back. None would bring a useful report. For every German plane that showed above the lines three Allied planes would be ready to attack and destroy it or beat it back. The air would be full of Allied airmen--the great bombing planes flying low and inundating the trenches with bombs, and the troops on march with the deadly fléchettes. Over every German battery would soar the observation plane indicating by tinsel or smoke bombs the location of the guns, or even telegraphing it back by wireless to the Allied batteries safe in positions which the blinded enemy could never hope to find. Above all in myriads would be soaring the swift fighting scouts, the Bleriots, Nieuports, Moranes or perhaps some new American machine to-day unknown. Let the wing of a Boche but show above the smoke and they would be upon him in hordes, beating him to the ground, enveloping him in flames, annihilating him before he had a chance to observe, much less to report. What think you would be the result on that sector of the battle line? Why the foe would be cut to pieces, demolished, obliterated. Blinded, he would be unrelentingly punished by an adversary all eyes. Writhing under the concentrated fire of a thousand guns he could make no response, for his own guns could not find the attacking batteries. Did he think to flee? His retreating columns would be marked down by the relentless scouts in the air, and the deadly curtain of fire from well-coached batteries miles away would sweep every road with death. If in desperation he sought to attack he would do so ignorant whether he were not hurling his regiments against the strongest part of the Allied line, and with full knowledge of the fact that though he was blinded they had complete information of his strength and dispositions. The argument impressed itself strongly upon the mind of the country. There appeared indeed no public sentiment hostile to it nor any organized opposition to the proposition for an enormous appropriation for purposes of aviation. The customary inertia of Congress delayed the actual appropriation for some months. But the President espoused its cause and the Secretaries both of War and the Navy warmly recommended it, although they united in opposing the proposition to establish a distinct department of aeronautics with a seat in the Cabinet. Being human neither one desired to let his share of this great new gift of power slip out of his hands. Leading in the fight for this legislation was Rear-Admiral Robert E. Peary, U. S. N., retired, the discoverer of the North Pole. Admiral Peary from the very outbreak of the war consecrated his time and his abilities to pushing the development of aeronautics in the United States. He was continually before Congressional committees urging the fullest appropriations for this purpose. In his first statement before the Senate Committee he declared that "in the immediate future the air service will be more important than the army and navy combined," and supported that statement by reference to utterances made by such British authorities as Mr. Balfour, Lord Charles Beresford, Lord Northcliffe, and Lord Montague. In an article published shortly after his appearance before the Senate Committee, the Admiral summarized in a popular way his views as to the possibility of meeting the submarine menace with aircraft, and what the United States might do in that respect. He wrote: We are receiving agreeable reports as to the efficiency of the American destroyer flotilla now operating against submarines in the North Sea. An unknown naval officer, according to the newspapers of May 30th, calls for the immediate construction of from 100 to 200 additional American destroyers. By all means let us have this force--when it can be made ready--but it would take at least two years to construct, equip, and deliver such a heavy additional naval tonnage, while 200 fighting seaplanes, with a full complement of machine guns, bombs, microphones, and aërial cameras, could be put in active service in the North Sea within six months. Seaplanes, small dirigibles on the order of the English "blimp" type, and kite balloons have already shown themselves to be more effective in detecting submarines than are submarine chasers or armed liners. Not only have the British, French, German, and Turkish forces destroyed trawlers, patrol boats, and transports by aircraft, but successful experiments in airplane submarine hunting have also been made in this country. In September, 1916, our first Aërial Coast Patrol Unit, in acting as an auxiliary to the Mosquito Squadron in the annual manoeuvres of the Atlantic fleet, detected objects smaller than the latest type of German submarines from fifteen to twenty feet below the surface. A more complete aërial submarine hunt took place on March 26th of this year. This was the real thing, because the fliers were looking for German U-boats. Inasmuch as the Navy Department is still waiting before establishing its first and only aeronautical base on the Atlantic seaboard, the honour of having conducted the first aërial hunt of the enemy submarines in American history went to the civilian aviators who are soon to be a part of the Aërial Reserve Squadron at Governor's Island and to the civilian instructors and aërial reservists connected with the Army Aviation School at Mineola, Long Island. These hawks of the air darted up and down the coast in search of the enemy, often flying as far as eleven miles out to sea. The inlets and bays were searched, vessels plotted, compass direction and time when located were given. No enemy submarines were found. It developed that the supposed submarines were two patrol motor-boats returning from a trial trip. Nevertheless the incident is illuminating, and the official statement of the Navy Department closed with the words: "This incident emphasizes the need of hydroaëroplanes for naval scouting purposes." It is also interesting to note what happened when Lawrence Sperry went out to sea one day last summer in his hydroplane and failed to return. Two seaplanes and three naval destroyers were sent in search of him. In forty minutes the seaplanes returned with the news that they had located Sperry floating safely on the water. At the end of the day, after several hours of search, the destroyers came back without having seen Sperry at all. Those who may still believe that we Americans cannot build aircraft and that all the exploits we read so much about in the newspapers taking place on the other side are being done in foreign aircraft will be surprised to know that a large number of the big flying boats now in use in the English navy, harbour, and coast defence work are Curtiss machines, designed and built in this country by Americans, with American material and American engines. Great Britain wants all the machines of this type that it can get, and sees no reason why we cannot do the same thing in protecting our own Atlantic seaboard. I quote from C. G. Grey, editor of _The London Aeroplane_: "Curiously enough, these big flying boats originated in America, and, if America is seriously perturbed about the fate of American shipping and American citizens travelling by sea in the vicinity of Europe, it should not be a difficult matter for America to rig up in a very small space of time quite a fleet of seaplane carriers suitable for the handling of these big seaplanes. If each seaplane ship were armed with guns having a range of five to ten miles, and if the gunners were practised in co-operating with airplane spotters, such ships ought to be the very best possible insurance for American lives and goods on the high seas." I quote from _The Associated Press_ report from Paris on May 14th to show the relative importance of aëroplanes in submarine attacks: "During the last three months French patrol boats have had twelve engagements with submarines, French hydroaëroplanes have fought them thirteen times, and there have been sixteen engagements between armed merchantmen and submarines." Henry Woodhouse, one of the most distinguished authorities on aeronautics in the United States, in his standard _Textbook on Naval Aeronautics_, published by the Century Company, has assembled the following data on submarine and aeroplane combats: "On May 4, 1915, the German Admiralty reported an engagement between a German dirigible and several British submarines in the North Sea. The submarines fired on the dirigible without success, whereas bombs from the dirigible sank one submarine. "On May 31, 1915, the German Admiralty announced the sinking of a Russian submarine by bombs dropped by German naval aviators near Gotland. "On July 1, 1915, the Austrian submarine U-11 was destroyed in the Adriatic by a French aeroplane, which swooped suddenly and dropped three bombs directly on the deck of the submarine. The craft was destroyed and the entire crew of twenty-five were lost. "On July 27, 1915, a German submarine in the Dardanelles was about to launch a torpedo at a British transport filled with troops and ammunition, when British aviators gave the alarm to the transport, and immediately began dropping bombs at the submarine, which had to submerge and escape hurriedly, without launching its torpedo. "On August 19, 1915, the Turkish War Office stated that an Allied submarine had been sunk in the Dardanelles by a Turkish aeroplane. "On August 26, the Secretary of the British Admiralty announced that Squadron Commander Arthur W. Bigsworth in a single-handed attack bombed and destroyed a German submarine off Ostend. "Lieutenant Viney received the Victoria Cross and Lieutenant de Sincay was recommended for the Legion of Honour for having flown over a German submarine and destroyed it with bombs off the Belgian coast on November 18, 1915. "Early in 1916 an Austrian seaplane sank the French submarine _Foucault_ in the southern Adriatic. Lieutenant Calezeny was the pilot and the observer was Lieutenant von Klinburg. After crippling the submarine they then performed the remarkable feat of calling another Austrian seaplane and rescuing the entire French crew, two officers and twenty seven men, in spite of the fact that a high sea was running at the time." It will be noted that Admiral Peary lays great stress on the supreme value of aircraft as foes of the submarine. This was due to the fact that at about the time of his appearance before the Senate Committee the world was fairly panic-stricken by the vigour and effect of the German submarine campaign and its possible bearing upon the outcome of the war. Of that campaign I shall have more to say in the section of this book dealing with submarines. But the subject of the undersea boat in war became at this time inextricably interwoven with that of the aërial fleets, and the sudden development of the latter, together with the marked interest taken in it by our people, cannot be understood without some description of the way in which the two became related. From the very beginning of the war the Germans had prosecuted a desultory submarine warfare on the shipping of Great Britain and had extended it gradually until neutral shipping also was largely involved. All the established principles of international law, or principles that had been supposed to be established, were set at naught. In bygone days enemy merchant ships were subject to destruction only after their crews had been given an opportunity to take to the boats. Neutral ships bearing neutral goods, even if bound to an enemy port, were liable to destruction only if found upon visit to be carrying goods that were contraband of war. The list of contraband had been from time immemorial rigidly limited, and confined almost wholly to munitions of war, or to raw material used in their construction. But international law went by the board early in the war. Each belligerent was able to ascribe plausible reasons for its amendment out of recognizable form. Great Britain established blockades two hundred miles away from the blockaded ports because the submarines made the old practice of watching at the entrance of the port too perilous. The list of contraband of war was extended by both belligerents until it comprehended almost every useful article grown, mined, or manufactured. But the amendment to international law which acted as new fuel for the flames of war, which aroused the utmost world-wide indignation, and which finally dragged the United States into the conflict, was that by which Germany sought to relieve her submarine commanders of the duty of visiting and searching a vessel, or of giving its people time to provide for their safety, before sinking it. [Illustration: © U. & U. _An Air Battle in Progress._] The German argument was that the submarine was unknown when the code of international law then in force was formulated. It was a peculiarly delicate naval weapon. Its strength lay in its ability to keep itself concealed while delivering its attack. If exposed on the surface a shot from a small calibred gun striking in a vital point would instantly send it to the bottom. If rammed it was lost. Should a submarine rise to the surface, send an officer aboard a ship it had halted, and await the result of his search, it would be exposed all the time to destruction at the hands of enemy vessels coming up to her aid. Indeed if the merchantman happened to carry one gun a single shot might put the assailant out of business. Accordingly the practice grew up among the Germans of launching their torpedoes without a word of warning at their helpless victim. The wound inflicted by a torpedo is such that the ship will go down in but a few minutes carrying with it most of the people aboard. The most glaring, inexcusable, and criminal instance of this sort of warfare was the sinking without warning of the great passenger liner, _Lusitania_, by which more than eleven hundred people were drowned, one hundred and fourteen of them American citizens. [Illustration: Photo by U. & U. _A Curtis Hydroaëroplane._] Against this policy--or piracy--the United States protested, and people of this country waxed very weary as month after month through the years 1915 and 1916 Germany met the protests with polite letters of evasion and excuse continuing the while the very practice complained of. But late in January, 1917, her government announced that there would be no longer any pretence of complying with international law, but that with the coming month a campaign of unlimited submarine ruthlessness would be begun and ships sunk without warning and irrespective of their nationality if they appeared in certain prohibited zones. Within twenty-four hours the United States sent the German Ambassador from the country and within two months we were at war. At once the submarine was seen to be the great problem confronting us. Its attack was not so much upon the United States, for we are a self-contained nation able to raise all that we need within our own borders for our own support. But England is a nation that has to be fed from without. Seldom are her stores of food great enough to avert starvation for more than six weeks should the steady flow of supply ships from America and Australia to her ports be interrupted. This interruption the Germans proposed to effect by means of their underwater boats. Von Tirpitz and other leaders in the German administration promised the people that within six weeks England would be starved and begging for peace at any price. The output of submarines from German navy yards was greatly increased. Their activity became terrifying. The Germans estimated that if they could sink 1,000,000 tons of shipping monthly they would put England out of action in two or three months. For some weeks the destruction accomplished by their boats narrowly approached this estimate, but gradually fell off. At the same time there was no period in 1917 up to the time of Admiral Peary's statement, or indeed up to that of the preparation of this book, when it was not felt that the cause of the Allies was in danger because of the swarms of German submarines. It was that feeling, coupled with the wide-spread belief that aircraft furnished the best means of combating the submarine, that caused an irresistible demand in the United States for the construction of colossal fleets of these flying crafts. Congress enacted in midsummer the law appropriating $640,000,000 for the construction of aircraft and the maintenance of the aërial service. The Secretaries of War and the Navy each appealed for heavy additional appropriations for aërial service. The arguments which have already been set forth as supporting the use of aircraft in military service were paralleled by those who urge its unlimited use in naval service. Consider [said they] the primary need for attacking these vipers of the sea in their nests. Once out on the broad Atlantic their chances of roaming about undetected by destroyers or other patrol boats are almost unlimited. But we know where they come from, from Kiel, Antwerp, Wilhelmshaven, Ostend, and Zeebrugge. Catch them there and you will destroy them as boys destroy hornets by smoking out their nests. But against this the Germans have provided by blocking every avenue of approach save one. The channels are obstructed and mined, and guarded from the shore by heavy batteries. No hostile ships dare run that gauntlet. Even the much-boasted British navy in the three years of the war has not ventured to attack a single naval base. You could not even seek out the submarines thus sheltered by other submarines because running below the surface our boats could not detect either mines or nets and would be doomed to destruction. The enemy boats come out on the surface protected by the batteries and naval craft. But the air cannot be blocked by any fixed defences. Give us more and more powerful aircraft than the Germans possess and we will darken the sky above the German bases with the wings of our airplanes, and rain explosive shells upon the submarines that have taken shelter there until none survive. The one essential is that our flyers shall be in overwhelming numbers. We must be able not only to take care of any flying force that the Germans may send against us, but also to have enough of our aircraft not engaged in the aërial battle to devote their entire attention to the destruction of the enemy forces below. From every country allied with us came approval of this policy. At the time the debate was pending in Congress our Allies one after another were sending to us official commissions to consult upon the conduct of the war, to give us the benefit of their long and bitter experience in it, and to assist in any way our preparations for taking a decisive part in that combat. The subject of the part to be played by aircraft was one frequently discussed with them. With the French commission came two members of the staff of General Joffre, Major Tulasne and Lieutenant de la Grange, experts in aviation service. A formal interview given out by these gentlemen expressed so clearly the point of view on aviation and its possibilities held in France where it has reached its highest development that some extracts from it will be of interest here: "At the beginning of the war the Germans were the only ones who had realized the great importance of aviation from a military point of view," said these officers. "France had looked upon aviation as a sport, Germany as a powerful weapon in war. This is illustrated by the fact that even in August, 1914, German artillery fire was directed by airplanes. "It was only after the retreat from Belgium and the battle of the Marne that the Allies realized the great importance of aviation. Between August 15 and 25 the French General Staff thought that the greater part of the German army was concentrated in Alsace and that only a few army corps were coming through Belgium. It was only through the reports of the aviators that they realized that this was a mistake and that almost the whole of the German army was invading Belgium. "Immediately after the battle of the Marne the greatest efforts were made in France to develop the aviation corps in every possible way. The English army, then in process of formation, profited by the experience of the French. Since that time the allied as well as the German aviation corps has grown constantly. "A modern army is incomplete if it has not a strong aviation corps. All the different services are obliged to turn to the aviation corps for help in their work. An army without airplanes is like a soldier without eyes. An army which has the superiority in aviation over its adversary will have the following advantages: "It will have constantly the latest information on the movements of the enemy. In this way, no concentration of troops will be ignored and no surprise attack will be possible. The attack against the enemy positions will be rendered easier because all the details of these positions will be thoroughly known beforehand. The artillery fire will be much more accurate. Many enemy machines will be brought down by the superior fighting machines and the result will be to strengthen the morale both of the aviators and of the army." The next question put to the French experts was: "Why do we need to make a great effort to obtain the superiority in the air?" They answered with much interesting detail: "Because the Germans have understood the importance of aviation from a military point of view and have concentrated all their forces to develop this service. "Owing to the large number of scientists and technicians they possess they are able constantly to perfect motors and planes. Owing to their great industrial organization they are able to produce an enormous number of the best machines. "The German aviation service is now fully as strong as that of the Allies as far as numbers are concerned. The superiority in the air can only remain in the hands of the Allies because of the spirit of self-sacrifice of their aviators and their greater skill. "Germany feels that the decisive phase of the war is imminent and the efforts she will make next year will be infinitely greater than any she has made before. She will try in every way to regain the supremacy of the air. Realizing what a formidable enemy America can be in the air, she will strengthen her aviation forces in consequence. "The aeroplane is by far the most powerful of all the modern weapons. If the Allies have the supremacy of the air the German artillery will lose its accuracy of aim. It is impossible, because of the long range, for modern guns to fire without the help of airplanes. The accuracy of artillery fire depends entirely on its being directed by an airplane. "This was clearly illustrated during the battle of the Somme in 1916. The French at that time had concentrated such a large number of fighting machines that no German machine was allowed to fly over the lines. On the other hand, the Allies' reconnaissance machines were so numerous that each French battery could have its fire directed by an airplane. "The destruction of the enemy positions was in consequence carried out very effectively and very rapidly, while the Germans were obliged to fire blindly and scatter their shells over large areas, incapable as they were of locating our battery emplacements and the positions of our troops. Unluckily, a few weeks later the Germans had called from the different parts of the line a good many of their squadrons, and were able to carry out their work under better conditions. "We need such a superiority that it will be impossible for any German airplane to fly anywhere near the lines. "Every German kite balloon, every airplane would immediately be attacked by a number of allied machines. In this way the German aviation will not only be dominated but will be entirely crushed. "If we can prevent the Germans from seeing, through their airplanes, what we are preparing we will be very near the end of the war. It will require a huge effort to carry out this plan. Neither the English nor the French are able to do so by their own means. "As far as France is concerned, she is able to keep on building machines rapidly enough to increase her aviation corps at about the same rate as Germany is increasing hers. If she wanted to double or triple her production of machines she could do so, but she would have to call back from the trenches a certain number of skilled workmen, and this would weaken her fighting power. She needs in the trenches all the men who are able to carry a rifle. "If the Allies are to have the absolute supremacy of the air which we have been describing it will be the privilege of America to give it to them. We want three or four or even five allied machines for one German. America only has the possibilities of production which would allow her to build an enormous number of machines in a very short time. "The airplane is a great engine of destruction. It tells the artillery where to fire, it drops bombs, it gives the enemy all the information he needs to plan murderous attacks. Drive the German airplanes down and you will save the lives of thousands of men in our trenches. As Ulysses in the cavern put out the eye of the Cyclops, so the eyes of the beast must be put out before you can attempt to kill it." Major Tulasne and Lieutenant de la Grange then outlined what the aviation programme of the United States should be, saying: "American industry must be enabled to begin building at once. No time must be lost in experiments. America must profit by the experience of the Allies. She must choose the best planes and build thousands of them. "She must build reconnoissance machines which she will need for her army; she must build a large number of fighting machines because it is these machines that will destroy German planes; she must also build squadrons of powerful bombing machines which will go behind the German lines to destroy the railway junctions and bomb the enemy cantonments, so as to give the soldiers no rest even when they have left the trenches. "Bombing done by a few machines gives poor results. The same cannot be said of this operation carried out by a large number of machines which can go to the same places and bomb continually. "Besides the number of men that are actually killed in these raids, great disturbance is caused in the enemy's communication lines, thereby hindering the operations. For example, since the British Admiralty has increased the number of its bombing squadrons in northern France and has decided to attack constantly the two harbours of Ostend and Zeebrugge and the locks, bridges, and canals leading to them they have greatly interfered with the activity of these two German bases. "It is certain that shortly, owing to this, these two ports will no more be used by German torpedo boats and submarines. What the English Royal Naval Air Service has been able to accomplish with 100 machines the Flying Corps of the United States with 1000 machines must be able to carry out on other parts of the front. "The work of the bombing machines is rendered difficult now by the fact that the actual lines are far from Germany. But it is hoped that soon fighting will be carried on near the enemy frontier and then a wonderful field will be opened to the bombing machines. "All the big ammunition factories which are in the Rhine and Ruhr valleys, like Krupp's, will be wonderful targets for the American bombing machines. If these machines are of the proper type--that is to say, sufficiently fast and well armed and able to carry a great weight of bombs--nothing will prevent them from destroying any of these important factories. "As Germany at the present time is only able to continue the war because of her great stock of war material the destruction of her sources of production would be the end of her resistance. For this also the Allies must turn to America. Such a large number of machines is required to produce results that America must be relied on to manufacture them. "Every man in this country must know that it is in the power of the United States, no matter what can be done in other fields, to bring the war to an end simply by concentrating all its energies on producing an enormous amount of material for aviation, and to enlist a corresponding number of pilots. But this will not be done without great effort. In order to be ready for the great 1918 offensive work must be begun at once." The extreme secrecy which in this war has characterized the operation of the governments--our own most of all--makes it impossible to state the amount of progress made in 1917 in the construction of our aërial fleet. During the debate in Congress orators were very outspoken in their prophecies that we should outnumber the Kaiser's flying fleet two or three to one. The press of the nation was so very explicit in its descriptions of the way in which we were to blind the Germans and drive them from the air that it is no wonder the Kaiser's government took alarm, and set about building additional aircraft with feverish zeal. In this it was imitated by France and England. It seemed, all at once about the middle of 1917, that the whole belligerent world suddenly recognized the air as the final battlefield and began preparations for its conquest. All statistical estimates in war time are subject to doubt as to their accuracy--and particularly those having to do in any way with the activities of an enemy country. But competent estimators--or at any rate shrewd guessers--think that Germany's facilities for constructing airplanes equal those of France and England together. If then all three nations build to the very limit of their abilities there will be a tie, which the contribution of aircraft from the United States will settle overwhelmingly in favour of the Allies. How great that contribution may be cannot be foretold with certainty at this moment. The building of aircraft was a decidedly infant industry in this country when war began. In the eight years prior to 1916 the government had given orders for just fifty-nine aircraft--scarcely enough to justify manufacturers in keeping their shops open. Orders from foreign governments, however, stimulated production after the war began so that when the United States belatedly took her place as national honour and national safety demanded among the Entente Allies, Mr. Howard E. Coffin, Chairman of the Aircraft Section of the Council of National Defence was able to report eight companies capable of turning out about 14,000 machines in six months--a better showing than British manufacturers could have made when Great Britain, first entered the war. A feature in the situation which impressed both Congress and the American people was the exposure by various military experts of the defenceless condition of New York City against an air raid by a hostile foreign power. At the moment, of course, there was no danger. The only hostile foreign power with any considerable naval or aërial force was Germany and her fleet was securely bottled up in her own harbours by the overpowering fleet of Great Britain. Yet if one could imagine the British fleet reduced to inefficiency, let us say by a futile, suicidal attack upon Kiel or Heligoland which would leave it crippled, and free the Germans, or if we could conceive that the German threat to reduce Great Britain to subjection by the submarine campaign, proved effective, the peril of New York would then be very real and very immediate. For, although the harbour defences are declared by military authorities to be practically impregnable against attack by sea, they would not be effective against an attack from the air. A hostile fleet carrying a number of seaplanes could round-to out of range of our shore batteries and loose their flyers who could within less than an hour be dropping bombs on the most congested section of Manhattan Island. It is true that our own navy would have to be evaded in such case, but the attack might be made from points more distant from New York and at which no scouts would ever dream of looking for an enemy. The development in later months of the big heavily armed cruising machines makes the menace to any seaport city like New York still greater. The Germans have built great biplanes with two fuselages, or bodies, armoured, carrying two machine guns and one automatic rifle to each body. They have twin engines of three hundred and forty horse power and carry a crew of six men. They are able in an emergency to keep the air for not less than three days. It is obvious that a small fleet of such machines launched from the deck of a hostile squadron, let us say in the neighbourhood of Block Island, could menace equally Boston or New York, or by flying up the Sound could work ruin and desolation upon all the defenceless cities bordering that body of water. Nor are the Germans alone in possessing machines of this type. The giant Sikorsky machines of Russia, mentioned in an earlier chapter, have during the war been developed into types capable of carrying crews of twenty-five men with guns and ammunition. The French, after having brought down one of the big German machines with the double bodies, instantly began building aircraft of their own of an even superior type. Some of these are driven by four motors and carry eleven persons, besides guns and ammunition. The Caproni machines of Italy are even bigger--capable of carrying nine guns and thirty-five men. The Congressional Committee was much impressed by consideration of what might be done by a small fleet of aircraft of this type launched from a hostile squadron off the Capes of Chesapeake Bay and operating against Washington. It is not likely that any foreign foe advancing by land could repeat the exploit of the British who burned the capitol in 1812. But in our present defenceless state a dozen aircraft of the largest type might reduce the national capitol to ruins. If an enemy well provided with aërial force possesses such power of offence an equal power of defence is given to the nation at all well provided with flying craft. In imitation, or perhaps rather in modification, of the English plan for guarding the coasts of Great Britain, a well matured system of defending the American coasts has been worked out and submitted to the national authorities. It involves the division of the coasts of the United States into thirteen aeronautical districts, each with aeronautical stations established at suitable points and all in communication with each other. Eight of these districts would be laid out on the Atlantic Coast extending from the northern boundary of Maine to the Rio Grande River. Just what the purpose and value of these districts would be may be explained by taking the case, not of a typical one, but of the most important one of all, the third district including the coast line from New London, Conn., to Barnegat Inlet, New Jersey. This of course includes New York and adjacent commercial centres and the entrance to Long Island Sound with its long line of thriving cities and the ports of the places from which come our chief supplies of munitions of war. It includes the part of the United States which an enemy would most covet. The part which at once would furnish the richest plunder, and possession of which by a foe would most cripple this nation. To-day it is defended by stationary guns in land fortresses and in time of attack would be further guarded by a fringe of cruising naval vessels. Apparently up to the middle of 1917 the government thought no aërial watch was needed. But if we were to follow the methods which all the belligerent nations of Europe are employing on their sea coasts we would establish in this district ten aeronautical stations. This would be no match for the British system which has one such station to every twenty miles of coast. Ours would be farther apart, but as the Sound could be guarded at its entrance the stations need only be maintained along the south shore of Long Island and down the Jersey coast. Each station would be provided with patrol, fighting, and observation airplanes. It would have the mechanical equipment of microphones, searchlights, and other devices for detecting the approach of an enemy now employed successfully abroad. Its patrolling airplanes would cruise constantly far out to sea, not less than eighty miles, keeping ever in touch with their station. As the horizon visible from a soaring airplane is not less than fifty miles distant from the observer, this would mean that no enemy fleet could approach within 130 miles of our coast without detection and report. The Montauk Point station would be charged with guarding the entrance to Long Island Sound and, the waters of Nantucket shoals and Block Island Sound where the German submarine U-53 did its deadly work in 1916. The Sandy Hook station would of course be the most important of all, guarding New York sea-going commerce and protecting the ship channel by a constant patrol of aircraft over it. The modern airplane has a speed of from eighty to one hundred and sixty miles an hour--the latter rate being attained only by the light scouts. Thus it is apparent that if an alarm were raised at any one of these stations between New London and Barnegat three hours at most would suffice to bring the fighting equipment of all the stations to the point threatened. There would be thus concentrated a fleet of several hundred swift scouts, heavy fighting machines, the torpedo planes of the type designed by Admiral Fiske, hydroaëroplanes capable of carrying heavy guns and in brief every form of aërial fighter. Moreover, by use of the wireless, every ship of the Navy within a radius of several hundred miles would be notified of the menace. They could not reach the scene of action so swiftly as the flying men but the former would be able to hold the foe in action until the heavier ships should arrive. The enormous advantage of such a system of guarding our coasts needs no further explanation. It is not even experimental, for France on her limited coast has 150 such stations. England, which started the war with 18, had 114 in 1917 and was still building. We at that time had none, although the extent of our sea coast and the great multiplicity of practicable harbours make us more vulnerable than any other nation. CHAPTER X SOME FEATURES OF AËRIAL WARFARE As devices to translate German hate for England into deeds of bloody malignancy and cowardly murder the German aircraft have ranked supreme. The ruthless submarine war has indeed done something toward working off this peculiar passion, but it lacked the spectacular qualities which German wrath demanded. As the war proceeded, and it became apparent that the participation of Great Britain--at first wholly unexpected by the Kaiser's advisers--was certain to defeat the German aims, the authorities carefully inculcated in the minds of the people the most malignant hatred for that power. As Lissauer's famous hymn of hate had it-- French and Russians it matters not, A blow for a blow, and a shot for a shot. ................................. We have one foe and one alone-- England! By way of at once gratifying this hatred and still further stimulating it the German military authorities began early in the war a series of air raids upon English towns. They were of more than doubtful military value. They damaged no military or naval works. They aroused the savage ire of the British people who saw their children slain in schools and their wounded in hospitals by bombs dropped from the sky and straightway rushed off to enlist against so callous and barbaric a foe. But the raids served their political purpose by making the German people believe that the British were suffering all the horrors of war on their own soil, while the iron line of trenches drawn across France by the German troops kept the invader and war's agonies far from the soil of the Fatherland. [Illustration: ©International Film Service. _The U. S. Aviation School at Mineola._] The first German air raids were by Zeppelins on little English seaside towns--Scarborough, Hartlepool, and Harwich. Except in so far as they inflicted mutilation and death upon many non-combatants, mostly women and children, and misery upon their relatives and friends they were without effect. But early in 1915 began a systematic series of raids upon London, which, by October of 1917, had totalled thirty-four, with a toll of 865 persons killed, and 2500 wounded. It seems fair to say that for these raids there was more plausible excuse than for those on the peaceful little seaside bathing resorts and fishing villages. London is full of military and naval centres, arsenals and navy yards, executive offices and centres of warlike activity. An incendiary bomb dropped into the Bank of England, or the Admiralty, might paralyze the finances of the Empire, or throw the naval organization into a state of anarchy. But as a matter of fact the German bombs did nothing of the sort. They fell in the congested districts of London, "the crowded warrens of the poor." They spread wounds and death among peaceable theatre audiences. One dropped on a 'bus loaded with passengers homeward bound, and obliterated it and them from the face of the earth. But no building of the least military importance sustained any injury. It is true, however, that the persistent raiding has compelled England to withhold from the fighting lines in France several thousand men and several hundred guns in order to be in readiness to meet air raids in which Germany has never employed more than fifty machines and at most two hundred men, including both aviators and mechanics. It is entirely probable that the failure of the Germans to strike targets of military importance and the slaughter they wrought among peaceful civilians were due to no intent or purpose on their part. Hitting a chosen target from the air is no matter of certainty. The bomb intended for the railway station is quite as likely to hit the adjacent public school or hospital. If the world ever recurs to that moderate degree of sanity and civilization which shall permit wars, but strive to regulate them in the interest of humanity this untrustworthiness of the aircraft's aim will compel some form of international regulation, just as the vulnerability of the submarine will force the amendment of the doctrine of visitation and search. But neither problem can be logically and reasonably solved in the middle of a war. And so, while the German violation of existing international law had the uncomfortable result for Germany of bringing the United States into the war, the barbarous raids upon London caused the British at last to turn aside from their commendable abstention from air raids on unfortified and non-military towns and prepare for reprisals in kind. From the beginning of the war the British had abstained from bombing peaceful and non-military towns. They had not indeed been weak in the employment of their air forces. General Smuts speaking in October, 1917, said that the British had, in the month previous, dropped 207 tons of bombs behind the lines of the enemy. But the targets were airdromes, military camps, arsenals and munitions camps--not hospitals or kindergartens. The time had now come when this purely military campaign no longer satisfied an enraged British people who demanded the enforcement of the Mosaic law of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, against a people whom General Smuts described as "an enemy who apparently recognizes no laws, human or divine; who knows no pity or restraint, who sung Te Deums over the sinking of the _Lusitania_, and to whom the maiming and slaughter of women and children appear legitimate means of warfare." And Premier Lloyd George, speaking to an audience of poor people in one of the congested districts which had suffered sorely from the aërial activities of the Hun, said: "We will give it all back to them, and we will give it soon. We shall bomb Germany with compound interest." But whether undertaken as part of a general programme of frightfulness or as reprisals for cruel and indefensible outrages air raids upon defenceless towns, killing peaceable citizens in their beds, and children in their kindergartens, are not incidents to add glory to aviation. The mind turns with relief from such examples of the cruel misuse of aircraft to the hosts of individual instances in which the airman and his machine remind one of the doughty Sir Knight and his charger in the most gallant days of chivalry. There were hosts of such incidents--men who fought gallantly and who always fought fair, men who hung about the outskirts of an aërial battle waiting for some individual champion of their own choosing to show himself and join in battle to death in the high ranges of the sky. Some of these have been mentioned in this book already. To discuss all who even as early as 1917 had made their names memorable would require a volume in itself. A few may well be mentioned below. There, for example, was Captain Georges Guynemer, "King of the French Aces." An "ace" is an aviator who has brought down five enemy aircraft. Guynemer had fifty-three to his credit. Still a youth, only twenty-three years of age at the time of his death, and only flying for twenty-one months, he had lived out several life times in the mad excitement of combat in mid-air. Within three weeks after getting his aviator's license he had become an "Ace." Before his first year's service had expired he was decorated and promoted for gallantry in rushing to the aid of a comrade attacked by five enemy machines. He entered the combat at the height of ten thousand feet, and inside of two minutes had dropped two of the enemy. The others fled. He pursued hotly keeping up a steady fire with his machine gun. One Boche wavered and fell, but just then an enemy shell from an "Archie" far below exploded under Guynemer, tearing away one wing of his machine. Let him tell the rest of that story: I felt myself dropping [he said later]. It was ten thousand feet to the earth, and, like a flash, I saw my funeral with my saddened comrades marching behind the gun carriage to the cemetery. But I pulled and pushed every lever I had, but nothing would check my terrific descent. Five thousand feet from the earth, the wrecked machine began to turn somersaults, but I was strapped into the seat. I do not know what it was, but something happened and I felt the speed descent lessen. But suddenly there was a tremendous crash and when I recovered my senses I had been taken from the wreckage and was all right. Two records Guynemer made which have not yet been surpassed--the first, the one described above of dropping three Fokkers in two minutes and thirty seconds, and rounding off the adventure by himself dropping ten thousand feet. The second was in shooting down four enemy machines in one day. His methods were of the simplest. He was always alone in his machine, which was the lightest available. He would rather carry more gasoline and ammunition than take along a gunner. The machine gun was mounted on the plane above his head, pointing dead ahead, and aimed by aiming the whole airplane. Once started the gun continued firing automatically and Guynemer's task was to follow his enemy pitilessly keeping that lead-spitting muzzle steadily bearing upon him. In September, 1917, he went up to attack five enemy machines--no odds however appalling seemed to terrify him--but was caught in a fleet of nearly forty Boches and fell to earth in the enemy's country. One of the last of the air duels to be fought under the practices which made early air service so vividly recall the age of chivalry, was that in which Captain Immelman, "The Falcon," of the German army, met Captain Ball of the British Royal Flying Corps. Immelman had a record of fifty-one British airplanes downed. Captain Ball was desirous of wiping out this record and the audacious German at the same time, and so flying over the German lines he dropped this letter: CAPTAIN IMMELMAN: I challenge you to a man-to-man fight to take place this afternoon at two o'clock. I will meet you over the German lines. Have your anti-air craft guns withhold their fire, while we decide which is the better man. The British guns will be silent. BALL. Presently thereafter this answer was dropped from a German airplane: CAPTAIN BALL: Your challenge is accepted. The guns will not interfere. I will meet you promptly at two. IMMELMAN. The word spread far and wide along the trenches on both sides. Tacitly all firing stopped as though the bugles had sung truce. Men left cover and clambered up on the top to watch the duel. Punctually both flyers rose from their lines and made their way down No Man's Land. Let an eye witness tell the story: From our trenches there were wild cheers for Ball. The Germans yelled just as vigorously for Immelman. The cheers from the trenches continued; the Germans increased in volume; ours changed into cries of alarm. Ball, thousands of feet above us and only a speck in the sky, was doing the craziest things imaginable. He was below Immelman and was apparently making no effort to get above him, thus gaining the advantage of position. Rather he was swinging around, this way and that, attempting, it seemed, to postpone the inevitable. We saw the German's machine dip over preparatory to starting the nose dive. "He's gone now," sobbed a young soldier, at my side, for he knew Immelman's gun would start its raking fire once it was being driven straight down. Then in a fraction of a second the tables were turned. Before Immelman's plane could get into firing position, Ball drove his machine into a loop, getting above his adversary and cutting loose with his gun and smashing Immelman by a hail of bullets as he swept by. Immelman's airplane burst into flames and dropped. Ball, from above, followed for a few hundred feet and then straightened out and raced for home. He settled down, rose again, hurried back, and released a huge wreath of flowers, almost directly over the spot where Immelman's charred body was being lifted from a tangled mass of metal. Four days later Ball too was killed. But the Germans, too, had their champion airmen, mighty fliers, skillful at control and with the machine gun, in whose triumphs they took the same pride that our boys in France did in those of Chapman, Rockwell or Thaw, the British in Warneford, or the French in Guynemer. Chief of these was Captain Boelke, who came to his death in the latter part of 1917, after putting to his credit over sixty Allied planes brought down. A German account of one of his duels as watched from the trenches, will be of interest: For quite a long time an Englishman had been making circles before our eyes--calmly and deliberately.... My men on duty clenched their fists in impotent wrath. "The dog--!" Shooting would do no good. Then suddenly from the rear a harsh, deep singing and buzzing cuts the air. It sounds like a German flyer. But he is not yet visible. Only the buzz of an approaching motor is heard in the clouds in the direction of the Englishman. More than a hundred eyes scanned the horizon. There! Far away and high among the clouds is a small black humming bird--a German battle aeroplane. Its course is laid directly for the hostile biplane and it flies like an arrow shot with a clear eye and steady hand. My men crawl out of the shelters. I adjust my field glasses. A lump rises in our throats as if we are awaiting something new and wonderful. So far the other does not seem to have noticed or recognized the black flyer that already is poised as a hawk above him. All at once there is a mighty swoop through the air like the drop of a bird of prey, and in no time the black flyer is immediately over the Englishman and the air is filled with the furious crackling of a machine gun, followed by the rapid ta-ta-ta of two or three more, all operated at the highest speed just as during a charge. The Englishman drops a little, makes a circle and tries to escape toward the rear. The other circles and attacks him in front, and again we hear the exciting ta-ta-ta! Now the Englishman tries to slip from under his opponent, but the German makes a circle and the effort fails. Then the enemy describes a great circle and attempts to rise above the German. The latter ascends in sharp half circles and again swoops down upon the biplane, driving it toward the German trenches. Will the Englishman yield so soon? Scattered shouts of joy are already heard in our ranks. Suddenly he drops a hundred yards and more through the air and makes a skillful loop toward the rear. Our warrior of the air swoops after him, tackles him once more and again we hear the wild defiant rattle of the machine guns over our heads. Now they are quite close to our trenches. The French infantry and artillery begin firing in a last desperate hope. Neither of them is touched. Sticking close above and behind him the German drives the Englishman along some six hundred yards over our heads and then just above the housetops of St. A. Once more we hear a distant ta-ta-ta a little slower and more scattered and then as they drop both disappear from our view. Scarcely five minutes pass before the telephone brings up this news: Lieutenant Boelke has just brought down his seventh flyer. Methods of air-fighting were succinctly described in a hearing before the Senate Committee on Military Affairs, in June, 1917. The officers testifying were young Americans of the Lafayette Escadrille of the French army. To the civilian the testimony is interesting for the clear idea it gives of military aviation. The extracts following are from the official record: _Adjt. Prince_: Senator, there are about four kinds of machines used abroad on the western front to-day. The machines that Adjt. Rumsey and myself are looking after are called the battle machines. Then there are the photography machines, machines that go up to enable the taking of photographs of the German batteries, go back of the line and take views of the country behind their lines and find out what their next line of attack will be, or, if they retreat from the present line, then everything in that way. Probably we have, where we are, in my group alone, a hundred and fifty photographers who do nothing all day long except develop pictures, and you can get pictures of any part of the country that you want. When the Germans retreated from the old line where they used to be, by Peronne and Chaulnes, we had absolute pictures of all the Hindenburg line from where they are now right down to St. Quentin, down to the line the French are on. We had photographs of it all. _Senator Kirby_: When they started on the retreat? [Illustration: © Kadel & Herbert. _Miss Ruth Law at Close of her Chicago to New York Flight._] _Adjt. Prince_: Yes, sir. So we knew exactly where their stand would be made. Then, besides that, those photograph machines do a lot of scouting. They have a pilot and a photographer aboard. He has not only a camera, but quite often he has a Lewis gun with him in order to ward off any hostile airmen if they should get through the battle planes that are above him; in other words, should get through us in order to fight him. They do a great deal of the scouting, because they fly at a lower level. The battle planes go up to protect photography machines, or to go man-hunting, as it is called; in other words, to fight the Germans. We fly all day, like to-day, as high as we can go, or as high as the French go as a rule, about 5500 metres, about 17,000 to 18,000 feet. [Illustration: © International Film Service. _A French Aviator between Flights._] _Adjt. Rumsey_: I think 5500 metres is about 19,000 feet. Some go up 6000 metres, which makes about 20,000 feet. _Adjt. Prince_: We go up there, and we have a certain sector of the front to look after. If we are only man-hunting, we go backward and forward like a policeman to prevent the Germans from getting over our own lines. We usually fly by fours, if we can, and the four go out together, so as not to be alone. We are usually fighting inside of the German lines, because the morale of the French and English is better than that of the Germans to-day; and every fight I have had--I have never been lucky enough to have one inside of my own lines--they have all been inside of the German lines. _Senator Kirby_: What is the equipment of a battle plane such as you use? _Adjt. Prince_: I use the 180 horse-power machine. It is called a "S. P. A. D.," which has a Spanish motor. But a great many of the motors to-day are being built here in America. _Senator Kirby_: How many men do you carry? _Adjt. Prince_: We go up alone in these machines. We did have two guns. We had the Lewis gun on our upper wing and the Vickers down below, that shoots through the propeller as the propeller turns around. Then we gave up the Lewis above. It added more weight, and we did not need it so much. The trouble with the Lewis gun is that it has only ninety-seven cartridges, while the Vickers has five hundred, and you can do just as much damage with the Vickers as you could with them both. _Senator Sutherland_: You drive and fight at the same time? _Adjt. Prince_: Yes, sir. _Adjt. Rumsey_: The machine gun is fixed. _Adjt. Prince_: It is absolutely fixed on the machine, and if I should want to adjust it to shoot you, I would adjust my machine on you. The witness then took up the nature and work of some of the heavier machines. He testified: _Adjt. Prince_: Then comes the artillery regulating machine. That machine goes up, and it may be a Farman or a bi-motor, or some other kind of heavier machine, a machine that goes slowly. They go over a certain spot. They have a driver, who is a pilot, like ourselves; then they have an artillery officer on board, whose sole duty it is to send back word, mostly by Marconi, to his battery where the shots are landing. He will say: "Too far," "Too short," "Right," or "Left," and he stays there over this battery until the work done by the French guns has been absolutely controlled, and above him he has some of these battle planes keeping him from being attacked from above by German airmen. Of course, they may be shot at by anti-aircraft guns, which you can not help. That is artillery regulating. _The Chairman_: Are you always attacked from above? _Adjt. Prince_: By airplanes; yes, sir. It is always much safer to attack from above. Then you have the bomb-dropping machines, which carry a lot of weight. They go out sometimes in the daytime, but mostly at night, and they have these new sights by which they can stay up quite high in the air and still know the spot they are going at. They know the wind speed, they know their height, and they can figure out by this new arrangement they have exactly when the time is to let go their bombs. _Senator Kirby_: Something in the nature of a range-finder? _Adjt. Prince_: A sort of range-finder. _Adjt. Rumsey_: It is a sort of telescope that looks down between your legs, and you have to regulate yourself, observing your speed, and when you see the spot, you have to touch a button and off go these things. _Adjt. Rumsey_: In a raid my brother went on there were sixty-eight machines that left; the French heavy machines, the English heavy machines, and then the English sort of half-fighting machine and half-bombing machine. They call it a Sopwith, and it is a very good machine. They went over there, and the first ones over were the Frenchmen, and they dropped bombs on these Mauser works, and the only thing that the English saw was a big cloud of smoke and dust, and they could not see the works so they just dropped into them. Out of that raid the fighting machines got eight Germans and dropped them, and the Germans got eight Frenchmen. So, out of sixty-eight they lost eight, but we also got eight Germans and dropped six tons of this stuff, which is twenty times as strong as the melinite. We do not know what the name of the powder is. The fighting machines on that trip only carried gasolene for two hours, and the other ones carried it for something like six hours, so we escorted them out for an hour, came back to our lines, filled up with gasolene, went out and met them and brought them back over the danger zone. _Adjt. Prince_: Near the trenches is where the danger zone is, because there the German fighting machines are located. _Senator Kirby_: How far was it from your battle front that you went? _Adjt. Rumsey_: I think it was about 500 miles, 250 there and 250 back; it was between 200 and 250 miles there. _Senator Kirby_: Beyond the battle front? _Adjt. Rumsey_: Yes; or, to be more accurate, I think it was nearer 200 than 250. _The Chairman_: What do you think of the function of the airplane as a determining factor? _Adjt. Prince_: There is no doubt that if we could send over in huge waves a great number of these bomb-dropping machines, and simply lay the country waste--for instance, the big cities like Strassburg, Freiburg, and others--not only would the damage done be great, but I guess the popular opinion in Germany, everything being laid waste, would work very strongly in the minds of the public toward having peace. I do not think you could destroy an army, because you could not see them, but you could go to different stations; you could go to Strassburg, to Brussels, and places like that. _The Chairman_: Then, sending them over in enormous numbers would also put out of business their airplanes, and they would be helpless, would they not? _Adjt. Prince_: Absolutely. You not only have on the front a large number of bomb-dropping machines, but a large number of fighting machines. When the Somme battle was started in the morning the Germans knew, naturally, that the French and British were going to start the Somme drive, and they had up these Drachens, these observation balloons, and the first eighteen minutes that the battle started the French and the English, I think, got twenty-one "saucisse"; in other words, for the next five days there was not a single German who came anywhere near the lines, but the French and English could go ahead as they-felt like. _Admiral Peary_: Have you any idea as to how many airplanes there are along that western front on the German side? _Adjt. Prince_: There must be about 3000 on that line in actual commission. _Admiral Peary_: That means, then, about 10,000 in all, at least? _Adjt. Prince_: I should think so; I should say the French have about 2000 and the English possibly 1000, or we have about 2500. _Adjt. Rumsey_: If they have 3000 we have 4000; that is, right on the line. _Adjt. Prince_: We have about 1000 more than they have, and we are up all the time. The day before I left the front I was called to go out five times, and I went out five times, and spent two hours every time I went out. It would be gratifying to author and to reader alike if it were possible to give some account of the progress in aërial equipment made by the United States, since its declaration of war. But at the present moment (February, 1918), the government is chary of furnishing information concerning the advance made in the creation of an aërial fleet. Perhaps precise information, if available, would be discouraging to the many who believe that the war will be won in the air. For it is known in a broad general way that the activities of the Administration have been centred upon the construction of training camps and aviation stations. Orders for the actual construction of airplanes have been limited, so that a chorus of criticism arose from manufacturers who declared that they might have to close their works for lack of employment. The apparent check was discouraging to American airmen, and to our Allies who had expected marvellous things from the United States in the way of swift and wholesale preparation for winning battles in the air. The response of the government to all criticism was that it was laying broad foundations in order that construction once begun would proceed with unabated activity, and that when aircraft began to be turned out by the thousands a week there would be aviators and trained mechanics a-plenty to handle them. In this situation the advocates of a special cabinet department of aeronautics found new reason to criticize the Administration and Congress for having ignored or antagonized their appeals. For responsibility for the delay and indifference--if indifference there was--rested equally upon the Secretary of the Navy and the Secretary of War. Each had his measure of control over the enormous sum voted in a lump for aviation, each had the further millions especially voted to his department to account for. But no single individual could be officially asked what had been done with the almost one billion dollars voted for aeronautics in 1917. But if the authorities seemed to lag, the inventors were busy. Mention has already been made of the new "Liberty" motor, which report had it was the fruit of the imprisonment of two mechanical experts in a hotel room with orders that they should not be freed until they had produced a motor which met all criticisms upon those now in use. Their product is said to have met this test, and the happy result caused a general wish that the Secretaries of War and of the Navy might be similarly incarcerated and only liberated upon producing plans for the immediate creation of an aërial fleet suited to the nation's needs. If, however, the Liberty motor shall prove the complete success which at the moment the government believes it to be, it will be such a spur to the development of the airplane in peace and war, as could not otherwise be applied. For the motor is the true life of the airplane--its heart, lungs, and nerve centre. The few people who still doubt the wide adoption of aircraft for peaceful purposes after the war base their skepticism on the treachery of motors still in use. They repudiate all comparisons with automobiles. They say: It is perfectly true that a man can run his car repeatedly from New York to Boston without motor trouble. But the trouble is inevitable sooner or later. When it comes to an automobile it is trifling. The driver gets out and makes his repairs by the roadside. But if it comes to the aviator it brings the possibility of death with it every time. If his motor stops he must descend. But to alight he must find a long level field, with at least two hundred yards in which to run off his momentum. If, when he discovers the failure of his motor, he is flying at the height of a mile he must find his landing place within a space of eight miles, for in gliding to earth the ratio of forward movement to height is as eight to one. But how often in rugged and densely populated New England, or Pennsylvania is there a vacant level field half a mile in length? The aviator who made a practice of daily flight between New York and Boston would inevitably meet death in the end. The criticism is a shrewd and searching one. But it is based on the airplane and the motor of to-day without allowance for the development and improvement which are proceeding apace. It contemplates a craft which has but one motor, but the more modern machines have sufficient lifting power to carry two motors, and can be navigated successfully with one of these out of service. Experiments furthermore are being made with a device after the type of the helicopter which with the steady lightening of the aircraft motor, may be installed on airplanes with a special motor for its operation. This device, it is believed, will enable the airplane so equipped to stop dead in its course with both propellers out of action, to hover over a given spot or to rise or to descend gently in a perpendicular line without the necessity of soaring. It is obvious that if this device prove successful the chief force of the objections to aërial navigation outlined above will be nullified. The menace of infrequent landing places will quickly remedy itself on busy lines of aërial traffic. The average railroad doing business in a densely populated section has stations once every eight or ten miles which with their sidings, buildings, water tanks, etc., cost far more than the field half a mile long with a few hangars that the fliers will need as a place of refuge. Indeed, although for its size and apparent simplicity of construction an airplane is phenomenally costly, in the grand total of cost an aërial line would cost a tithe of the ordinary railway. It has neither right of way, road bed, rails, nor telegraph system to maintain, and if the average flyer seems to cost amazingly it still foots up less than one fifth the cost of a modern locomotive though its period of service is much shorter. Just at the present time aircraft costs are high, based on artificial conditions in the market. Their construction is a new industry; its processes not yet standardized; its materials still experimental in many ways and not yet systematically produced. A light sporting monoplane which superficially seems to have about $250 worth of materials in it--exclusive of the engine--will cost about $3000. A fighting biplane will touch $10,000. Yet the latter seems to the lay observer to contain no costly materials to justify so great a charge. The wings are a light wooden framework, usually of spruce, across which a fine grade of linen cloth is stretched. The materials are simple enough, but every bit of wood, every screw, every strand of wire is selected with the utmost care, and the workmanship of their assemblage is as painstaking as the setting of the most precious stones. [Illustration: © International Film Service. _A German "Gotha"--their Favorite Type._] "REMEMBER THE LEAST NEGLIGENCE MAY COST A LIFE!" is a sign frequently seen hanging over the work benches in an airplane factory. When stretched over the framework, the cloth of the wings is treated to a dressing down of a preparation of collodion, which in the jargon of the shop is called "dope." This substance has a peculiar effect upon the cloth, causing it to shrink, and thus making it more taut and rigid than it could be by the most careful stretching. Though the layman would not suspect it, this wash alone costs about $150 a machine. The seaplanes too--or hydroaëroplanes as purists call them--present a curious illustration of unexpected and, it would seem, unexplainable expense. Where the flyer over land has two bicycle wheels on which to land, the flyer over the sea has two flat-bottomed boats or pontoons. These cost from $1000 to $1200 and look as though they should cost not over $100. But the necessity of combining maximum strength with minimum weight sends the price soaring as the machine itself soars. Moreover there is not yet the demand for either air-or seaplanes that would result in the division of labour, standardization of parts, and other manufacturing economies which reduce the cost of products. To the high cost of aircraft their comparative fragility is added as a reason for their unfitness for commercial uses. The engines cost from $2000 to $5000 each, are very delicate and usually must be taken out of the plane and overhauled after about 100 hours of active service. The strain on them is prodigious for it is estimated that the number of revolutions of an airplane's engine during an hour's flight is equal to the number of revolutions of an automobile's wheels during active service of a whole month. It is believed that the superior lightness and durability of the Liberty motor will obviate some of these objections to the commercial availability of aircraft in times of peace. And it is certain that with the cessation of the war, the retirement of the governments of the world from the purchasing field and the reduction of the demand for aircraft to such as are needed for pleasure and industrial uses the prices which we have cited will be cut in half. In such event what will be the future of aircraft; what their part in the social and industrial organization of the world? Ten or a dozen years ago Rudyard Kipling entertained the English reading public of the world with a vivacious sketch of aërial navigation in the year 2000 A.D. He used the license of a poet in avoiding too precise descriptions of what is to come--dealing rather with broad and picturesque generalizations. Now the year 2000 is still far enough away for pretty much anything to be invented, and to become commonplace before that era arrives. Airships of the sort Mr. Kipling pictured may by that period have come and gone--have been relegated to the museums along with the stage-coaches of yesterday and the locomotives of to-day. For that matter before that millennial period shall arrive men may have learned to dispense with material transportation altogether, and be able to project their consciousness or even their astral bodies to any desired point on psychic waves. If a poet is going to prophecy he might as well be audacious and even revolutionary in his predictions. Mr. Kipling tried so hard to be reasonable that he made himself recognizably wrong so far as the present tendency of aircraft development would indicate. _With the Night Mail_, is the story of a trip by night across the Atlantic from England to America. It is made in a monster dirigible--though the present tendency is to reject the dirigible for the swifter, less costly, and more airworthy (leave "seaworthy" to the plodding ships on old ocean's breast) airplanes. If, however, we condone this glaring improbability we find Mr. Kipling's tale full of action and imaginary incident that give it an air of truth. His ship is not docked on the ground at the tempest's mercy, but is moored high in air to the top of a tall tower up which passengers and freight are conveyed in elevators. His lighthouses send their beams straight up into the sky instead of projecting them horizontally as do those which now guard our coasts. Just why lighthouses are needed, however, he does not explain. There are no reefs on which a packet of the air may run, no lee shores which they must avoid. On overland voyages guiding lights by night may be useful, as great white direction strips laid out on the ground are even now suggested as guides for daylight flying. But the main reliance of the airman must be his compass. Crossing the broad oceans no lighted path is possible, and even in a voyage from New York to Chicago, or from London to Rome good airmanship will dictate flight at a height that will make reliance upon natural objects as a guide perilous. The airman has the advantage over the sailor in that he may lay his course on leaving his port, or flying field, and pursue it straight as an arrow to his destination. No rocks or other obstacles bar his path, no tortuous channels must be navigated. All that can divert him from his chosen course is a steady wind on the beam, and that is instantly detected by his instruments and allowance made for it. On the other hand the sailor has a certain advantage over the airman in that his more leisurely progress allows time for the rectification of errors in course arising from contrary currents or winds. An error of a point, or even two, amounts to but little in a day's steaming of perhaps four hundred miles. It can readily be remedied, unless the ship is too near shore. But when the whole three thousand miles of Atlantic are covered in twenty hours in the air, the course must be right from the start and exactly adhered to, else the passenger for New York may be set down in Florida. It is not improbable that even before the war is over the crossing of the Atlantic by plane will be accomplished. Certainly it will be one of the first tasks undertaken by airmen on the return of peace. But it is probable that the adaptation of aircraft to commercial uses will be begun with undertakings of smaller proportions. Already the United States maintains an aërial mail route in Alaska, while Italy has military mail routes served by airplanes in the Alps. These have been undertaken because of the physical obstacles to travel on the surface, presented in those rugged neighbourhoods. But in the more densely populated regions of the United States considerations of financial profit will almost certainly result in the early establishment of mail and passenger air service. Air service will cut down the time between any two given points at least one half, and ultimately two thirds. Letters could be sent from New York to Boston, or even to Buffalo, and an answer received the same day. The carrying plane could take on each trip five tons of mail. Philadelphia would be brought within forty-five minutes of New York; Washington within two hours instead of the present five. Is there any doubt of the creation of an aërial passenger service under such conditions? Already a Caproni triplane will carry thirty-five passengers beside guns--say, fifty passengers if all other load be excluded, and has flown with a lighter load from Newport News to New York. It is easily imaginable that by 1920 the airplane capable of carrying eighty persons--or the normal number now accommodated on an inter-urban trolley car--will be an accomplished fact. The lines that will thus spring up will need no rails, no right of way, no expensive power plant. Their physical property will be confined to the airplanes themselves and to the fields from which the craft rise and on which they alight, with the necessary hangars. These indeed will involve heavy expenditure. For a busy line, with frequent sailings, of high speed machines a field will need to be in the neighbourhood of a mile square. A plane swooping down for its landing is not to be held up at the switch like a train while room is made for it. It is an imperative guest, and cannot be gainsaid. Accordingly the fields must be large enough to accommodate scores of planes at once and give each new arrival a long straight course on which to run off its momentum. It is obvious therefore that the union stations for aircraft routes cannot be in the hearts of our cities as are the railroad stations of to-day, but must be fairly well out in the suburbs. A form of machine which the professional airmen say has yet to be developed is the small monoplane, carrying two passengers at most, and of low speed--not more than twenty miles an hour at most. In this age of speed mania the idea of deliberately planning a conveyance or vehicle that shall not exceed a low limit seems out of accord with public desire. But the low speed airplane has the advantage of needing no extended field in which to alight. It reaches the ground with but little momentum to be taken up and can be brought up standing on the roof of a house or the deck of a ship. Small machines of this sort are likely to serve as the runabouts of the air, to succeed the trim little automobile roadsters as pleasure craft. [Illustration: © International Film Service. _A French Monoplane._] The beginning of the fourth year of the war brought a notable change in aërial tactics. For three years everything had been sacrificed to speed. Such aërial duels as have been described were encouraged by the fact that aircraft were reduced to the proportions needful for carrying one man and a machine gun. The gallant flyers went up in the air and killed each other. That was about all there was to it. While as scouts, range finders, guides for the artillery, they exerted some influence on the course of the war, as a fighting arm in its earlier years, they were without efficiency. The bombing forays were harassing but little more, because the craft engaged were of too small capacity to carry enough bombs to work really serious damage, while the ever increasing range of the "Archies" compels the airmen to deliver their fire from so great a height as to make accurate aim impossible. [Illustration: Photo Press Illustrating Service. _A German Scout Brought to Earth in France._] But Kiel, Wilhelmshaven and Zeebrugge are likely to change all this. The constant contemplation of those nests for the sanctuary of pestiferous submarines, effectively guarded against attack by either land or water, has stirred up the determination of the Allies to seek their destruction from above. Heavy bombing planes are being built in all the Allied workshops for this purpose, and furthermore to give effect to the British determination to take vengeance upon Germany, for her raids upon London. It is reported that the United States, by agreement with its Allies, is to specialize in building the light, swift scout planes, but in other shops the heavy triplane, the dreadnought of the air is expected to be the feature of 1918. With it will come an entirely novel strategic use of aircraft in war, and with it too, which is perhaps the more permanently important, will come the development of aircraft of the sort that will be readily adaptable to the purposes of peace when the war shall end. THE SUBMARINE BOAT CHAPTER XI BEGINNINGS OF SUBMARINE INVENTION In September, 1914 the British Fleet in the North Sea had settled down to the monotonous task of holding the coasts of Germany and the channels leading to them in a state of blockade. The work was dismal enough. The ships tossing from day to day on the always unquiet waters of the North Sea were crowded with Jackies all of whom prayed each day that the German would come from hiding and give battle. Not far from the Hook of Holland engaged in this monotonous work were three cruisers of about 12,000 tons, each carrying 755 men and officers. They were the _Cressy_, _Aboukir_, and _Hogue_--not vessels of the first rank but still important factors in the British blockade. They were well within the torpedo belt and it may be believed that unceasing vigilance was observed on every ship. Nevertheless without warning the other two suddenly saw the _Aboukir_ overwhelmed by a flash of fire, a pillar of smoke and a great geyser of water that rose from the sea and fell heavily upon her deck. Instantly followed a thundering explosion as the magazines of the doomed ship went off. Within a very few minutes, too little time to use their guns against the enemy had they been able to see him, or to lower their boats, the _Aboukir_ sank leaving the crew floundering in the water. In the distance lay the German submarine U-9--one of the earliest of her class in service. From her conning tower Captain Weddigen had viewed the tragedy. Now seeing the two sister ships speeding to the rescue he quickly submerged. It may be noted that as a result of what followed, orders were given by the British Admiralty that in the event of the destruction of a ship by a submarine others in the same squadron should not come to the rescue of the victim, but scatter as widely as possible to avoid a like fate. In this instance the _Hogue_ and the _Cressy_ hurried to the spot whence the _Aboukir_ had vanished and began lowering their boats. Hardly had they begun the work of mercy when a torpedo from the now unseen foe struck the _Hogue_ and in twenty minutes she too had vanished. While she was sinking the _Cressy_, with all guns ready for action and her gunners scanning the sea in every direction for this deadly enemy, suddenly felt the shock of a torpedo and, her magazines having been set off, followed her sister ships to the ocean's bed. In little more than half an hour thirty-six thousand tons of up-to-date British fighting machinery, and more than 1200 gallant blue jackets had been sent to the depths of the North Sea by a little boat of 450 tons carrying a crew of twenty-six men. The world stood aghast. With the feeling of horror at the swift death of so many caused by so few, there was mingled a feeling of amazement at the scientific perfection of the submarine, its power, and its deadly work. Men said it was the end of dreadnoughts, battleships, and cruisers, but the history of the war has shown singularly few of these destroyed by submarines since the first novelty of the attack wore off. The world at the moment seemed to think that the submarine was an entirely new idea and invention. But like almost everything else it was merely the ultimate reduction to practical use of an idea that had been germinating in the mind of man from the earliest days of history. We need not trouble ourselves with the speculations of Alexander the Great, Aristotle, and Pliny concerning "underwater" activities. Their active minds gave consideration to the problem, but mainly as to the employment of divers. Not until the first part of the sixteenth century do we find any very specific reference to actual underwater boats. That appears in a book of travels by Olaus Magnus, Archbishop of Upsala in Sweden. Notwithstanding the gentleman's reverend quality, one must question somewhat the veracity of the chapter which he heads: "Of the Leather Ships Made of Hides Used by the Pyrats of Greenland." He professed to have seen two of these "ships," more probably boats, hanging in a cathedral church in Greenland. With these singular vessels, according to his veracious reports the people of that country could navigate under water and attack stranger ships from beneath. "For the Inhabitants of that Countrey are wont to get small profits by the spoils of others," he wrote, "by these and the like treacherous Arts, who by their thieving wit, and by boring a hole privately in the sides of the ships beneath (as I said) have let in the water and presently caused them to sink." Leaving the tale of the Archbishop where we think it must belong in the realm of fiction, we may note that it was not until the beginning of the seventeenth century that the first submarine boat was actually built and navigated. A Hollander, Cornelius Drebel, or Van Drebel, born in 1572, in the town of Alkmaar, had come to London during the reign of James I., who became his patron and friend. Drebel seems to have been a serious student of science and in many ways far ahead of his times. Moreover, he had the talent of getting next to royalty. In 1620 he first conceived the idea of building a submarine. Fairly detailed descriptions of his boats--he built three from 1620-1624--and of their actual use, have been handed down to us by men whose accuracy and truthfulness cannot be doubted. The Honorable Robert Boyle, a scientist of unquestioned seriousness, tells in his _New Experiments, Physico-Mechanical touching the Spring of the Air and its Effects_ about Drebel's work in the quaint language of his time: But yet on occasion of this opinion of Paracelsus, perhaps it will not be impertinent if, before I proceed, I acquaint your Lordship with a conceit of that deservedly famous mechanician and Chymist, Cornelius Drebel, who, among other strange things that he perform'd, is affirm'd, by more than a few credible persons, to have contrived for the late learned King James, a vessel to go under water; of which, trial was made in the Thames, with admired success, the vessel carrying twelve rowers, besides passengers; one which is yet alive, and related it to an excellent Mathematician that informed me of it. Now that for which I mention this story is, that having had the curiosity and opportunity to make particular inquiries among the relations of Drebel, and especially of an ingenious physician that married his daughter, concerning the grounds upon which he conceived it feasible to make men unaccustomed to continue so long under water without suffocation, or (as the lately mentioned person that went in the vessel affirms) without inconvenience; I was answered, that Drebel conceived, that it is not the whole body of the air, but a certain quintessence (as Chymists speak) or spirituous part of it, that makes it fit for respiration; which being spent, the remaining grosser body, or carcase, if I may so call it, of the air, is unable to cherish the vital flame residing in the heart; so that, for aught I could gather, besides the mechanical contrivances of his vessel, he had a chymical liquor, which he accounted the chief secret of his submarine navigation. For when, from time to time, he conceived that the finer and purer part of the air was consumed, or over-clogged by the respiration and steam of those that went in his ship, he would by unstopping a vessel full of this liquor, speedily restore to the troubled air such a proportion of vital parts, as would make it again, for a good while, fit for respiration whether by dissipating, or precipitating the grosser exhalations, or by some other intelligible way, I must not now stay to examine, contenting myself to add, that having had the opportunity to do some service to those of his relations that were most intimate with him, and having made it my business to learn what this strange liquor might be, they constantly affirmed that Drebel would never disclose the liquor unto any, nor so much as tell the nature whereof he had made it, to above one person, who himself assured me what it was. This most curious narrative suggests that in some way Drebel, who died in London in 1634, had discovered the art of compressing oxygen and conceived the idea of making it serviceable for freshening the air in a boat, or other place, contaminated by the respiration of a number of men for a long time. Indeed the reference made to the substance by which Drebel purified the atmosphere in his submarine as "a liquor" suggests that he may possibly have hit upon the secret of liquid air which late in the nineteenth century caused such a stir in the United States. Of his possession of some such secret there can be no doubt whatsoever, for Samuel Pepys refers in his famous diary to a lawsuit, brought in the King's Courts by the heirs of Drebel, to secure the secret for their own use. What was the outcome of the suit or the subsequent history of Drebel's invention history does not record. Throughout the next 150 years a large number of inventors and near-inventors occupied themselves with the problem of the submarine. Some of these men went no further than to draw plans and to write out descriptions of what appeared to them to be feasible submarine boats. Others took one step further, by taking out patents, but only very few of the submarine engineers of this period had either the means or the courage to test their inventions in the only practicable way, by building an experimental boat and using it. In spite of this apparent lack of faith on the part of the men who worked on the submarine problem, it would not be fair to condemn them as fakirs. Experimental workers, in those times, had to face many difficulties which were removed in later times. The study of science and the examination of the forces of nature were not only not as popular as they became later, but frequently were looked upon as blasphemous, savouring of sorcery, or as a sign of an unbalanced mind. [Illustration: © Kadel & Herbert. _A Gas Attack Photographed from an Airplane._] England and France supplied most of the men who occupied themselves with the submarine problem between 1610 and 1760. Of the Englishmen, the following left records of one kind or another concerning their labours in this direction. Richard Norwood, in 1632, was granted a patent for a contrivance which was apparently little more than a diving apparatus. In 1648, Bishop Wilkins published a book, _Mathematical Magick_, which was full of rather grotesque projects and which contained one chapter on the possibility "of framing an ark for submarine navigation." In 1691, patents were granted on engines connected with submarine navigation to John Holland--curious forerunner of a name destined to be famous two hundred years later--and on a submarine boat to Sir Stephen Evance. In Prance, two priests, Fathers Mersenne and Fournier, published in 1634 a small book called _Questions Théologiques, Physiques, Morales et Mathématiques_, which contained a detailed description of a submarine boat. They suggested that the hull of submarines ought to be of metal and not of wood, and that their shape ought to be as nearly fishlike as possible. Nearly three hundred years have hardly altered these opinions. Ancient French records also tell us that six years later, in 1640, the King of France had granted a patent to Jean Barrié, permitting him during the next twelve years to fish at the bottom of the sea with his boat. Unluckily Barrié's fish stories have expired with his permit. In 1654, a French engineer, De Son, is said to have built at Rotterdam a submarine boat. Little is known concerning this vessel except that it was reported to have been seventy-two feet long, twelve feet high, and eight feet broad, and to have been propelled by a paddlewheel instead of oars. Borelli, about whom very little seems to be known, is credited with having invented in 1680 a submarine boat, whose descent and ascent were regulated by a series of leather bottles placed in the hull of the boat with their mouths open to the surrounding water. The English magazine, _Graphic_, published a picture which is considered the oldest known illustration of any submarine boat. This picture matches in all details the description of Borelli's boat, but it is credited to a man called Symons. Twenty-seven years later, in 1774, another Englishman, J. Day, built a small submarine boat, and after fairly extensive experiments, descended in his boat in Plymouth harbour. This descent is of special interest because we have a more detailed record of it than of any previous submarine exploit, and because Day is the first submarine inventor who lost his life in the attempt to prove the feasibility of his invention. The _Annual Register_ of 1774 gives a narration in detail of Day's experiments and death and inasmuch as this is the first ungarbled report of a submarine descent, it may be quoted at length. _Authentic account of a late unfortunate transaction, with respect to a diving machine at Plymouth._ Mr. Day (the sole projector of the scheme, and, as matters have turned out, the unhappy sacrifice to his own ingenuity) employed his thoughts for some years past in planning a method of sinking a vessel under water, with a man in it, who should live therein for a certain time, and then by his own means only, bring himself up to the surface. After much study he conceived that his plan could be reduced into practice. He communicated his idea in the part of the country where he lived, and had the most sanguine hopes of success. He went so far as to try his project in the Broads near Yarmouth. He fitted a Norwich market-boat for his purpose, sunk himself thirty feet under water, where he continued during the space of twenty-four hours, and executed his design to his own entire satisfaction. Elated with this success, he then wanted to avail himself of his invention. He conversed with his friends, convinced them that he had brought his undertaking to a certainty; but how to reap the advantage of it was the difficulty that remained. The person in whom he confided suggested to him, that, if he acquainted the sporting Gentlemen with the discovery, and the certainty of the performance, considerable betts would take place, as soon as the project would be mentioned in company. The Sporting Kalendar was immediately looked into, and the name of Blake soon occurred; that gentleman was fixed upon as the person to whom Mr. Day ought to address himself. Accordingly, Mr. Blake, in the month of November last, received the following letter: "SIR, "I found out an affair by which many thousands may be won; it is of a paradoxical nature, but can be performed with ease; therefore, sir, if you chuse to be informed of it, and give me one hundred pounds of every thousand you shall win by it, I will very readily wait upon you and inform you of it. I am myself but a poor mechanic and not able to make anything by it without your assistance. "Your's, etc. "J. DAY." Mr. Blake had no conception of Mr. Day's design, nor was he sure that the letter was serious. To clear the matter up, he returned for answer, that, if Mr. Day would come to town, and explain himself, Mr. Blake would consider of the proposal. If he approved of it, Mr. Day should have the recompence he desired; if, on the other hand, the plan should be rejected, Mr. Blake would make him a present to defray the expences of his journey. In a short time after Mr. Day came to town; Mr. Blake saw him and desired to know what secret he was possessed of. The man replied, "that he could sink a ship 100 feet deep in the sea with himself in it, and remain therein for the space of 24 hours, without communication with anything above; and at the expiration of the time, rise up again in the vessel." The proposal, in all its parts, was new to Mr. Blake. He took down the particulars, and, after considering the matter, desired some kind of proof of the practicability. The man added that if Mr. Blake would furnish him with the materials necessary, he would give him an occular demonstration. A model of the vessel, with which he was to perform the experiment, was then required, and in three or four weeks accomplished, so as to give a perfect idea of the principle upon which the scheme was to be executed, and, in time, a very plausible promise of success, not to Mr. Blake only, but many other gentlemen who were consulted upon the occasion. The consequence was, that Mr. Blake, agreeably to the man's desire, advanced money for the construction of a vessel fit for that purpose. Mr. Day, thus assisted, went to Plymouth with his model, and set a man in that place to work upon it. The pressure of the water at 100 feet deep was a circumstance of which Mr. Blake was advised, and touching that article he gave the strongest precautions to Mr. Day, telling him, at any expence, to fortify the chamber in which he was to subsist, against the weight of such a body of water. Mr. Day set off in great spirits for Plymouth, and seemed so confident, that Mr. Blake made a bett that the project would succeed, reducing, however, the depth of water from 100 yards to 100 feet, and the time from 24 to 12 hours. By the terms of the wager, the experiment was to be made within three months from the date; but so much time was necessary for due preparation, that on the appointed day things were not in readiness and Mr. Blake lost the bett. [Illustration: Photo by International Film Service. _A French Nieuport Dropping a Bomb._] In some short time afterwards the vessel was finished, and Mr. Day still continued eager for the carrying of his plan into execution; he was uneasy at the idea of dropping the scheme and wished for an opportunity to convince Mr. Blake that he could perform what he had undertaken. He wrote from Plymouth that everything was in readiness and should be executed the moment Mr. Blake arrived. Induced by this promise, Mr. Blake set out for Plymouth; upon his arrival a trial was made in Cat-water, where Mr. Day lay, during the flow of tide, six hours, and six more during the tide of ebb; confined all the time in the room appropriated for his use. A day for the final determination was fixed; the vessel was towed to the place agreed upon; Mr. Day provided himself with whatever he thought necessary; he went into the vessel, let the water into her and with great composure retired to the room constructed for him, and shut up the valve. The ship went gradually down in 22 fathoms of water at 2 o'clock on Tuesday, June 28, in the afternoon, being to return at 2 the next morning. He had three buoys or messengers, which he could send to the surface at option, to announce his situation below; but, none appearing, Mr. Blake, who was near at hand in a barge, began to entertain some suspicion. He kept a strict lookout, and at the time appointed, neither the buoys nor the vessel coming up, he applied to the _Orpheus_ frigate, which lay just off the barge, for assistance. The captain with the most ready benevolence supplied them with everything in his power to seek for the ship. Mr. Blake, in this alarming situation was not content with the help of the _Orpheus_ only; he made immediate application to Lord Sandwich (who happened to be at Plymouth) for further relief. His Lordship with great humanity ordered a number of hands from the dock-yard, who went with the utmost alacrity and tried every effort to regain the ship, but unhappily without effect. Thus ended this unfortunate affair. Mr. Blake had not experience enough to judge of all possible contingencies, and he had now only to lament the credulity with which he listened to a projector, fond of his own scheme but certainly not possessed of skill enough to guard against the variety of accidents to which he was liable. The poor man has unfortunately shortened his days; he was not however tempted or influenced by anybody; he confided in his own judgment, and put his life to the hazard upon his own mistaken notions. Many and various have been the opinions on this strange, useless, and fatal experiment, though the more reasonable part of mankind seemed to give it up as wholly impracticable. It is well-known, that pent-up air, when overcharged with the vapours emitted out of animal bodies, becomes unfit for respiration; for which reason, those confined in the diving-bell, after continuing some time under water are obliged to come up, and take in fresh air, or by some such means recruit it. That any man should be able after having sunk a vessel to so great a depth, to make that vessel at pressure, so much more specifically lighter than water, as thereby to enable it to force its way to the surface, through the depressure of so great a weight, is a matter not hastily to be credited. Even cork, when sunk to a certain depth will, by the great weight of the fluid upon it, be prevented from rising. The English of the _Annual Register_ leaves much to be desired in clarity. It makes reasonably clear, however, that the unfortunate Mr. Day's knowledge of submarine conditions was, by no means, equal to Mr. Blake's sporting spirit. Even to-day one hundred feet is an unusual depth of submersion for the largest submarines. The credit for using a submarine boat for the first time in actual warfare belongs to a Yankee, David Bushnell. He was born in Saybrook, Connecticut, and graduated from Yale with the class of 1775. While still in college he was interested in science and as far as his means and opportunities allowed, he devoted a great deal of his time and energy to experimental work. The problem which attracted his special attention was how to explode powder under water, and before very long he succeeded in solving this to his own satisfaction as well as to that of a number of prominent people amongst whom were the Governor of Connecticut and his Council. Bushnell's experiments, of course, fell in the period during which the Revolutionary War was fought, and when he had completed his invention, there naturally presented itself to him a further problem. How could his device be used for the benefit of his country and against the British ships which were then threatening New York City? As a means to this end, Bushnell planned and built a submarine boat which on account of its shape is usually called the _Turtle_. General Washington thought very highly of Bushnell, whom he called in a letter to Thomas Jefferson "a man of great mechanical powers, fertile in inventions and master of execution." In regard to Bushnell's submarine boat the same letter, written after its failure, says: "I thought and still think that it was an effort of genius, but that too many things were necessary to be combined to expect much against an enemy who are always on guard." During the whole period of the building of the _Turtle_ Bushnell was in ill health. Otherwise he would have navigated it on its trial trip himself for he was a man of undoubted courage and wrapped up alike in the merits of his invention and in the possibility of utilizing it to free New York from the constant ignominy of the presence of British ships in its harbour. But his health made this out of the question. Accordingly he taught his brother the method of navigating the craft, but at the moment for action the brother too fell ill. It became necessary to hire an operator. This was by no means easy as volunteers to go below the water in a submarine boat of a type hitherto undreamed of, and to attach an explosive to the hull of a British man-of-war, the sentries upon which were presumably especially vigilant, being in a hostile harbour, was an adventure likely to attract only the most daring and reckless spirits. In a letter to Thomas Jefferson, other portions of which we shall have occasion to quote later, Bushnell refers to this difficulty in finding a suitable operator and tells briefly and with evident chagrin the story of the failure of the attempts made to utilize successfully his submarine: [Illustration: Photo by U. & U. _A Bomb-Dropping Taube._] After various attempts to find an operator to my wish, I sent one who appeared more expert than the rest from New York to a 50-gun ship lying not far from Governor's Island. He went under the ship and attempted to fix the wooden screw into her bottom, but struck, as he supposes, a bar of iron which passes from the rudder hinge, and is spiked under the ship's quarter. Had he moved a few inches, which he might have done without rowing, I have no doubt but he would have found wood where he might have fixed the screw, or if the ship were sheathed with copper he might easily have pierced it; but, not being well skilled in the management of the vessel, in attempting to move to another place he lost the ship. After seeking her in vain for some time, he rowed some distance and rose to the surface of the water, but found daylight had advanced so far that he durst not renew the attempt. He says that he could easily have fastened the magazine under the stem of the ship above water, as he rowed up to the stern and touched it before he descended. Had he fastened it there the explosion of 150 lbs. of powder (the quantity contained in the magazine) must have been fatal to the ship. In his return from the ship to New York he passed near Governor's Island, and thought he was discovered by the enemy on the island. Being in haste to avoid the danger he feared, he cast off the magazine, as he imagined it retarded him in the swell, which was very considerable. After the magazine had been cast off one hour, the time the internal apparatus was set to run, it blew up with great violence. Afterwards there were two attempts made in Hudson's River, above the city, but they effected nothing. One of them was by the aforementioned person. In going towards the ship he lost sight of her, and went a great distance beyond her. When he at length found her the tide ran so strong that, as he descended under water for the ship's bottom, it swept him away. Soon after this the enemy went up the river and pursued the boat which had the submarine vessel on board and sunk it with their shot. Though I afterwards recovered the vessel, I found it impossible at that time to prosecute the design any farther. The operator to whom Bushnell had entrusted his submarine boat was a typical Yankee, Ezra Lee of Lyme, Connecticut. His story of the adventure differs but little from that of Bushnell, but it is told with a calm indifference to danger and a seeming lack of any notion of the extraordinary in what he had done that gives an idea of the man. "When I rode under the stern of the ship [the _Eagle_] I could see the men on deck and hear them talk," he wrote. "I then shut down all the doors, sunk down, and came up under the bottom of the ship." This means that he hermetically sealed himself inside of a craft, shaped like two upper turtle shells joined together--hence the name of the _Turtle_. He had entered through the orifice at the top, whence the head of the turtle usually protrudes. This before sinking he had covered and made water-tight by screwing down upon it a brass crown or top like that to a flask. Within he had enough air to support him thirty minutes. The vessel stood upright, not flat as a turtle carries himself. It was maintained in this position by lead ballast. Within the operator occupied an upright position, half sitting, half standing. To sink water was admitted, which gathered in the lower part of the boat, while to rise again this was expelled by a force pump. There were ventilators and portholes for the admission of light and air when operating on the surface, but once the cap was screwed down the operator was in darkness. In this craft, which suggests more than anything else a curiously shaped submarine coffin, Lee drifted along by the side of the ship, navigating with difficulty with his single oar and seeking vainly to find some spot to which he might affix his magazine. A fact which might have disquieted a more nervous man was that the clockwork of this machine was running and had been set to go off in an hour from the time the voyage was undertaken. As to almost anyone in that position minutes would seem hours, the calmness of sailor Lee's nerves seems to be something beyond the ordinary. When he finally abandoned the attempt on the _Eagle_ he started up the bay. Off Governor's Island he narrowly escaped capture. When I was abreast of the Fort on the Island three hundred or four hundred men got upon the parapet to observe me; at length a number came down to the shore, shoved off a twelve oar'd barge with five or six sitters and pulled for me. I eyed them, and when they had got within fifty or sixty yards of me I let loose the magazine in hopes that if they should take me they would likewise pick up the magazine and then we should all be blown up together. But as kind providence would have it they took fright and returned to the Island to my infinite joy.... The magazine after getting a little past the Island went off with a tremendous explosion, throwing up large bodies of water to an immense height. During the last quarter of the eighteenth and during the first half of the nineteenth century France was the chief centre for the activities of submarine inventors. However, very few of the many plans put forward in this period were executed. The few exceptions resulted in little else than trial boats which usually did not live up to the expectations of their inventors or their financial backers and were, therefore, discarded in quick order. In spite of this lack of actual results this particular period was of considerable importance to the later development of the submarine. Almost every one of the many boats then projected or built contained some innovation and in this way some of the many obstacles were gradually overcome. Strictly speaking the net result of the experimental work done during these seventy-five years by a score or more of men, most of whom were French, though a few were English, was the creation of a more sane and sound basis on which, before long, other men began to build with greater success. The one notable accomplishment of interest, especially to Americans, was the submarine built in 1800-01 by Robert Fulton. Fulton, of course, is far better known by his work in connection with the discovery and development of steam navigation. Born in Pennsylvania in 1765, he early showed marked mechanical genius. In 1787 he went to England with the purpose of studying art under the famous painter West, but soon began to devote most of his time and energy to mechanical problems. Not finding in England as much encouragement as he had hoped, he went, in 1797, to Paris and, for the next seven years, lived there in the house of the American Minister, Joel Barlow. As soon as he had settled down in France, he offered his plans of a submarine boat which he called the _Nautilus_ to the French Government. Though a special commission reported favourably on this boat, the opposition of the French Minister of the Marine was too strong to be overcome, even after another commission had approved a model built by Fulton. In 1800, however, he was successful in gaining the moral and financial support of Napoleon Bonaparte, then First Consul of the French Republic. Fulton immediately proceeded to build the _Nautilus_ and completed the boat in May, 1801. It was cigar-shaped, about seven feet in diameter and over twenty-one feet in length. The hull was of copper strengthened by iron ribs. The most noticeable features were a collapsible mast and sail and a small conning tower at the forward end. The boat was propelled by a wheel affixed to the centre of the stern and worked by a hand-winch. A rudder was used for steering, and increased stability was gained by a keel which ran the whole length of the hull. [Illustration: © U. & U. _A Captured German Fokker Exhibited at the Invalides._] Soon after completion the boat was taken out for a number of trial trips all of which were carried out with signal success and finally culminated, on June 26, 1801, in the successful blowing up of an old ship furnished by the French Government. Although the _Nautilus_ created a great sensation, popular as well as official interest began soon to flag. Fulton received no further encouragement and finally gave up his submarine experiments. [Illustration: © U. & U. _A British Seaplane with Folding Wings._] In 1806 he returned to America. By 1814 he had built another submarine boat which he called the _Mute_. It was, comparatively speaking, of immense size, being over eighty feet long, twenty-one feet wide, and fourteen feet deep and accommodating a hundred men. It was iron-plated on top and derived its peculiar name from the fact that it was propelled by a noiseless engine. Before its trials could be completed, Fulton died on February 24, 1815, and no one seemed to have sufficient interest or faith in his new boat to continue his work. In the middle of the nineteenth century for the first time a German became seriously interested in submarines. His name was Wilhelm Bauer. He was born in 1822 in a small town in Bavaria and, though a turner by trade, joined the army in 1842. Bauer was even in his youth of a highly inventive turn of mind. He possessed an indomitable will and an unlimited supply of enthusiasm. Step by step he acquired, in what little time he could spare from his military duties, the necessary mechanical knowledge, and finally, supported financially by a few loyal friends and patrons, he built his first submarine at Kiel at a cost of about $2750. It sank to the bottom on its first trial trip, fortunately without anyone on board. Undaunted he continued his efforts. When he found that his support at Kiel was weakening, he promptly went to Austria. In spite of glowing promises, opposition on the part of some officials deprived Bauer of the promised assistance. He went then to England and succeeded in enlisting the interest of the Prince Consort. A boat was built according to Bauer's plans, which, however, he was forced by the interference of politicians to change to such an extent that it sank on its first trial with considerable loss of life. Still full of faith in his ability to produce a successful submarine, Bauer now went to Russia. In 1855, he built a boat at St. Petersburg and had it accepted by the Russian Government. It was called _Le Diable Marin_ and looked very much like a dolphin. Its length was fifty-two feet, its beam twelve feet five inches, and its depth eleven feet. Its hull was of iron. A propeller, worked by four wheels, furnished motive power. Submersion and stability were regulated by four cylinders into which water could be pumped at will. The first trial of the boat was made on May 26, 1856, and was entirely successful. In later trials as many as fourteen men at a time descended in _Le Diable Marin_. It is said that Bauer made a total of 134 trips on his boat. All but two were carried out successfully. At one time, however, the propeller was caught in some seaweed and it was only by the quickest action that all the water was pumped out and the bow of the boat allowed to rise out of the water, so that the occupants managed to escape by means of the hatchway. Like Fulton in France, Bauer now experienced in Russia a sudden decrease of official interest. When he finally lost his boat, about four weeks later, he also lost his courage, and in 1858 he returned to Germany where he later died in comparative poverty. Contemporary with Bauer's submarines and immediately following them were a large number of other boats. Some of these were little more than freaks. Others failed in certain respects but added new features to the sum-total of submarine inventions. As early as 1854, M. Marié-Davy, Professor of Chemistry at Montpellier University, suggested an electro-magnetic engine as motive power. In 1855 a well-known engineer, J. Nasmith, suggested a submerged motor, driven by a steam engine. None of the boats of this period proved successful enough, however, to receive more than passing notice, and very few, indeed, ever reached the trial stage. But before long the rapid development of internal-combustion engines and the immense progress made in the study of electricity was to advance the development of submarines by leaps and bounds. CHAPTER XII THE COMING OF STEAM AND ELECTRICITY In the fall of 1863, the Federal fleet was blockading the harbour of Charleston, S. C. Included among the many ships was one of the marvels of that period, the United States battleship _Ironsides_. Armour-plated and possessing what was then considered a wonderful equipment of high calibred guns and a remarkably trained crew, she was the terror of the Confederates. None of their ships could hope to compete with her and the land batteries of the Southern harbour were powerless to reach her. [Illustration: © U. & U. _A British Anti-Aircraft Gun._] During the night of October 5, 1863, the officer of the watch on board the _Ironsides_, Ensign Howard, suddenly observed a small object looking somewhat like a pleasure boat, floating close to his own ship. Before Ensign Howard's order to fire at it could be executed, the _Ironsides_ was shaken from bow to stern, an immense column of water was thrown up and flooded her deck and engine room, and Ensign Howard fell, mortally wounded. The little floating object was responsible for all this. It was a Confederate submersible boat, only fifty feet long and nine feet in diameter, carrying a fifteen-foot spar-torpedo. She had been named _David_ and the Confederate authorities hoped to do away by means of her with the Goliaths of the Federal navy. Manned only by five men, under the command of Lieutenant W. T. Glassel, driven by a small engine and propeller, she had managed to come up unobserved within striking distance of the big battleship. The attack, however, was unsuccessful. The _Ironsides_ was undamaged. On the other hand the plucky little _David_ had been disabled to such an extent that her crew had to abandon her and take to the water, allowing their boat to drift without motive power. Four of them were later picked up. According to an account in Barnes, _Torpedoes and Torpedo Warfare_, the engineer, after having been in the water for some time, found himself near her and succeeded in getting on board. He relighted her fires and navigated his little boat safely back to Charleston. There she remained, making occasional unsuccessful sallies against the Federal fleet, and when Charleston was finally occupied by the Federal forces, she was found there. In spite of this failure the Confederates continued their attempts to break the blockade of their most important port by submarine devices. A new and somewhat improved _David_ was ordered and built at another port. News of this somehow reached the Federal Navy Department and was immediately communicated to Vice-Admiral Dahlgren, in command of the blockading fleet. Despite this warning and instructions to all the officers of the fleet, the second _David_ succeeded in crossing Charleston bar. This new boat was a real diving submarine boat and though frequently called _David_ had been christened the _Hundley_. It had been built in the shipyards of McClintock & Hundley at Mobile, Alabama, and had been brought to Charleston by rail. On her trial she proved very clumsy and difficult to manage. For her first trip a crew of nine men volunteered. Not having any conning tower it was necessary that one of the hatchways should be left open while the boat travelled on the surface so that the steersman could find his bearings. While she was on her first trip, the swell from a passing boat engulfed her. Before the hatchway could be closed, she filled with water. Of course, she sank like a piece of lead and her entire crew, with the exception of the steersman, was drowned. In spite of this mishap the _Hundley_ was raised and again put in commission. Lieutenant Payne who had steered her on her first fatal trip had lost neither his courage nor faith and again assumed command of her. Soon after she started on her second trip a sudden squall arose. Before the hatchways could be closed, she again filled with water and sank, drowning all of her crew with the exception of Lieutenant Payne and two of his men. Undaunted he took her out on a third trip after she had again been raised. Ill luck still pursued her. Off Fort Sumter she was capsized and this time four of her crew were drowned. The difficulties encountered in sailing the _Hundley_ on the surface of the water apparently made no difference when it came to finding new crews for her. By this time, however, the powers that be had become anxious that their submarine boat should accomplish something against an enemy, instead of drowning only her own men and it was decided to use her on the next trip in a submerged state. Again Lieutenant Payne was entrusted with her guidance. Her hatches were closed, her water tanks filled, and she was off for her first dive. Something went wrong however; either too much water had been put in her tanks or else the steering gear refused to work. At any rate she hit the muddy bottom with such force that her nose became deeply imbedded and before she could work herself free her entire crew of eight was suffocated. Lieutenant Payne himself lost his life which he had risked so valiantly and frequently before. Once more she was raised and once more volunteers rushed to man her. On the fifth trip, however, the _Hundley_, while travelling underwater, became entangled in the anchor chains of a boat she passed and was held fast so long that her crew of nine were dead when she was finally disentangled and raised. Thirty-five lives had so far been lost without any actual results having been accomplished. In spite of this a new crew was found. Her commander, Lieutenant Dixon, was ordered to make an attack against the Federal fleet immediately, using, however, the boat as a submersible instead of a submarine. Admiral David Porter in his _Naval History of the Civil War_ described the attack, which was directed against the U. S. S. _Housatonic_, one of the newest Federal battleships, as follows: At about 8.45 P. M., the officer of the deck on board the unfortunate vessel discovered something about one hundred yards away, moving along the water. It came directly towards the ship, and within two minutes of the time it was first sighted was alongside. The cable was slipped, the engines backed, and all hands called to quarters. But it was too late--the torpedo struck the _Housatonic_ just forward of the mainmast, on the starboard side, on a line with the magazine. The man who steered her (the _Hundley_) knew where the vital spots of the steamer were and he did his work well. When the explosion took place the ship trembled all over as if by the shock of an earthquake, and seemed to be lifted out of the water, and then sank stern foremost, heeling to port as she went down. Only a part of the _Housatonic's_ complement was saved. Of the _Hundley_ no trace was discovered and she was believed to have escaped. Three years later, however, divers who had been sent down to examine the hull of the _Housatonic_ found the little submarine stuck in the hole made by her attack on the larger ship and inside of her the bodies of her entire crew. The submarines and near-submarines built in the United States during the Civil War were remarkable rather for what they actually accomplished than for what they contributed towards the development of submarine boats. Perhaps the greatest service which they rendered in the latter direction was that they proved to the satisfaction of many scientific men that submarine boats really held vast possibilities as instruments of naval warfare. France still retained its lead in furnishing new submarine projects. One of these put forward in 1861 by Olivier Riou deserves mention because it provided for two boats, one driven by steam and one by electricity. Both of these submarines were built, but inasmuch as nothing is known of the result of their trials, it is safe to conclude that neither of them proved of any practical value. Two years later, in 1863, two other Frenchmen, Captain Bourgeois and M. Brun, built at Rochefort a submarine 146 feet long and 12 feet in diameter which they called the _Plongeur_. They fitted it with a compressed-air engine of eighty horse-power. Extensive trials were made with this boat but resulted only in the discovery that, though it was possible to sink or rise with a boat of this type without great difficulty, it was impossible to keep her at an even keel for any length of time. During the next few years, undoubtedly as a result of the submarine activities during the Civil War, a number of projects were put forward in the United States, none of which, however, turned out successfully. One of them, for which a man by the name of Halstead was responsible, was a submarine built for the United States Navy in 1865. It was not tried out until 1872 and it was not even successful in living up to its wonderful name, _The Intelligent Whale_. Its first trial almost resulted in loss of life and was never repeated. In spite of this, however, the boat was preserved and may still be seen at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. In the meantime, an invention had been made by an Austrian artillery officer which before long was to exert a powerful influence on submarine development, though it was in no sense a submarine boat. The manner in which the submarines had attacked their opponents during the Civil War suggested to him the need of improvements in this direction. As a result he conceived a small launch which was to carry the explosive without any navigators. Before he could carry his plans very far he died. A brother officer in the navy continued his work and finally interested the manager of an English engineering firm located at Fiume, Mr. Whitehead. The result of the collaboration of these two men was the Whitehead torpedo. A series of experiments led to the construction of what was first called a "Submarine Locomotive" torpedo, which not only contained a sufficient quantity of explosives to destroy large boats, but was also enabled by mechanical means to propel itself and keep on its course after having been fired. The Austrian Government was the first one to adopt this new weapon. Whitehead, however, refused to grant a monopoly to the Austrians and in 1870 he sold his manufacturing rights and secret processes to the British Government for a consideration of $45,000. Before very long, special boats were built for the purpose of carrying and firing these torpedoes and gradually every great power developed a separate torpedo flotilla. Hand in hand with this development a large number of improvements were made on the original torpedo and some of these devices proved of great usefulness in the development of submarine boats. The public interest in submarines grew rapidly at this time. Every man who was a boy in 1873, or who had the spirit of boyhood in him then,--or perhaps now,--will remember the extraordinary piece of literary and imaginative prophecy achieved by Jules Verne in his novel _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_. Little about the _Nautilus_ that held all readers entranced throughout his story is lacking in the submarines of to-day except indeed its extreme comfort, even luxury. With those qualities our submarine navigators have to dispense. But the electric light, as we know it, was unknown in Verne's time yet he installed it in the boat of his fancy. Our modern internal-combustion engines were barely dreamed of, yet they drove his boat. His fancy even enabled him to foresee one of the most amazing features of the Lake boat of to-day, namely the compressed air chamber which opened to the sea still holds the water back, and enables the submarine navigator clad in a diver's suit to step into the wall of water and prosecute his labors on the bed of the ocean. Jules Verne even foresaw the callous and inhuman character of the men who command the German submarines to-day. His Captain Nemo had taken a vow of hate against the world and relentlessly drove the prow of his steel boat into the hulls of crowded passenger ships, finding his greatest joy in sinking slowly beside them with the bright glare of his submarine electric lights turned full upon the hapless women and children over whose sufferings he gloated as they sank. The man who sank the _Lusitania_ could do no more. More and more determined became the attempts to build submarine boats that could sink and rise easily, navigate safely and quickly, and sustain human beings under the surface of the water for a considerable length of time. Steam, compressed air, and electricity were called upon to do their share in accomplishing this desired result. Engineers in every part of the world began to interest themselves in the submarine problem and as a result submarine boats in numbers were either projected or built between 1875 and 1900. One of the most persistent workers in this period was a well-known Swedish inventor, Nordenfeldt, who had established for himself a reputation by inventing a gun which even to-day has lost nothing of its fame. In 1881 he became interested in the work which had been done by an English clergyman named Garret. The latter had built a submarine boat which he called the _Resurgam_ (I shall rise)--thus neatly combining a sacred promise with a profane purpose. In 1879 another boat was built by him driven by a steam engine. Nordenfeldt used the fundamental ideas upon which these two boats were based, added to them some improvements of his own as well as some devices which had been used by Bushnell, and finally launched in 1886 his first submarine boat. The government of Greece bought it after some successful trials. Not to be outdone, Greece's old rival, Turkey, immediately ordered two boats for her own navy. Both of these were much larger than the Greek boat and by 1887 they had reached Constantinople in sections where they were to be put together. Only one of them, however, was ever completed. Characteristic Turkish delay intervened. The most typical feature of this boat was the fact that it carried a torpedo tube for Whitehead torpedoes. On the surface of the water this boat proved very efficient, but as an underwater boat it was a dismal failure. More than in any other craft that had ever been built and accepted, the lack of stability was a cause of trouble in the _Nordenfeldt II._ As soon as any member of the crew moved from one part of the boat to another, she would dip in the direction in which he was moving, and everybody, who could not in time take hold of some part of the boat, came sliding and rolling in the same direction. When finally such a tangle was straightened out, only a few minutes elapsed before somebody else, moving a few steps, would bring about the same deplorable state of affairs. The _Nordenfeldt II._ acted more like a bucking bronco than a self-respecting submarine boat and as a result it became impossible to find a crew willing to risk their lives in manning her. Before very long she had rusted and rotted to pieces. In spite of this lack of success, Nordenfeldt built a fourth boat which displayed almost as many unfortunate features as her predecessors and soon was discarded and forgotten. [Illustration: Photo by Bain News Service. _An Anti-Aircraft Outpost._] In the latter part of the nineteenth century the French Government, which for so many years had shown a strong and continuous interest in the submarine problem, was particularly active. Three different types of boats built in this period under the auspices and with the assistance of the French Government deserve particular attention. The first of these was the _Gymnote_, planned originally by a well-known French engineer, Dupuy de Lome, whose alert mind also planned an airship and made him a figure in the history of our Panama Canal. He died, however, before his project could be executed. M. Gustave Zédé, a marine engineer and his friend, continued his work after modifying some of his plans. The French Minister of Marine of this period, Admiral Aube who had long been strongly interested in submarines, immediately accepted M. Zédé's design and ordered the boat to be built. As the earliest of successful submarines she merits description: [Illustration: © U. & U. _A Coast Defense Anti-Aircraft Gun._] The _Gymnote_ was built of steel in the shape of a cigar. She was 59 feet long, 5 feet 9 inches beam, and 6 feet in diameter, just deep enough to allow a man to stand upright in the interior. The motive power was originally an electro-motor of 55 horse-power, driven from 564 accumulators. It was of extraordinary lightness, weighing only 4410 pounds, and drove the screw at the rate of two thousand revolutions a minute, giving a speed of six knots an hour, its radius of action at this speed being thirty-five miles. Immersion was accomplished by the introduction of water into three reservoirs, placed one forward, one aft, and one centre. The water was expelled either by means of compressed air or by a rotary pump worked by an electro-motor. Two horizontal rudders steered the boat in the vertical plane and an ordinary rudder steered in the horizontal. The _Gymnote_ had her first trial on September 4, 1888, and the Paris _Temps_ described the result in the following enthusiastic language: She steered like a fish both as regards direction and depth; she mastered the desired depth with ease and exactness; at full power she attained the anticipated speed of from nine to ten knots; the lighting was excellent, there was no difficulty about heating. It was a strange sight to see the vessel skimming along the top of the water, suddenly give a downward plunge with its snout, and disappear with a shark-like wriggle of its stern, only to come up again at a distance out and in an unlooked-for direction. A few small matters connected with the accumulators had to be seen to, but they did not take a month. Following along the same lines as this boat another boat, considerably larger, was built. Before it was completed, M. Zédé died and it was decided to name the new boat in his honour. The _Gustave Zédé_ was launched at Toulon on June 1, 1893; she was 159 feet in length, beam 12 feet 4 inches, and had a total displacement of 266 tons. Her shell was of "Roma" bronze, a non-magnetic metal, and one that could not be attacked by sea water. The motive power was furnished by two independent electro-motors of 360 horse-power each and fed by accumulators. In order to endow the boat with a wide radius of action a storage battery was provided. The successive crews of the _Gustave Zédé_ suffered much from the poisonous fumes of the accumulators, and during the earlier trials all the men on board were ill. In the bows was a torpedo tube, and an arrangement was used whereby the water that entered the tube after the discharge of the torpedo was forced out by compressed air. Three Whitehead torpedoes were carried. In spite of the fact that a horizontal rudder placed at the stern had not proved serviceable on the _Gymnote_, such a rudder was fitted in the _Gustave Zédé_. With this rudder she usually plunged at an angle of about 5°, but on several occasions she behaved in a very erratic fashion, seesawing up and down, and once when the Committee of Experts were on board, she proved so capricious, going down at an angle of 30°-35°, often throwing the poor gentlemen on to the floor, that it was decided to fix a system of six rudders, three on each side. Four water tanks were carried, one at each end and two in the middle, and the water was expelled by four pumps worked by a little electro-motor; these pumps also furnished the air necessary for the crew and for the discharge of the torpedoes. For underwater vision, an optical tube and a periscope had been provided. On July 5, 1899, still another submarine boat was launched for the French Navy. She was called the _Morse_. She was 118 feet long, 9 feet beam, displaced 146 tons, and was likewise made of "Roma" bronze. The motive power was electricity and in many other respects she was very similar to the _Gustave Zédé_, embodying, however, a number of improvements. M. Calmette, who accompanied the French Minister of War on the trial trip of the _Morse_, described his experience in the Paris _Figaro_ as follows: General André, Dr. Vincent, a naval doctor, and I entered the submarine boat _Morse_ through the narrow opening in the upper surface of the boat. Our excursion was to begin immediately; in two hours we came to the surface of the water again three miles to the north to rejoin the _Narval_. Turning to the crew, every man of which was at his post, the commandant gave his orders, dwelling with emphasis on each word. A sailor repeated his orders one by one, and all was silent. The _Morse_ had already started on its mysterious voyage, but was skimming along the surface until outside the port in order to avoid the numerous craft in the Arsenal. To say that at this moment, which I had so keenly anticipated, I did not have the tremor which comes from contact with the unknown would be beside the truth. On the other hand, calm and imperturbable, but keenly curious as to this novel form of navigation, General André had already taken his place near the commandant on a folding seat. There were no chairs in this long tube in which we were imprisoned. Everything was arranged for the crew alone, with an eye to serious action. Moreover, the Minister of War was too tall to stand upright beneath the iron ceiling, and in any case it would be impossible to walk about. The only free space was a narrow passage, sixty centimetres broad, less than two metres high, and thirty metres long, divided into three equal sections. In the first, in the forefront of the tube, reposed the torpedoes, with the machine for launching them, which at a distance of from 500 to 600 metres were bound to sink, with the present secret processes, the largest of ironclads. In the second section were the electric accumulators which gave the light and power. In the third, near the screw, was the electric motor which transformed into movement the current of the accumulators. Under all this, beneath the floor, from end to end, were immense water ballasts, which were capable of being emptied or filled in a few seconds by electric machines, in order to carry the vessel up or down. Finally, in the centre of the tube, dominating these three sections, which the electric light inundated, and which no partition divided, the navigating lieutenant stood on the lookout giving his orders. There was but one thing which could destroy in a second all the sources of authority, initiative, and responsibility in this officer. That was the failure of the accumulators. Were the electricity to fail everything would come to a stop. Darkness would overtake the boat and imprison it for ever in the water. To avoid any such disaster there have been arranged, it is true, outside the tube and low down, a series of lead blades which were capable of being removed from within to lighten the vessel. But admitting that the plunger would return to the surface, the boat would float hither and thither, and at all events lose all its properties as a submarine vessel. To avoid any such disaster a combination of motors have been in course of construction for some months, so that the accumulators might be loaded afresh on the spot, in case of their being used up. The _Morse_, after skimming along the surface of the water until outside the port, was now about to sink. The commandant's place was no longer in the helmet or kiosque whence he could direct the route along the surface of the sea. His place was henceforth in the very centre of the tube, in the midst of all sort of electric manipulators, his eyes continually fixed on a mysterious optical apparatus, the periscope. The other extremity of this instrument floated on the surface of the water, and whatever the depth of the plunge it gave him a perfectly faithful and clear representation, as in a camera, of everything occurring on the water. The most interesting moment of all now came. I hastened to the little opening to get the impression of total immersion. The lieutenant by the marine chart verified the depths. The casks of water were filled and our supply of air was thereby renewed from their stores of surplus air. In our tiny observatory, where General André stationed himself above me, a most unexpected spectacle presented itself as the boat was immersed. The plunge was so gentle that in the perfect silence of the waters one did not perceive the process of descent, and there was only an instrument capable of indicating, by a needle, the depth to which the _Morse_ was penetrating. The vessel was advancing while at the same time it descended, but there was no sensation of either advance or roll. As to respiration, it was as perfect as in any room. M. de Lanessan, who since entering office has ordered eight more submarine vessels, had concerned himself with the question as a medical man also, and, thanks to the labours of a commission formed by him, the difficulties of respiration were entirely solved. The crew were able to remain under water sixteen hours without the slightest strain. Our excursion on this occasion lasted scarcely two hours. Towards noon, by means of the mysterious periscope, which, always invisible, floated on the surface and brought to the vessel below a reflection of all that passed up above, the captain showed us the _Narval_, which had just emerged with its two flags near the old battery _Impregnable_. From the depths in which we were sailing we watched its slightest manoeuvres until the admiral's flag, waving on the top of a fort, reminded us that it was time to return. [Illustration: _The Submarine's Perfect Work._ _Painting by John E. Whiting._] CHAPTER XIII JOHN P. HOLLAND AND SIMON LAKE The Naval Committee of the House of Representatives of the United States in the early part of 1900 held a meeting for the purpose of hearing expert testimony upon the subject of submarines. Up to then the United States authorities had shown, as compared with the ruling powers of other navies, only a limited amount of interest in the submarine question. Increased appropriations for the construction of submarine boats which were then beginning to become more frequent in other countries acted, however, as a stimulus at this time. The committee meeting took place a few days after some of the members of the committee, together with a number of United States navy officers, had attended an exhibition of a new submarine boat, the _Holland No. 9_. The late Admiral Dewey gave the following opinion about this submarine to the committee, an opinion which since then has become rather famous: Gentlemen: I saw the operation of the boat down off Mount Vernon the other day. Several members of this committee were there. I think we were very much impressed with its performance. My aid, Lieutenant Caldwell, was on board. The boat did everything that the owners proposed to do. I said then, and I have said it since, that if they had two of those things at Manila, I could never have held it with the squadron I had. The moral effect--to my mind, it is infinitely superior to mines or torpedoes or anything of the kind. With two of those in Galveston all the navies of the world could not blockade the place. Admiral Dewey's approval of the _Holland No. 9_ undoubtedly exerted a considerable influence on the Naval Committee and as a result of its recommendations the United States Government finally purchased the boat on April 11, 1900, for $150,000. This amount was about $86,000 less than the cost of building to the manufacturers, the Holland Torpedo Boat Company. The latter, however, could well afford to take this loss because this first sale resulted a few months afterwards--on August 25th--in an order for six additional submarines. The British Government also contracted in the fall of the same year for five Hollands. The navy of almost every power interested in submarines soon followed the lead of the British Admiralty. Submarines of the Holland type were either ordered outright, or else arrangements were concluded permitting the use of the basic patents held by the Holland Company. It will be noted that the United States Government having discovered that it had a good thing benevolently shared it with the governments that might be expected to use it against us. [Illustration: Copyright by Munn & Co., Inc. From the _Scientific American._ _Types of American Aircraft._] The _Holland No. 9_, as her very name indicates, was one of a long line of similar boats. As compared with other experimental submarine boats she was small. She was only fifty-three feet ten inches long, and ten feet seven inches deep. Although these proportions made her look rather thickset, they were the result of experimental work done by the builder during a period of twenty-five years. She was equipped both with a gasoline engine of fifty horse-power and an electric motor run by storage batteries. The latter was intended for use when the boat was submerged, the former when she was travelling on the surface of the water. She was capable of a maximum speed of seven knots an hour. Her cruising radius was 1500 miles and the combination of oil and electric motors proved so successful that from that time on every submarine built anywhere adopted this principle. Two horizontal rudders placed at the stern of the boat steered her downward whenever she wanted to dive and so accomplished a diver was this boat that a depth of twenty-eight feet could be reached by her in five seconds. Her conning tower was the only means of making observations. No periscopes had been provided because none of the instruments available at that time gave satisfaction. This meant that whenever she wished to aim at her target it was necessary for her to make a quick ascent to the surface. Her stability was one of her most satisfactory features. So carefully had her proportions been worked out that there was practically no pitching or rolling when the boat was submerged. Even the concussion caused by the discharge of a torpedo was hardly noticeable because arrangements had been made to take up the recoil caused by the firing and to maintain the balance of the boat by permitting a quantity of water equal to the weight of the discharged torpedo to enter special compartments at the very moment of the discharge. The _Holland No. 9_ was built at Lewis Nixon's shipyards at Elizabethport, New Jersey, and was launched early in 1898, just previous to the outbreak of the Spanish-American War. Although numerous requests were made to the United States Government by her inventor and builder, John P. Holland, for permission to take her into Santiago harbour in an attempt to torpedo Cervera's fleet, the navy authorities at Washington refused this permission. Why? Presumably through navy hostility to the submarine idea. When the _Monitor_ whipped the _Merrimac_ in 1862 the former ship belonged to her inventor, not to the United States Government. It would have been interesting had Holland at his own expense destroyed the Spanish ships. John P. Holland at the time when he achieved his success was fifty-eight years old, Irish by birth and an early immigrant to the United States. He had been deeply interested for many years in mechanical problems and especially in those connected with navigation. The change from the old wooden battleships to the new ironclads and the rapidly increasing development of steam-engines acted as a strong stimulus to the young Irishman's experiments. It is claimed that his interest in submarine navigation was due primarily to his desire to find a weapon strong enough to destroy or at least dominate the British navy; for at that time Holland was strongly anti-British, because he, like many other educated Irishmen of that period, desired before everything else to free Ireland. His plans for doing this by supplying to the proposed Irish Republic a means for overcoming the British navy found little support and a great deal of ridicule on the part of his Irish friends. In spite of this he kept on with his work and in 1875 he built and launched his first submarine boat at Paterson. This boat was far from being very revolutionary. She was only sixteen feet long and two feet in diameter, shaped like a cigar but with both ends sharply pointed. In many respects except in appearance she was similar to Bushnell's _Turtle_. Room for only one operator was provided and the latter was to turn the propeller by means of pedals to be worked by his feet. She accomplished little beyond giving an opportunity to her inventor and builder to gather experience in actual underwater navigation. Two years later in 1877 the _Holland No. 2_ was built. In spite of the number of improvements represented by her she was not particularly successful. Her double hull, it is true, provided space for carrying water ballast. But the leaks from this ballast tank continuously threatened to drown the navigator sitting inside of the second hull. A small oil engine of four horse-power was soon discarded on account of its inefficiency. The experience gathered by Holland in building and navigating these two boats strengthened his determination to build a thoroughly successful submarine and increased his faith in his ability to do so. He opened negotiations with the Fenian Brotherhood. This was a secret society founded for the purpose of freeing Ireland from British rule and creating an Irish Republic. Holland finally succeeded in persuading his Fenian friends to order from him two submarine boats and to supply him with the necessary means to build them. Both of these boats were built. The lack of success of the first one was due primarily to the inefficiency of her engine. The second boat which was really the _Holland No. 4_ was built in 1881. It is usually known as the _Fenian Ram_, and is still in existence at New Haven, Connecticut, where a series of financial and political complications finally landed her. These two boats added vastly to Holland's knowledge concerning submarine navigation. A few others which he built with his own means increased this fund of knowledge and step by step he came nearer to his goal. By 1888 his reputation as a submarine engineer and navigator had grown to such an extent that Holland was asked by the famous Philadelphia shipbuilders, the Cramps, to submit to them designs for a submarine boat to be built by the United States Government. Only one other design was submitted and this was by the Scandinavian, Nordenfeldt. William C. Whitney, then Secretary of the United States Navy, accepted Holland's design. Month after month passed by wasted by the usual governmental red tape, and when all preliminary arrangements had been made and the contract for the actual building of an experimental boat was to be drawn up, a sudden change in the administration resulted in the dropping of the entire plan. Holland's faith in the future submarine and in his own ability was still unshaken, but this was not the case with his financial condition. None of the boats he had built so far had brought him any profits and on some he had lost everything that he had put into them. His financial support, for which he relied entirely upon relatives and friends, was practically exhausted. But fortunately on March 3, 1893, Congress appropriated a sum of money to defray the expenses of constructing an experimental submarine. Invitations to inventors were extended. So precarious was Holland's financial condition at that time that he found it necessary to borrow the small sum of money involved in making plans which he had to submit. It is claimed that he succeeded in doing this in a manner highly typical of his thoroughness. He needed only about $350.00 but even this comparatively small sum was more than he had. However, he happened to be lunching with a young lawyer just about this time and began to tell him about his financial difficulties. Holland told him that if he only had $347.19 he could prepare the plans and pay the necessary fees. And that done, he was sure of being able to win the competition. His lawyer friend, of course, had been approached before by other people for loans. Invariably they had asked him for some round sum and Holland's request for $347.19 when he might just as well have asked for $350.00 aroused his interest. He asked the inventor what the nineteen cents were to be used for. Quick as a flash he was told that they were needed to pay for a particular type of ruler necessary to draw the required plans. So impressed was the lawyer with Holland's accuracy and honesty in asking not a cent more than he actually needed that he at once advanced the money. And a good investment it turned out to be. For in exchange he received a good-sized block of stock in the Holland Torpedo Boat Company which in later years made him a multi-millionaire. Holland's plans did win the competition just as he asserted that they would; but, of course, winning a prize, offered by a government, and getting that government to do something about it, are two different matters. So two years went by before the Holland Torpedo Boat Company at last was able to start with the construction of the new submarine which was to be called the _Plunger_. The principal feature of this new boat was that it was to have a steam engine for surface navigation and an electric motor for underwater navigation. This arrangement was not so much a new invention of Holland's as an adaptation of ideas which had been promulgated by others. Especially indebted was he in this respect to Commander Hovgaard of the Danish navy who, in 1887, had published an important book on the subject of double propulsion in submarines. Though Holland had made many improvements on these earlier theories, he soon found out that even at that there was going to be serious trouble with the _Plunger's_ engines. The boat had been launched in 1897; but instead of finishing it, he persuaded the government to permit his company to build a new boat, and to return to the government all the money so far expended on the _Plunger_. The new boat, _Holland No. 8_, was started immediately and completed in record time but she, too, was unsatisfactory to the inventor. So without loss of time he went ahead and built another boat, the _Holland No. 9_, which, as we have said, became the first United States submarine. Two other men submitted plans for submarine boats in the competition which was won by the Holland boat, George C. Baker and Simon Lake. Neither of these was accepted. Mr. Baker made no further efforts to find out if his plans would result in a practicable submarine boat. But Simon Lake was not so easily discouraged. It is very interesting that the United States Navy Department at that time demanded that plans submitted for this competition should meet the following specifications: 1. Safety. 2. Facility and certainty of action when submerged. 3. Speed when running on the surface. 4. Speed when submerged. 5. Endurance, both submerged and on the surface. 6. Stability. 7. Visibility of object to be attacked. In spite of the many years that have passed since this competition and in spite of the tremendous progress that has been made in submarine construction these are still the essential requirements necessary to make a successful submarine boat. The designs submitted by Mr. Lake provided for a twin-screw vessel, 80 feet long, 10 feet beam, and 115 tons displacement, with 400 horse-power steam engines for surface propulsion and 70 horse-power motors for submerged work. The boat was to have a double hull, the spaces between the inner and the outer hulls forming water ballast tanks. There were to be four torpedo tubes, two forward and two aft. In an article published in 1915 in _International Marine Engineering_, Mr. Lake says about his 1893 design: The new and novel feature which attracted the most attention and skepticism regarding this design was (the author was later informed by a member of the board) the claim made that the vessel could readily navigate over the waterbed itself, and that while navigating on the waterbed a door could be opened in the bottom of a compartment and the water kept from entering the vessel by means of compressed air, and that the crew could, by donning diving suits, readily leave and enter the vessel while submerged. Another novel feature was in the method of controlling the depth of submergence when navigating between the surface and waterbed. The vessel was designed to always submerge and navigate on a level keel rather than to be inclined down or up by the back, to "dive" or "rise." This maintenance of a level keel while submerged was provided for by the installation of four depth regulating vanes which I later termed "hydroplanes" to distinguish them from the forward and aft levelling vanes or horizontal rudders. These hydroplanes were located at equal distances forward and aft of the center of gravity and buoyancy of the vessel when in the submerged condition, so as not to disturb the vessel when the planes were inclined down or up to cause the vessel to submerge or rise when under way. I also used, in conjunction with the hydroplanes, horizontal rudders which I then called "levelling vanes," as their purpose was just the opposite from that of the horizontal rudder used in the diving type of vessel. They were operated by a pendulum controlling device to be inclined so as to always maintain the vessel on a level keel rather than to cause her to depart therefrom. When I came to try this combination out in practice, I found hand control of the horizontal rudders was sufficient. If vessels with this system of control have a sufficient amount of stability, you will run for hours and automatically maintain both a constant depth and a level keel, without the depth control man touching either the hydroplane or horizontal rudder control gear. This automatic maintenance of depth without manipulating the hydroplanes or rudders was a performance not anticipated, nor claimed in my original patent on the above-mentioned combination, and what caused these vessels to function in this manner remained a mystery, which was unsolved until I built a model tank in 1905 in Berlin, Germany, and conducted a series of experiments on models of submarines. I then learned that a down pull of a hydroplane at a given degree of inclination varied according to its depth of submergence and that the deeper the submergence, the less the down pull. This works out to give automatic trim on a substantially level keel, and I have known of vessels running for a period of two hours without variation of depth of one foot and without once changing the inclination of either the hydroplanes or the horizontal rudder. A great deal of skepticism was displayed for many years towards this new system of controlling the depth of submergence. But in recent years all the latest submarine boats have been built on this plan. Who, then, was this mechanical genius who was responsible for these far-going changes in submarine construction? Simon Lake was born at Pleasantville, New Jersey, September 4, 1866. He was educated at Clinton Liberal Institute, Fort Plain, New York, and Franklin Institute, Philadelphia. Early in life he displayed a marked interest in and genius for mechanical problems. His lack of success in the 1893 competition only spurred him on to further efforts. As long as the United States Government was unwilling to assist him in building his submarine boat, there was nothing left for him except to build it from his own means. In 1894, therefore, he set to work on an experimental boat, called the _Argonaut, Jr._ According to Mr. Lake's description as published in _International Marine Engineering_ in a series of articles from his pen the _Argonaut, Jr._, was provided with three wheels, two on either side forward and one aft, the latter acting as a steering wheel. When on the bottom the wheels were rotated by hand by one or two men inside the boat. Her displacement was about seven tons, yet she could be propelled at a moderate walking gait when on the bottom. She was also fitted with an air lock and diver's compartment, so arranged that by putting an air pressure on the diver's compartment equal to the water pressure outside, a bottom door could be opened and no water would come into the vessel. Then by putting on a pair of rubber boots the operator could walk around on the sea bottom and push the boat along with him and pick up objects, such as clams, oysters, etc. from the sea bottom. So much interest was aroused by this little wooden boat that Mr. Lake was enabled to finance the building of a larger boat, called the _Argonaut_. It was designed in 1895 and built in 1897 at Baltimore. Concerning the _Argonaut_ Mr. Lake says in the same article: The _Argonaut_ as originally built was 36 feet long and 9 feet in diameter. She was the first submarine to be fitted with an internal-combustion engine. She was propelled with a thirty horse-power gasoline (petrol) engine driving a screw propeller. She was fitted with two toothed driving wheels forward which were revolved by suitable gearing when navigating on the waterbed, or they could be disconnected from this gearing and permitted to revolve freely, propulsion being secured by the screw propeller. A wheel in the rudder enabled her to be steered in any direction when on the bottom. She also had a diving compartment to enable divers to leave or enter the vessel when submerged, to operate on wrecks or to permit inspection of the bottom or to recover shellfish. She also had a lookout compartment in the extreme bow, with a powerful searchlight to light up a pathway in front of her as she moved along over the waterbed. This searchlight I later found of little value except for night work in clear water. In clear water the sunlight would permit of as good vision without the use of the light as with it, while if the water was not clear, no amount of light would permit of vision through it for any considerable distance. In January, 1898 [says Mr. Lake], while the _Argonaut_ was submerged, telephone conversation was held from submerged stations with Baltimore, Washington, and New York. In 1898, also, the _Argonaut_ made the trip from Norfolk to New York under her own power and unescorted. In her original form she was a cigar-shaped craft with only a small percentage of reserve buoyancy in her surface cruising condition. We were caught out in the severe November northeast storm of 1898 in which over 200 vessels were lost and we did not succeed in reaching a harbour in the "horseshoe" back of Sandy Hook until, of course, in the morning. The seas were so rough they would break over her conning tower in such masses I was obliged to lash myself fast to prevent being swept overboard. It was freezing weather and I was soaked and covered with ice on reaching harbour. This experience caused me to apply to the _Argonaut_ a further improvement for which I had already applied for a patent. This was, doubled around the usual pressure resisting body of a submarine, a ship-shape form of light plating which would give greater seaworthiness, better surface speed, and make the vessel more habitable for surface navigation. It would, in other words, make a "sea-going submarine," which the usual form of cigar-shaped vessel was not, as it would not have sufficient surface buoyancy to enable it to rise with the seas and the seas would sweep over it as they would sweep over a partly submerged rock. The _Argonaut_ was, therefore, taken to Brooklyn, twenty feet added to her length, and a light water-tight buoyancy superstructure of ship-shape form added. This superstructure was opened to the sea when it was desired to submerge the vessel, and water was permitted to enter the space between the light plating of the ship-shaped form and the heavy plating of the pressure resisting hull. This equalized pressure on the light plates and prevented their becoming deformed due to pressure. The superstructure increased her reserve of buoyancy in the surface cruising condition from about 10 per cent. to over 40 per cent. and lifted right up to the seas like any ordinary type of surface vessel, instead of being buried by them in rough weather. This feature of construction has been adopted by the Germans, Italians, Russians, and in all the latest types of French boats. It is the principal feature which distinguishes them in their surface appearance from the earlier cigar-shaped boats of the diving type. This ship-shaped form of hull is only suited to the level keel submergence. In those days submarine boats were a much more unusual sight than they are to-day and simple fishermen who had never read or heard about submarines undoubtedly experienced disturbing sensations when they ran across their first underwater boat. Mr. Lake, a short time ago, while addressing a meeting of electrical engineers in Brooklyn, told the following experience which he had on one of his trips in the _Argonaut_: On the first trip down the Chesapeake Bay, we had been running along in forty feet of water and had been down about four hours. Night was coming on, so we decided to come up to find out where we were. I noticed one of those Chesapeake "Bug Eyes" lighting just to leeward of us, and, as I opened the conning tower hatch, called to the men aboard to find out where we were. As soon as I did so, he turned his boat around and made straight for the beach. I thought he was rather discourteous. He ran his boat up on that beach and never stopped; the last I saw of him was when he jumped ashore and started to run inland as hard as he and his helper could go. Finally I learned we were just above the mouth of the York or Rappahannock River and I found a sort of inland harbour back of it. I decided to put up there for the night. Then learning that there was a store nearby, we called after dark for more provisions and I noticed a large crowd there. We got what we wanted, and stepped outside the door. He asked us where we were from. "We are down here in the submarine boat, _Argonaut_, making an experimental trip down the bay." He then commenced to laugh. "That explains it," he said; "just before nightfall, Captain So-and-So and his mate came running up here to the store just as hard as they could, and both dropped down exhausted, and when we were able to get anything out of them, they told a very strange story. That's why all these people are here." This is the story the storekeeper told me: "The men were out dredging and all at once they noticed a buoy with a red flag on it, and that buoy was going against the tide, and they could not understand it. It came up alongside, and they heard a 'puff, puff,' something like a locomotive puffing, and then they smelt sulphur." (The "puff, puff" was the exhaust of our engine and those fumes were what they thought was sulphur.) "Just then the thing rose up out of the water, then the smokestack appeared, and then the devil came right out of that smokestack." In the January, 1899, issue of _McClure's Magazine_ there appeared a profusely illustrated article entitled "Voyaging under the Sea." The first part of it, "The Submarine Boat _Argonaut_ and her Achievements," was written by Simon Lake himself. In it he quotes as follows from the log book of the _Argonaut_ under date of July 28, 1898. Submerged at 8.20 A. M. in about thirty feet of water. Temperature in living compartment, eighty-three degrees Fahrenheit. Compass bearing west-north-west, one quarter west. Quite a lively sea running on the surface, also strong current. At 10.45 A. M. shut down engine; temperature, eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. After engine was shut down, we could hear the wind blowing past our pipes extending above the surface; we could also tell by the sound when any steamers were in the vicinity. We first allowed the boat to settle gradually to the bottom, with the tide running ebb; after a time the tide changed, and she would work slightly sideways; we admitted about four hundred pounds of water additional, but she still would move occasionally, so that a pendulum nine inches long would sway one eighth of an inch (thwartship). At 12 o'clock (noon) temperature was eighty-seven degrees Fahrenheit; at 2.45 P. M. the temperature was still eighty-seven degrees Fahrenheit. There were no signs of carbonic acid gas at 2.45, although the engine had been closed down for three hours and no fresh air had been admitted during the time. Could hear the whistle of boats on the surface, and also their propellers when running close, to the boat. At 3.30 the temperature had dropped to eighty-five degrees. At 3.45 found a little sign of carbonic acid gas, very slight, however, as a candle would burn fairly bright in the pits. Thought we could detect a smell of gasoline by comparing the fresh air which came down the pipe (when hand blower was turned). Storage lamps were burning during the five hours of submergence, while engine was not running. At 3.50 engine was again started, and went off nicely. Went into diving compartment and opened door; came out through air-lock, and left pressure there; found the wheels had buried about ten inches or one foot, as the bottom had several inches of mud. We had 500 pounds of air in the tanks, and it ran the pressure down to 250 pounds to open the door in about thirty feet. The temperature fell in the diving compartment to eighty-two degrees after the compressed air was let in. Cooked clam fritters and coffee for supper. The spirits of the crew appeared to improve the longer we remained below; the time was spent in catching clams, singing, trying to waltz, playing cards, and writing letters to wives and sweethearts. Our only visitors during the day were a couple of black bass that came and looked in at the windows with a great deal of apparent interest. In future boats, it will be well to provide a smoking compartment, as most of the crew had their smoking apparatus all ready as soon as we came up. Started pumps at 6.20, and arrived at the surface at 6.30. Down altogether ten hours and fifteen minutes. People on pilot boat _Calvert_ thought we were all hands drowned. The second part of this article was called "A Voyage on the Bottom of the Sea." It was written by Ray Stannard Baker, who had been fortunate enough to receive an invitation from Mr. Lake to accompany him on one of the trips of the _Argonaut_. Any one who has read Jules Verne's fascinating story _Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea_ must be struck immediately with the similarity between Mr. Baker's experiences and those of Captain Nemo's guests. It is not at all surprising, therefore, to have Mr. Baker tell us that during this trip Mr. Lake told him: "When I was ten years old, I read Jules Verne's _Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea_, and I have been working on submarine boats ever since." Mr. Baker's record of what he saw and how he felt is not only a credit to his keen powers of observation, but also a proof of the fact that, in many ways, there was little difference between the _Argonaut_ of 1898 and the most up-to-date submarine of to-day. In part he says: Simon Lake planned an excursion on the bottom of the sea for October 12, 1898. His strange amphibian craft, the _Argonaut_, about which we had been hearing so many marvels, lay off the pier at Atlantic Highlands. Before we were near enough to make out her hulk, we saw a great black letter A, framed of heavy gas-pipe, rising forty feet above the water. A flag rippled from its summit. As we drew nearer, we discovered that there really wasn't any hulk to make out--only a small oblong deck shouldering deep in the water and supporting a slightly higher platform, from which rose what seemed to be a squatty funnel. A moment later we saw that the funnel was provided with a cap somewhat resembling a tall silk hat, the crown of which was represented by a brass binnacle. This cap was tilted back, and as we ran alongside, a man stuck his head up over the rim and sang out, "Ahoy there!" A considerable sea was running, but I observed that the _Argonaut_ was planted as firmly in the water as a stone pillar, the big waves splitting over her without imparting any perceptible motion. We scrambled up on the little platform, and peered down through the open conning-tower, which we had taken for a funnel, into the depths of the ship below. Wilson had started his gasoline engine. Mr. Lake had taken his place at the wheel, and we were going ahead slowly, steering straight across the bay toward Sandy Hook and deeper water. The _Argonaut_ makes about five knots an hour on the surface, but when she gets deep down on the sea bottom, where she belongs, she can spin along more rapidly. The _Argonaut_ was slowly sinking under the water. We became momentarily more impressed with the extreme smallness of the craft to which we were trusting our lives. The little platform around the conning-tower on which we stood--in reality the top of the gasoline tank--was scarcely a half dozen feet across, and the _Argonaut_ herself was only thirty-six feet long. Her sides had already faded out of sight, but not before we had seen how solidly they were built--all of steel, riveted and reinforced, so that the wonder grew how such a tremendous weight, when submerged, could ever again be raised. I think we made some inquiries about the safety of submarine boats in general. Other water compartments had been flooded, and we had settled so far down that the waves dashed repeatedly over the platform on which we stood--and the conning-tower was still wide open, inviting a sudden engulfing rush of water. "You mustn't confuse the _Argonaut_ with ordinary submarine boats," said Mr. Lake. "She is quite different and much safer." [Illustration: © U. & U. _For Anti-Aircraft Service._] He explained that the _Argonaut_ was not only a submarine boat, but much besides. She not only swims either on the surface or beneath it, but she adds to this accomplishment the extraordinary power of diving deep and rolling along the bottom of the sea on wheels. No machine ever before did that. Indeed, the _Argonaut_ is more properly a "sea motorcycle" than a "boat." In its invention Mr. Lake elaborated an idea which the United States Patent Office has decided to be absolutely original. [Illustration: Photo by Bain News Service. _The Latest French Aircraft Gun._] We found ourselves in a long, narrow compartment, dimly illuminated by yellowish-green light from the little round, glass windows. The stern was filled with Wilson's gasoline engine and the electric motor, and in front of us toward the bow we could see through the heavy steel doorways of the diver's compartment into the lookout room, where there was a single round eye of light. I climbed up the ladder of the conning-tower and looked out through one of the glass ports. My eyes were just even with the surface of the water. A wave came driving and foaming entirely over the top of the vessel, and I could see the curiously beautiful sheen of the bright summit of the water above us. It was a most impressive sight. Mr. Lake told me that in very clear water it was difficult to tell just where the air left off and the water began; but in the muddy bay where we were going down the surface looked like a peculiarly clear, greenish pane of glass moving straight up and down, not forward, as the waves appear to move when looked at from above. Now we were entirely under water. The rippling noises that the waves had made in beating against the upper structure of the boat had ceased. As I looked through the thick glass port, the water was only three inches from my eyes, and I could see thousands of dainty, semi-translucent jellyfish floating about as lightly as thistledown. They gathered in the eddy behind the conning-tower in great numbers, bumping up sociably against one another and darting up and down with each gentle movement of the water. And I realized that we were in the domain of the fishes. Jim brought the government chart, and Mr. Lake announced that we were heading directly for Sandy Hook and the open ocean. But we had not yet reached the bottom, and John was busily opening valves and letting in more water. I went forward to the little steel cuddy-hole in the extreme prow of the boat, and looked out through the watch-port. The water had grown denser and yellower, and I could not see much beyond the dim outlines of the ship's spar reaching out forward. Jim said that he had often seen fishes come swimming up wonderingly to gaze into the port. They would remain quite motionless until he stirred his head, and then they vanished instantly. Mr. Lake has a remarkable photograph which he took of a visiting fish, and Wilson tells of nurturing a queer flat crab for days in the crevice of one of the view-holes. At that moment, I felt a faint jolt, and Mr. Lake said that we were on the bottom of the sea. Here we were running as comfortably along the bottom of Sandy Hook Bay as we would ride in a Broadway car, and with quite as much safety. Wilson, who was of a musical turn, was whistling _Down Went McGinty_, and Mr. Lake, with his hands on the pilot-wheel, put in an occasional word about his marvellous invention. On the wall opposite there was a row of dials which told automatically every fact about our condition that the most nervous of men could wish to know. One of them shows the pressure of air in the main compartment of the boat, another registers vacuum, and when both are at zero, Mr. Lake knows that the pressure of the air is normal, the same as it is on the surface, and he tries to maintain it in this condition. There are also a cyclometer, not unlike those used on bicycles, to show how far the boat travels on the wheels; a depth gauge, which keeps us accurately informed as to the depth of the boat in the water, and a declension indicator. By the long finger of the declension dial we could tell whether we were going up hill or down. Once while we were out, there was a sudden, sharp shock, the pointer leaped back, and then quivered steady again. Mr. Lake said that we had probably struck a bit of wreckage or an embankment, but the _Argonaut_ was running so lightly that she had leaped up jauntily and slid over the obstruction. We had been keeping our eyes on the depth dial, the most fascinating and interesting of any of the number. It showed that we were going down, down, down, literally down to the sea in a ship. When we had been submerged far more than an hour, and there was thirty feet of yellowish green ocean over our heads, Mr. Lake suddenly ordered the machinery stopped. The clacking noises of the dynamo ceased, and the electric lights blinked out, leaving us at once in almost absolute darkness and silence. Before this, we had found it hard to realize that we were on the bottom of the ocean; now it came upon us suddenly and not without a touch of awe. This absence of sound and light, this unchanging motionlessness and coolness, this absolute negation--that was the bottom of the sea. It lasted only a moment, but in that moment we realized acutely the meaning and joy of sunshine and moving winds, trees, and the world of men. A minute light twinkled out like a star, and then another and another, until the boat was bright again, and we knew that among the other wonders of this most astonishing of inventions there was storage electricity which would keep the boat illuminated for hours, without so much as a single turn of the dynamo. With the stopping of the engine, the air supply from above had ceased; but Mr. Lake laid his hand on the steel wall above us, where he said there was enough air compressed to last us all for two days, should anything happen. The possibility of "something happening" had been lurking in our minds ever since we started. "What if your engine should break down, so that you couldn't pump the water out of the water compartments?" I asked. "Here we have hand-pumps," said Mr. Lake promptly; "and if those failed, a single touch of this lever would release our iron keel, which weighs 4000 pounds, and up we would go like a rocket." I questioned further, only to find that every imaginable contingency, and some that were not at all imaginable to the uninitiated, had been absolutely provided against by the genius of the inventor. And everything from the gasoline engine to the hand-pump was as compact and ingenious as the mechanism of a watch. Moreover, the boat was not crowded; we had plenty of room to move around and to sleep, if we wished, to say nothing of eating. As for eating, John had brought out the kerosene stove and was making coffee, while Jim cut the pumpkin pie. "This isn't Delmonico's," said Jim, "but we're serving a lunch that Delmonico's couldn't serve--a submarine lunch." By this time the novelty was wearing off and we sat there, at the bottom of the sea, drinking our coffee with as much unconcern as though we were in an up-town restaurant. For the first time since we started, Mr. Lake sat down, and we had an opportunity of talking with him at leisure. He is a stout-shouldered, powerfully built man, in the prime of life--a man of cool common sense, a practical man, who is also an inventor. And he talks frankly and convincingly, and yet modestly, of his accomplishment. Having finished our lunch, Mr. Lake prepared to show us something about the practical operations of the _Argonaut_. It has been a good deal of a mystery to us how workmen penned up in a submarine boat could expect to recover gold from wrecks in the water outside, or to place torpedoes, or to pick up cables. "We simply open the door, and the diver steps out on the bottom of the sea," Mr. Lake said, quite as if he was conveying the most ordinary information. At first it seemed incredible, but Mr. Lake showed us the heavy, riveted door in the bottom of the diver's compartment. Then he invited us inside with Wilson, who, besides being an engineer, is also an expert diver. The massive steel doors of the little room were closed and barred, and then Mr. Lake turned a cock and the air rushed in under high pressure. At once our ears began to throb, and it seemed as if the drums would burst inward. "Keep swallowing," said Wilson, the diver. As soon as we applied this remedy, the pain was relieved, but the general sensation of increased air pressure, while exhilarating, was still most uncomfortable. The finger on the pressure dial kept creeping up and up, until it showed that the air pressure inside of the compartment was nearly equal to the water pressure without. Then Wilson opened a cock in the door. Instantly the water gushed in, and for a single instant we expected to be drowned there like rats in a trap. "This is really very simple," Mr. Lake was saying calmly. "When the pressure within is the same as that without, no water can enter." With that, Wilson dropped the iron door, and there was the water and the muddy bottom of the sea within touch of a man's hand. It was all easy enough to understand, and yet it seemed impossible, even as we saw it with our own eyes. Mr. Lake stooped down, and picked up a wooden rod having a sharp hook at the end. This he pulled along the bottom.... We were now rising again to the surface, after being submerged for more than three hours. I climbed into the conning-tower and watched for the first glimpse of the sunlight. There was a sudden fluff of foam, the ragged edge of a wave, and then I saw, not more than a hundred feet away, a smack bound toward New York under full sail. Her rigging was full of men, gazing curiously in our direction, no doubt wondering what strange monster of the sea was coming forth for a breath of air. CHAPTER XIV THE MODERN SUBMARINE Holland and Lake must be considered the fathers of the modern submarine. This claim is not made in a spirit of patriotic boastfulness, though, of course it is true that the latter was an American by birth, and the former by choice, and that, therefore, we, as a nation, have a right to be proud of the accomplishments of these two fellow-citizens of ours. Without wishing to detract anything from the value of the work done by many men in many countries towards the development of the submarine after and contemporaneously with Holland and Lake, it still remains true that the work which these two did formed the foundation on which all others built. To-day, no submarine worthy of the name, no matter where it has been built and no matter where and how it is used, is without some features which are typical of either the Holland or Lake type. In many instances, and this is true especially of submarines of the highest type and the greatest development, the most significant characteristics of the Holland and Lake boats have been combined. During the years that followed the small beginnings of Holland and Lake, vast and highly efficient organizations have been built up to continue and elaborate their work. Death claimed Mr. Holland shortly after the outbreak of the great war, on August 12, 1914. Mr. Lake in 1917 was still personally connected with and the guiding spirit of the extensive industrial establishments which have been created at Bridgeport, Conn., as a result of his inventions. He, too, surrounded himself with a corps of experts who in co-operation with him have brought the Lake submarines to a point of perfection which at the time of the _Argonaut's_ first trip would have appeared all but impossible. Roughly speaking, the beginning of the twentieth century may be called the turning point in the history of submarine invention and the beginning of the modern submarine. Although, as we have heard, various governments, especially those of France and the United States, interested themselves in the submarine question and appropriated small sums of money towards its solution previous to 1900, it was only after that year that governmental interest and influence were set to work with determination and purpose on behalf of submarine inventors. Quite naturally this resulted in increased popular interest. Experimental work on and with submarines no longer had to rely exclusively on private capital, frequently inconveniently timid and limited, but could count now on the vast financial resources of all the great nations of the world. This also made available the unlimited intellectual resources of serious scientists in every part of the universe. Mechanical and electrical engineers, naval designers and constructors, active men of finance and business, and quiet thinkers and investigators in laboratories began to interest themselves in the further development of the submarine. The United States for a number of years after its adoption of the Holland type remained true to its first choice. Between 1900, when the first Holland boat was bought by the United States Government, and 1911 all the United States submarine, boats were of the Holland type. In the latter year, however, it was decided to give the Lake boat a trial and since that time a number of boats of this type have been built. In all essential features both the Holland and Lake boats of later days were very similar to the original boats of these two types. In all the details, however, immense progress was made. Each new boat thus became greatly superior to its predecessors. This was especially true in regard to size and speed and the improvements made in these two respects naturally resulted in a corresponding increase in radius of activity. The passing years also brought a wonderful refinement of all the technical details of the submarine boats. Practically every feature was developed to a remarkable degree. There is, indeed, a great difference between the submarine boats of the early twentieth century which had to rely on their conning-tower for steering, and more recent boats with their wonderful periscopes and gyro compasses. Similar progress was made in the development of the means of propulsion. The engines used for surface travelling became more powerful and efficient. This was also true of the electric motors, batteries, and accumulators employed in the submerged state. The problem of ventilation likewise has been worked out to such an extent that in the most modern submarines most of the inconveniences experienced by the crews of earlier boats have been removed. This perfection of technical details which was thus gradually approached also permitted a very considerable increase in the fighting power of submarine boats. The number of torpedo tubes was increased and it became possible to carry a larger reserve stock of torpedoes. Submarines of to-day furthermore carry guns varying in calibre, attaining in some instances four inches, and when in later years it became evident that one of the most dangerous enemies of the submarine was the airplane, some of the boats were equipped even with anti-aircraft guns. [Illustration: Copyright by Munn & Co., Inc. From the _Scientific American_. _Modern German Airplane Types._] In the United States Navy the submarine has never been popular. Indeed it is by no means certain that in comparison with other navies of the world the United States was not better off in underwater boats in 1911 than she was three years later when the warcloud broke. The bulk of our naval opinion has always been for the dreadnoughts. A change of political administration at Washington in 1912 gave a temporary setback to naval development, and the submarines, being still a matter of controversy, languished. Few were built and of those few many showed such structural weakness that the reports of their manoeuvres were either suppressed, or issued in terms of such broad generality that the public could by no possibility suspect, what all the Navy knew to be the fact, that the submarine flotilla of the United States was weak to the point of impotence. Happily we had nearly three years in which to observe the progress of the war before becoming ourselves embroiled in it. During this period our submarine fleet was somewhat increased, and upon our actual entrance upon the struggle a feverish race was begun to put us on an equality with other nations in underwater boats. It would have been too late had any emergency arisen. But Germany had no ships afloat to be attacked by our submarines had we possessed them. Her own warfare upon our merchant shipping could not be met in kind, for submarines cannot fight submarines. We have, therefore, up to the present time, not suffered from the perilous neglect with which we long treated this form of naval weapon. Indeed the submarine fleet of the United States Navy at the beginning of the war was so inconsiderable that foreign writers on the subject ignored it. In 1900 we had purchased nine of the type of submarines then put out by the Holland Company. One of these, the first in actual service, known as the "Baby" Holland was kept in commission ten years and upon becoming obsolete was honoured by being taken in state to the Naval Academy at Annapolis and there mounted on a pedestal for the admiration of all comers. She was 59 feet long and would make a striking exhibit placed next to one of the new German submersible cruisers which exceed 300 feet and have a displacement of 5000 tons. These first Holland ships which long constituted the entire underwater force of the United States were but trivial affairs compared with the modern vessel. Their displacement was but 122 tons, their engines for surface navigation were of 160 horse-power, gasoline, and for underwater navigation 70 horse-power, electric. They carried but one torpedo tube and two extra torpedoes and had a radius of action of but 300 miles. At that time in fact the naval theory was that submarines were coast defence vessels altogether. After this war they are likely to form part of the first battle line of every navy. Yet these pioneer vessels established their seaworthiness well in 1911, when four of them accompanied by a parent ship to supply them with fresh stocks of fuel and to render assistance in case of need, crossed the Pacific Ocean under their own power to the Philippines. This exploit tended to popularize these craft in the Navy Department, and soon after larger vessels known as the "Viper" class were ordered. One of these was called the _Octopus_, the first submarine to be fitted with twin screws. In many ways she represented a distinct advance in the art of submarine construction. She was in fact the first vessel built with the distinct idea of being a cruising, as well as a harbour defence ship. Her type proved successful in this respect. The _Octopus_ further established a record for deep sea submergence in 1907 when she descended to a depth of 205 feet off Boston, returning to the surface in entire safety. The ability to withstand the pressure of the water at great depths is a vital quality of a successful submarine. One American submarine narrowly escaped destruction because of structural weakness in this respect. She had by accident descended a few feet below the normal depth at which such boats navigate. The water pressure affected the valves which refused to work and the vessel slowly sank deeper and deeper. At a recorded depth of 123 feet the sinking of the vessel became so much more rapid that the crew with frantic endeavours sought at once to stop the leaks and pump out the water which had entered. At that depth there was a pressure of 153-1/2 pounds upon every square inch of the surface of the submarine. This the workers at the one hand pump had to overcome. It was a savage and a desperate struggle but the men finally won and the vessel regained the surface. As a result of this experience every navy prescribed submergence tests for its submarines before putting them into commission. How to make these tests was perplexing at first. A government did not want to send men down in a steel casket to see just how far they could go before it collapsed. But if no observer accompanied the ship it would be impossible to tell at what depth leakage and other signs of weakness became apparent. An Italian naval architect, Major Laurenti, whose submarines are now found in every navy of the world, invented a dock in which these tests can be made up to any desired pressure while the observers inside the submarine are in communication with those without and the pressure can be instantly removed if signs of danger appear. In the United States Navy boats to be accepted must stand a pressure equivalent to that encountered at 200 feet. In the German navy the depth prescribed is 170 feet. Under normal conditions submarines seldom travel at a depth of more than 100 feet although the "F-1" of the United States Navy accomplished the remarkable feat of making a six-hour cruise in San Francisco Bay at a depth of 283 feet. At this depth the skin of the ship has to withstand a pressure of no less than 123 pounds per square inch. Specific information as to the nature of submarine construction in the United States since the beginning of the war in 1914 is jealously guarded by the Navy Department. In broad general terms the number of ships under construction is revealed to the public, but all information as to the size of individual vessels, their armour or the qualities of novelty with which every one hopes and believes American inventive genius has invested them, are kept secret. The _Navy Year Book of 1916_ summarized our submarine strength at that time as follows: _Displacement_ Submarines fit for action 42 15,722 Tons " under construction 33 21,093 " " authorized and appropriated for 30 22,590 " --- ------ Total 105 59,405 " In addition thirty-seven more had been authorized by Congress without the appropriation of money for them. By this time however these appropriations have been made together with further heavy ones. While figures are refused at the Navy Department, it is declared that while the United States in 1914 was the last of the great powers in respect to submarine strength provided for, it is now well up to the foremost, even to Germany. Great Britain like the United States continued for many years to build submarines of the Holland type. Naturally all the recent improvements were incorporated in the British boats. Very little, however, is known concerning the details of the more recent additions to the British submarine flotilla because of the secrecy maintained by the British authorities in war time. At the beginning of the present war, the British navy possessed 82 active submarines of 5 different classes. They were all of the Holland type, but in each class there were incorporated vast improvements over the preceding class. Displacement, size, motive power, speed, radius of action, and armament were gradually increased until the "E" class contained boats possessing the following features: Submerged displacement, 800 tons; length 176 feet; beam 22-1/2 feet; heavy oil engines of 2000 H.-P.; electric engines of 800 H.-P.; surface speed 16 knots; submerged speed 10 knots; cruising range 5000 miles; armament: 4 torpedo tubes, space for 6 torpedoes, and two 3-inch quick-firing, high-angle, disappearing guns; armoured conning-towers and decks; wireless equipment; 3 panoramic periscopes. At the same time 22 other submarines were said to be in course of construction. Some of these were of the "F" class (Holland type), similar to the "E" class except that every single characteristic had been greatly increased, in many instances even doubled. In addition to the "F" class Holland-type boats, there were also under construction a number of boats of different types designated respectively as "V," "W," and "S" class. The "V" class were of the Lake type, the "W" of the French "Laubeuf" type, and the "S" class of the Italian "F. I. A. T." or Laurenti type; both of the last named were adaptations of the Lake type. France, which was for many years the prodigal of the nations when it came to submarine building has continued this tendency. In a way this liberal expenditure of money did not pay particularly well. For, although it resulted in the creation of a comparatively large submarine fleet, this fleet contained boats of every kind and description. Quite a number of the boats were little more than experiments and possessed not a great deal of practical value. The manning and efficient handling of a fleet having so little homogeneity naturally was a difficult matter and seriously restricted its fighting efficiency. At the outbreak of the war France had 92 submarines in active service, belonging to 12 different classes. In addition there had also been built at various times 5 experimental boats which had been named: _Argonaute_, _Amiral Bourgeoise_, _Archimède_, _Mariotte_, and _Charles Brun_. The majority of the boats belonging to the various classes were of the Laubeuf type, an adaptation of the Lake type made for the French navy by M. Laubeuf, a marine engineer. In their various details these boats vary considerably. Their displacement ranges from 67 tons to 1000 tons, their length from 100 feet to 240 feet, their beam from 12 feet to 20 feet, their surface speed from 8-1/2 knots to 17 1/2 knots, their submerged speed from 5 knots to 12 knots, the horse-power of their heavy oil engines from 1300 to 2000 and that of their electric motors from 350 to 900. Some of the boats, however, have steam engines, others gasoline motors, and still others steam turbines. The cruising range of the biggest and newest boats is 4000 miles. Armament varies with size, of course, the latest boats carrying 4 torpedo tubes for eight 18-inch torpedoes and two 14-pdr. quick-firing, high angle, disappearing guns. Nine more submarines were in course of construction at the outbreak of war, most of which were of the improved "Gustave Zédé" class. During the war French shipyards were chiefly occupied with capital navy ships and it is not thought the submarine strength has been much increased. Of the great naval powers, Germany was, strangely enough, the last to become interested in the building of a submarine fleet. This, however, was not due to any neglect on the part of the German naval authorities. It is quite evident from the few official records which are available that they watched and studied very carefully the development of the submarine and growth of the various submarine fleets. During the early years of the twentieth century, however, the Germans seemed to think that most of the boats that were being built then had not yet passed through the experimental stage and they also apparently decided that it would be just as well to wait until other nations had spent their money and efforts on these quasi experimental boats. Not until submarines had been built in the United States, England, and France which had proved beyond all doubt that they were practicable vessels of definite accomplishments, did the Germans seriously concern themselves with the creation of a German submarine fleet. When this period had been reached they went ahead with full power, and with the usual German thoroughness they adopted the best points from each of the various types developed by that time. The result of this attitude was a submarine boat built at first exclusively by Krupp and known as the "Germania" type. It was this type which formed the basis of the German submarine which has become known so extensively and disastrously during recent years. In most respects this type is perhaps more similar to the Lake type than to any other, although some features of the Holland type have been incorporated as well. At the beginning of the war Germany was credited with only thirty submarines. Six more were then rapidly approaching completion and the German naval law passed some time before provided for the building of seventy-two submarines by the end of 1917. It is believed in fact that by that time the Germans had not less than two hundred _Unterseeboots_. From the very beginning the Germans have designated their submarines by the letter "U" (standing for _Unterseeboot_) followed by numbers. The first boat was built in 1905 and was named "U-1." It was a comparatively small boat of 236 tons displacement. The motive power on the surface was a heavy-oil engine of 250 H.-P. Under water the boat was driven by electric motors of a little more than 100 H.-P. Submerged the "U-1" was capable of a speed of 7 knots only, which on the surface of the water could be increased to 10. Her radius of action was about 750 miles. Only one torpedo tube had been provided. [Illustration: © U. & U. _German Submarine Mine-Layer Captured by the British._] From this boat to the modern German submarine was indeed a long step taken in a comparatively short time. Not very much is known regarding modern German submarines, but the latest boats completed before the war were vessels of 900 tons displacement with heavy-oil engines of 2000 H.-P. and electric motors of 900 H.-P., possessing a surface and submerged speed of 18 and 10 knots respectively and a cruising radius of 4000 miles. They had four torpedo tubes for eight torpedoes, two 14-pdr. quick-firing guns, and two 1-pdr. high-angle anti-aircraft guns. Naturally they were also equipped with all the latest improvements, such as wireless apparatus, panoramic periscopes, armoured conning-towers, and decks. Since the outbreak of the war the Germans have built even more powerful submarine boats whose perfections in regard to speed, radius of action and armament became known through their accomplishments. Of these we will hear more in a later chapter. At just what period of the war the Germans woke up to the vital importance to them of an enormous submarine fleet is not known. It may have been immediately upon the amazing exploit of Captain Weddigen in the North Sea. At any rate the war had not long progressed before the destruction caused by German submarine attacks began to awaken the apprehension of the Allies and neutral nations. Retaliation in kind was impossible. The Germans had neither merchant nor naval ships at sea to be sunk. The rapidity with which the volume of the loss inflicted upon merchant shipping grew indicated an equally rapid increase in the size of the German underwater fleet. Neutrals were enraged by the extension by the Germans of the areas of sea in which they claimed the right to sink neutral ships, and their growing disregard for the restraining principles of international law. How greatly they developed the submarine idea was shown by their construction in 1916 of vessels with a displacement of 2400 tons; a length of 279 feet, and a beam of 26 feet; a surface speed of 22 knots, cruising radius of 6500 miles, mounting 4 to 8 guns and carrying a crew of from 40 to 60. But it was reported that two vessels designed primarily for surface cruising, but nevertheless submersible at will, had been laid down of 5000 tons, a length of 414 feet, and a radius of 18,000 to 20,000 miles. These "submersible cruisers" as they were called, mounted 6 to 8 guns, 30 torpedo tubes, and carried 90 torpedoes. What part vessels of this type shall play in war is still to be determined. Of the smaller naval powers, Italy comparatively early had become interested in the building of submarines. Most of her boats are of the Laurenti type--which is a very close adaptation of the Lake type. Russia and Japan, especially the latter, built up fairly efficient underwater fleets. The lesser countries, like Austria, Holland, Sweden, Denmark, Norway, and Spain have concerned themselves seriously with the creation of submarine fleets. The submarine boats of all of these countries in most instances were either of the Lake or Holland type though frequently they were built from plans of English, French or German adaptations rather than in accordance with the original American plans. The exact number of submarines possessed now by the various navies of the world is a matter of rather indefinite knowledge. Great secrecy has been maintained by every country in this respect. From a variety of sources, however, it has been possible to compile the following list which at least gives an approximate idea of the respective strength of the various submarine fleets at the beginning of the war. The numbers assigned to each country are only approximate, however, and include both boats then in existence or ordered built: United States 57; Great Britain 104; France 92; Germany 36; Italy 28; Russia 40; Japan 15; Austria 12; Holland 13; Denmark 15; Sweden 13; Norway 4; Greece 2; Turkey 2; Brazil 3; Peru 2. Having traced the development of the submarine from its earliest beginnings to recent times we are naturally now confronted with the question "What are the principal requirements and characteristics of the modern submarine?" The submarine boat of to-day, in order to do its work promptly and efficiently, must first of all possess seaworthiness. This means that no matter whether the sea is quiet or rough the submarine must be able to execute its operations with a fair degree of accuracy and promptness and must also be capable of making continuous headway. Surface and underwater navigation must be possible with equal facility and it is necessary that a state of submergence can be reached without loss of time and without any degree of danger to the boat's safety. At all times, travelling above water or below, the submarine must possess mechanical means which will make it possible to control its evolutions under all conditions. Furthermore, the ability of the submarine to find and to observe objects in its vicinity must not be greatly reduced when it is in a submerged position. In the latter it also becomes of extreme importance that the provisions for ventilation are such that the crew of the submarine should lose as little as possible in its efficiency and comfort. A fair amount of speed both on and below the surface of the water is essential and the maintenance of the speed for a fairly long period of time must be assured. In regard to their general outward appearance, submarines of various types to-day vary comparatively little. In many respects they resemble closely in shape, torpedo boats--the earlier submarines particularly. In size, of course, they differ in accordance with the purposes for which they have been designed. As compared with earlier submarines the most notable difference is that modern submarines possess more of a superstructure. Almost all of them are built now with double hulls. The space between the outer and the inner hull is utilized primarily for ballast tanks by means of which submergence is accomplished and stability maintained and regulated. Some of these tanks, however, are not used to carry water ballast, but serve as reservoirs for the fuel needed by the engines. The stability of the submarine and the facility with which it can submerge also depend greatly on the distribution of weight of its various parts. This problem has been worked out in such a way that to-day there is little room for improvement. Its details, however, are of too technical a nature to permit discussion in this place. Hydroplanes both fore and aft are now generally used to assist in regulating and controlling stability in the submerged state. The motive power of the modern submarine is invariably of a two-fold type. For travelling on the surface internal combustion engines are used. The gasoline engine of former years has been displaced by Diesel motors or adaptations of them. Although these represent a wonderful advance over the engines used in the past there is still a great deal of room for improvement. The opinions of engineers in this respect vary greatly, American opinion being generally unfavourable to the Diesel type, and whether the final solution of this problem will lie in the direction of a more highly developed motor of Diesel type, of an improved gasoline engine, or of some other engine not yet developed, only the future can tell. Simplicity of construction and reliability of operation are the two essential features which must be possessed by every part of the power plant of a submarine. For underwater travel electric motors and storage batteries are employed exclusively. These vary, of course, in detail. In principle, however, they are very much alike. Although this combination of electric and oil power is largely responsible for having made the submarine what it is to-day, it is far from perfect. Mechanical complications of many kinds and difficulties of varying degrees result from it. Up to comparatively recently these were considered insurmountable obstacles. But engineers all over the world are giving their most serious attention to the problem of devising a way to remove these obstacles and continuous progress is made by them. As an immediate result of the development of motive power in the submarine its speed both on and below the surface of the water as well as its radius of action has been materially increased. To-day submarines travel on the water with a speed which even a few years ago would have been thought quite respectable for the most powerful battleships or the swiftest passenger liners. And even under water, submarines attain a velocity which is far superior to that of which earlier submarines were capable on the surface of the water. How immensely extended the radius of action of the submarine has become in recent years, has impressed itself on the world especially in the last few years. Both English and French submarines have travelled without making any stops from their home ports to the Dardanelles and back again. And used to, and satiated as we are with mechanical wonders of all kinds the whole world was amazed when in 1916 German submarines made successful trips from their home ports to ports in the United States and returned with equal success. This meant a minimum radius of action of 3500 miles. In the case of the German U-boat which in 1916 appeared at Newport for a few hours, then attacked and sank some merchantmen off the United States coast and later was reported as having arrived safely in a German port, it has never been established whether the boat renewed its supplies of food and fuel on the way or carried enough to make the trip of some 7000 miles. One other important feature without which submarines would have found it impossible to score such accomplishments is the periscope. In the beginning periscopes were rather crude appliances. They were very weak and sprung leaks frequently. Moisture, formed by condensation, made them practically useless. In certain positions the image of the object picked up by the periscope became inverted. Their radius of vision was limited, and in every way they proved unreliable and unsatisfactory. But, just as almost every feature of submarine construction was gradually developed and most every technical obstacle overcome, experts gradually concentrated their efforts on the improvement of periscopes. Modern periscopes are complicated optical instruments which have been developed to a very high point of efficiency. A combination of prisms and lenses makes it possible now to see true images clearly. Appliances have been developed to make the rotation of the periscope safe, prompt, and easy so that the horizon can be swept readily in every direction. Magnification can be established at will by special devices easily connected or disconnected with the regular instrument. The range of vision of the modern periscope is as remarkable as its other characteristics. It differs, of course, in proportion to the height to which the periscope is elevated above the surface of the water. In clear weather a submarine, having elevated its periscope to a height of 20 feet can pick up a large battleship at as great a distance as 6 miles, while observers on the latter, even if equipped with the most powerful optical instruments, are absolutely unable to detect the submarine. This great distance is reduced to about 4000 yards if the periscope is only 3 feet above the surface of the water and to about 2200 yards if the elevation of the periscope is 1 foot. But even the highly developed periscope of to-day, usually called "panoramic periscope," has its limitations. The strain on the observer's eyes is very severe and can be borne only for short periods. In dirty weather the objectives become cloudy and the images are rendered obscure and indefinite, although this trouble has been corrected, at least in part, by forcing a strong blast through the rim surrounding the observation glass. At night, of course, the periscope is practically useless. Formerly a shot which cut off the periscope near the water's edge might sink the boat. This has been guarded against by cutting off the tube with a heavy plate of transparent glass which does not obstruct vision but shuts off the entrance of water. Important as the periscope is both as a means of observing the surroundings of the submarine and as a guide in steering it, it is not the only means of accomplishing the latter purpose. To-day every submarine possesses the most reliable type of compass available. At night when the periscope is practically useless or in very rough weather, or in case the periscope has been damaged or destroyed, steering is done exclusively by means of the compass. The latest type in use now on submarines is called the gyroscope compass which is a highly efficient and reliable instrument. [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _The Exterior of First German Submarine._] In the matter of ventilation the modern submarine also has reached a high state of perfection. The fresh air supply is provided and regulated in such a manner that most of the discomforts suffered by submarine crews in times past have been eliminated. The grave danger which formerly existed as a result of the poisonous fumes, emanating from the storage batteries and accumulators, has been reduced to a minimum. In every respect, except that of space, conditions of life in a submarine have been brought to a point where they can be favourably compared with those of boats navigated on the surface of the water. Of course, even at the best, living quarters in a submarine will always be cramped. However, it is so important that submarine crews should be continuously kept on a high plane of efficiency that they are supplied with every conceivable comfort permitted by the natural limitations of submarine construction. [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _The Interior of First German Submarine. Showing Appliances for Man-Power._] Submarine boats so far have been used almost exclusively as instruments of warfare. One of their most important features, therefore, naturally is their armament. We have already heard something about the use of torpedoes by submarines. The early submarines had as a rule only one torpedo tube and were incapable of carrying more than two or three torpedoes. Gradually, however, both the number of torpedo tubes and of torpedoes was increased. The latest types have as many as eight or ten tubes and carry enough torpedoes to permit them to stay away from their base for several weeks. In recent years submarines have also been armed with guns. Naturally these have to be of light weight and small calibre. They are usually mounted so that they can be used at a high angle. This is done in order to make it possible for submarines to defend themselves against attacks from airships. The mountings of these guns are constructed in such a way that the guns themselves disappear immediately after discharge and are not visible while not in use. Though mounted on deck they are aimed and fired from below. As part of the armament of the submarine we must also consider the additional protection which they receive from having certain essential parts protected by armour plate. All these features have increased the safety of submarine navigation to a great extent. In spite of the popular impression that submarine navigation entailed a greater number of danger factors than navigation on the surface of the water, this is not altogether so. If we stop to consider this subject we can readily see why rather the opposite should be true. Navigation under the surface of the water greatly reduces the possibility of collision and also the dangers arising from rough weather. For the results of the latter are felt to a much lesser degree below than on the surface of the water. Many other factors are responsible for the comparatively high degree of safety inherent in submarines. Up to the outbreak of the present war only about two hundred and fifty lives had been lost as a result to accidents to modern submarines. Considering that up to 1910 a great deal of submarine navigation was more or less experimental this is a record which can bear favourable comparison with similar records established by overwater navigation or by navigation in the air. To the average man the thought of imprisonment in a steel tube beneath the surface of the sea, and being suddenly deprived of all means of bringing it up to air and light is a terrifying and nerve shattering thing. It is probably the first consideration which suggests itself to one asked to make a submarine trip. Always the newspaper headlines dealing with a submarine disaster speak of those lost as "drowned like rats in a trap." Men will admit that the progress of invention has greatly lessened the danger of accident to submarines, but nevertheless sturdily insist that when the accident does happen the men inside have no chance of escape. As a matter of fact many devices have been applied to the modern submarine to meet exactly this contingency. Perhaps nothing is more effective than the so-called telephone buoy installed in our Navy and in some of those of Europe. This is a buoy lightly attached to the outer surface of the boat, containing a telephone transmitter and receiver connected by wire with a telephone within. In the event of an accident this buoy is released and rises at once to the surface. A flag attached attracts the attention of any craft that may be in the neighbourhood and makes immediate communication with those below possible. Arrangements can then be made for raising the boat or towing her to some point at which salvage is possible. An instance of the value of this device was given by the disaster to the German submarine "U-3" which was sunk at Kiel in 1910. Through the telephone the imprisoned crew notified those at the other end that they had oxygen enough for forty-eight hours but that the work of rescue must be completed in that time. A powerful floating derrick grappled the sunken submarine and lifted its bow above water. Twenty-seven of the imprisoned crew crept out through the torpedo tubes. The captain and two lieutenants conceived it their duty to stay with the ship until she was actually saved. In the course of the operations one of the ventilators was broken, the water rushed in and all three were drowned. In some of the Holland ships of late construction there is an ingenious, indeed an almost incredible device by which the ship takes charge of herself if the operators or crew are incapacitated. It has happened that the shock of a collision has so stunned the men cooped up in the narrow quarters of a submarine that they are for quite an appreciable time unable to attend to their duties. Such a collision would naturally cause the boat to leak and to sink. In these newer Holland ships an automatic device causes the ship, when she has sunk to a certain depth, registered of course by automatic machinery, to start certain apparatus which empties the ballast tanks and starts the pumps which will empty the interior of the ship if it has become flooded. The result is that after a few minutes of this automatic work, whether the crew has sufficiently recovered to take part in it or not, the boat will rise to the surface. This extraordinary invention is curiously reminiscent of the fact chronicled in earlier chapters of this book that the most modern airplanes are so built that should the aviator become insensible or incapacitated for his work, if he will but drop the controls, the machine will adjust itself and make its own landing in safety. Unaided the airplane drops lightly to earth; unaided the submarine rises buoyantly to the air. In recent years there have been developed special ships for the salvage of damaged or sunk submarines. At the same time the navies of the world have also produced special submarine tenders or mother ships. The purpose of these is to supply a base which can keep on the move with the same degree of facility which the submarine itself possesses. These tenders are equipped with air compressors by means of which the air tanks of submarines can be refilled. Electric generators make it possible to replenish the submarine storage batteries. Mechanical equipment permits the execution of repairs to the submarine's machinery and equipment. Extra fuel, substitute parts for the machinery, spare torpedoes are carried by these tenders. The most modern of them are even supplied with dry dock facilities, powerful cranes, and sufficiently strong armament to repel attacks from boats of the type most frequently encountered by submarines. There are, of course, many other special appliances which make up the sum total of a modern submarine's equipment. Electricity is used for illuminating all parts of the boat. Heat is supplied in the same manner; this is a very essential feature because the temperature of a submarine, after a certain period of submergence, becomes uncomfortably low. Electricity is also used for cooking purposes. Every submarine boat built to-day is equipped with wireless apparatus. Naturally it is only of limited range varying from one hundred and twenty to one hundred and eighty miles, but even at that it is possible for a submarine to send messages to its base or some other given point from a considerable distance by relay. If the submarine is running on the surface of the water the usual means of naval communication-flag signals, wig-wagging or the semaphore, can be employed. The submarine bell is another means for signalling. It is really a wireless telephone, operating through the water instead of the air. Up to the present, however, it has not been sufficiently developed to permit its use for any great distance. It is so constructed that it can also be used as a sound detector. Some submarines, besides being equipped with torpedo tubes, carry other tubes for laying mines. In most instances this is only a secondary function of the submarine. There are, however, special mine-laying submarines. Others, especially of the Lake type, have diving compartments which permit the employment of divers for the purpose of planting or taking up mines. Disappearing anchors, operated by electricity from within the boat, are carried. They are used for steadying the boat if it is desired to keep it for any length of time on the bottom of the sea in a current. From this necessarily brief description it can be seen readily that the modern submarine boat is a highly developed, but very complicated mechanism. Naturally it requires a highly trained, extremely efficient crew. The commanding officers must be men of strong personality, keen intellect, high mechanical efficiency, and quick judgment. The gradual increase in size has brought a corresponding increase in the number of a submarine's crew. A decade ago from 8 to 10 officers and men were sufficient but to-day we hear of submarine crews that number anywhere from 25 to 40. In spite of the marvellous advances which have been made in the construction, equipment, and handling of the submarine during the last ten years, perfection in many directions is still a long way off. How soon it will be reached, if ever, and by what means, are, of course, questions which only the future can answer. CHAPTER XV ABOARD A SUBMARINE Submarines have been compared to all kinds of things, from a fish to a cigar. Life on them has been described in terms of the highest elation as well as of the deepest depression. Their operation and navigation, according to some claims, require a veritable combination of mechanical, electrical, and naval genius--not only on the part of the officers, but even on that of the simplest oiler--while others make it appear as if a submarine was at least as simple to handle as a small motor boat. The truth concerning all these matters lies somewhere between these various extremes. It is quite true that except on the very latest "submerged cruisers" built by the Germans, the space for the men operating a submarine is painfully straitened. They must hold to their positions almost like a row of peas in a pod. From this results the gravest strain upon the nerves so that it has been found in Germany that after a cruise a period of rest of equal duration is needed to restore the men to their normal condition. Before assignment to submarine duty, too, a special course of training is requisite. Submarine crews are not created in a day. What the interior of the new German submarines with a length of 280 feet, and a beam of 26 feet may be, no man of the Anglo-Saxon race may know or tell. The few who have descended into those mysterious depths will have no chance to tell of them until the war is over. Nor is it possible during wartimes to secure descriptions even of our own underwater boats. But the interior of the typical submarine may be imagined as in size and shape something like an unusually long street car. Along the sides, where seats would normally be, are packed wheels, cylinders, motors, pumps, machinery of all imaginable kinds and some of it utterly unimaginable to the lay observer. The whole interior is painted white and bathed in electric light. The casual visitor from "above seas" is dazed by the array of machinery and shrinks as he walks the narrow aisle lest he become entangled in it. Running on the surface the submarine chamber is filled with a roar and clatter like a boiler shop in full operation. The Diesel engines are compact and powerful, but the racket they make more nearly corresponds to their power than to their size. On the surface too the boat rolls and pitches and the stranger passenger, unequipped with sea legs grabs for support as the subway rider reaches for a strap on the curves. But let the order come to submerge. The Diesels are stopped. The electric motors take up the task, spinning noiselessly in their jackets. In a moment or two all rolling ceases. One can hardly tell whether the ship is moving at all--it might for all its motion tells be resting quietly on the bottom. If you could disabuse your mind for a moment of the recollection that you were in a great steel cigar heavy laden with explosives, and deep under the surface of the sea you would find the experience no more exciting than a trip through the Pennsylvania tubes. But there is something uncanny about the silence. [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _A Torpedo Designed by Fulton._] Go forward to the conical compartment at the very bow. There you will find the torpedo chamber for the submarine, like the cigar to which it is so often compared, carries its fire at its front tip. The most common type of boat will have two or four torpedo tubes in this chamber. The more modern ones will have a second torpedo chamber astern with the same number of tubes and carry other torpedoes on deck which by an ingenious device can be launched from their outside cradles by mechanism within the boat. In the torpedo chamber are twice as many spare torpedoes as there are tubes, made fast along the sides. Here too the anchor winch stands with the cable attached to the anchor outside the boat and an automatic knife which cuts the cable should the anchor be fouled. [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _The Method of Attack by Nautilus._] Immediately aft of the torpedo chamber, cut off by a water-tight partition, is the battery compartment. It gets its name because of the fact, that beneath the deck which is full of traps readily raised are the electric storage batteries of anywhere from 60 to 260 cells according to the size of the boat. This room is commonly used as the loafing place for the crew, being regarded as very spacious and empty. In it are nothing but the electric stove, the kitchen sink, the various lockers for food and all the housekeeping apparatus of the submarine. Mighty trim and compact they all are. The builder of twentieth century flats with his kitchenettes and his in-door beds might learn a good deal from a study of the smaller type of submarine. Next aft come the officers' staterooms, rather smaller than prison cells, each holding a bunk, a bureau, and a desk. Each holds also a good deal of moisture, for the greatest discomfort in submarine life comes from the fact that everything is dripping with the water resulting from the constant condensation of the air within. The great compartment amidships given over to machinery is a place to test the nerves. The aisle down the centre is scarcely two feet wide and on each side are whirling wheels, engines, and electric motors. Only the photographs can give a clear idea of the crowded appearance of this compartment. It contains steering wheels, the gyroscopic compass, huge valves, dials showing depth of submergence, Kingston levers, motor controllers, all polished and shining, each doing its work and each easily thrown out of gear by an ignorant touch. The author once spending the night on a United States man-of-war was shown by the captain to his own cabin, that officer occupying the admiral's cabin for the time. At the head of the bunk were two small electric push buttons absolutely identical in appearance and about two inches apart. "Push this button," said the captain genially, "if you want the Jap boy to bring you shaving water or anything else. But be sure to push the right one. If you push the other you will call the entire crew to quarters at whatever hour of night the bell may ring." The possibility of mistaking the button rested heavily on the writer's nerves all night. A somewhat similar feeling comes over one who walks the narrow path down the centre of the machinery compartment of a submarine. He seems hedged about by mysterious apparatus a touch of which, or even an accidental jostle may release powerful and even murderous forces. While the submarine is under way, submerged, the operator at every piece of individual machinery stands at its side ready for action. Here are the gunner's mates at the diving rudder. They watch steadily a big gauge on which a needle which shows how deep the boat is sinking. When the required depth is reached swift turns of two big brass wheels set the horizontal rudders that check the descent and keep the boat on an even keel. Other men stand at the levers of the Kingston valves which, when open, flood the ballast tanks with water and secure the submergence of the boat. Most of the underwater boats to-day sink rapidly on an even keel. The old method of depressing the nose of the boat so as to make a literal dive has been abandoned, partly because of the inconvenience it caused to the men within who suddenly found the floor on which they were standing tilted at a sharp angle, and partly because the diving position proved to be a dangerous one for the boat. In the early days of the submarines the quarters for the men were almost intolerable. The sleeping accommodations were cramped and there was no place for the men off duty to lounge and relax from the strain of constant attention to duty. Man cannot keep his body in a certain fixed position even though it be not rigid, for many hours. This is shown as well at the base ball grounds at the end of the sixth inning when "all stretch" as it was in the old time underwater boats. The crews now have space in which to loaf and even the strain of long silent watches under water is relieved by the use of talking machines and musical instruments. The efficiency of the boat of course is only that of her crew, and since more care and more scientific thought has been given to the comfort of the men, to the purity of the air they breathe, and even to their amusements, the effect upon the work done by the craft has been apparent. Ten years ago hot meals were unthought of on a submarine; now the electric cooker provides for quite an elaborate bill of fare. But ten years ago the submarine was only expected to cruise for a few hours off the harbour's mouth carrying a crew of twenty men or less. Now it stays at sea sometimes for as long as three months. Its crews number often as many as fifty and the day is in sight when accommodations will have to be made for the housing of at least eighty men in such comparative comfort that they can stand a six months' voyage without loss of morale or decrease in physical vigour. It is, of course, very rare that a civilian has the chance to be present on a submarine when the latter is making either a real or a feigned attack. Fred B. Pitney, a correspondent of the New York _Tribune_, was fortunate enough to have this experience, fortunate especially because it was all a game arranged for his special benefit by a French admiral. He writes of this interesting experience in the _Tribune_ of Sunday, May 27, 1917, and at the same time gives a vivid description of a French submarine. It appears that Mr. Pitney was on a small vessel put at his disposal by the French Ministry of Marine to view the defences of a French naval base. This boat was attacked by what seemed to be an enemy submarine, but later turned out to be a French one which was giving this special performance for Mr. Pitney's information. We read: Our officers were experts at watching for submarines, and though the little white wave made by the periscope disappeared, they caught the white wake of the torpedo coming toward the port quarter and sheered off to escape it. The torpedo passed harmlessly by our stern, but the adventure was not ended, for hardly a minute later we heard a shot from off the starboard quarter and, turning in that direction, saw that the submarine had come to the surface and was busily firing at us to bring us to. We stopped without any foolish waste of time in argument. I asked if a boat would be sent to us, or if we would have to get out our boat. "They carry a small folding boat," said the officer to whom I had been talking, "but we will have to send our boat." While we were getting our boat over the side, the submarine moved closer in, keeping her gun bearing on us all the time, most uncomfortably. The gun stood uncovered on the deck, just abaft the turret. It was thickly coated with grease to protect it when the vessel submerged. It is only the very latest type of submarines that have disappearing guns which go under cover when the vessel submerges and are fired from within the ship, which makes all the more surprising the speed with which a submarine can come to the surface, the men get out on deck, fire the gun, get in again and the vessel once more submerges. I was in the first boatload that went over to the submarine. From a distance it looked like nothing so much as a rather long piece of 4×8 floating on the water, with another block set on top of it and a length of lath nailed on the block. It lost none of these characteristics as we neared it. It only gained a couple of ropes along the sides of the 4×8, while men kept coming mysteriously out of the block until a round dozen was waiting to receive us. The really surprising thing was that the men turned out to be perfectly good French sailors, with a most exceedingly polite French lieutenant to help us aboard the little craft.... [Illustration: _The Capture of a U-Boat._ _Painting by John E. Whiting._] The vessel we were in was a 500-ton cruising submarine. It had just come from eight months' guarding the Channel, and showed all the battering of eight months of a very rough and stormy career with no time for a lie-up for repairs. It was interesting to see the commander hand the depth gauge a wallop to start it working and find out if the centre of the boat was really nine feet higher than either end. We were fifty-four feet under water and diving when the commander performed that little experiment and we continued to dive while the gauge spun around and finally stopped at a place which indicated approximately that our back was not broken. I suppose that was one of the things my friend the lieutenant referred to when he said life on a submarine was such a sporting proposition. We boarded the submarine over the tail end and balanced our way up the long narrow block, like walking a tight rope, to the turret, where we descended through a hole like the opening into a gas main into a small round compartment about six feet in diameter exactly in the midship section, which was the largest compartment in the ship. Running each way from it the length of the vessel were long corridors, some two feet wide. On each side of the corridors were rows of tiny compartments, which were the living and working rooms of the ship. Naturally, most of the space was given up to the working rooms. The officers' quarters consisted of four tiny compartments, two on each side of the after corridor. The first two were the mess room and chart room, and the second pair were the cabins of the commander--a lieutenant--and his second in command, an ensign. Behind them was an electric kitchen, and next came the engines, first two sets of Diesel engines, one on each side of the corridor, each of four hundred horse-power. These were for running on the surface. Then came four bunks for the quartermasters and last the electric motors for running under the surface. The motors were run from storage batteries and were half the power of the Diesel engines. The quarters of the crew were along the sides of the forward corridor. The floors of the corridor were an unbroken series of trap doors, covering the storage tanks for drinking water, food, and the ship's supplies. The torpedo tubes were forward of the men's quarters. Ten torpedoes were carried. The ammunition for the deck gun was stored immediately beneath the gun, which was mounted between the turret and the first hatch, abaft the turret. Besides the turret there were three hatches in the deck, one forward and two aft. There were thirty-four men in the crew. The men are counted every two hours, as there is great danger of men being lost overboard when running on the surface, and in bad weather they are sometimes counted as often as every half hour. The turret was divided in two sections. In the after part was the main hatch and behind it a stationary periscope, standing about thirty inches above the surface of the water when the deck was submerged and only the periscope showing. There was no opening in the forward section of the turret, but the fighting periscope, which could be drawn down into the interior or pushed up to ten feet above the surface when the vessel was completely submerged, extended through the top. For two hours, turn and turn about, the commander and his second stand watch on the iron grips in the turret, one eye on the periscope, the other on the compass. And this goes on for weeks on end. It is only when they lie for a few hours fifty to seventy-five feet below the surface that they can get some rest. And even then there is no real rest, for one or the other of them must be constantly on duty, testing pipes and gauges, air pressure, water pressure, and a thousand other things. When we dropped through the hatch into the interior of the submarine and the cover was clamped down over our heads the commander at once ordered me back into the turret. "Hurry, if you want to see her dive," he said. I climbed into the after section of the turret and fastened my eye to the periscope. Around the top of the turret was a circle of bulls' eyes and I was conscious of the water dashing against them while the spray washed over the glass of the periscope. The little vessel rolled very slightly on the surface, though there was quite a bit of sea running. I watched the horizon through the periscope and watched for the dive, expecting a distinct sensation, but the first thing I noticed was that even the slight roll had ceased and I was surprised to see that the bulls' eyes were completely under water. The next thing there was no more horizon. The periscope also was covered and we were completely beneath the surface. "Did it make you sick?" the commander asked, when I climbed down from the turret, and when I told him "no" he was surprised, for he said most men were made sick by their first dive. The thing most astonishing to me about that experience was how a submerged submarine can thread its way through a mine field. For though the water is luminous and translucent one can hardly make out the black hull of the boat under the turret and a mine would have to be on top of you before you could see it. The men who watch for mines must have a sense for them as well as particularly powerful sight. We continued to dive until we were sixty-eight feet below the surface, too deep to strike any mine, and there we ran tranquilly on our electric engines, while the commander navigated the vessel and the second in command opened champagne in the two by four mess room. After half an hour of underwater work we came near enough the surface for our fighting periscope to stick twenty inches out of the water and searched the lonely horizon for a ship to attack. It was not long before we sighted a mine trawler, steaming for the harbour, and speeded up to overtake her. "Pikers!" said our commander, as we circled twice around the trawler; "they can't find us." Five men on the trawler were scanning the sea with glasses looking for submarines. We could follow all their motions, could tell when they thought they had found us and see their disappointment at their mistakes, but though we were never more than five hundred yards from them, I did not think they were pikers because they did not find us. I had tried that hunt for the tiny wave of a periscope. "No use wasting a torpedo on those fellows," said our commander. "We will use the gun on them." "How far away can you use a torpedo?" I asked. "Two hundred yards is the best distance," he said. "Never more than five hundred. A torpedo is pure guesswork at more than five hundred yards." We crossed the bow of the trawler, circled around to her starboard quarter and came to the surface, fired nine shots and submerged again in forty-five seconds. The prey secured, we ran submerged through the mine field and past the net barrier to come to the surface well within the harbour and proceed peacefully to our mooring under the shelter of the guns of the land forts. Life and work on a German submarine is known to us, of course, only from descriptions in German publications. One of these appeared, previous to our entry in the war, in various journals and was translated and republished by the New York _Evening Post_. It reads partly as follows: "U-47 will take provisions and clear for sea. Extreme economical radius." A first lieutenant, with acting rank of commander, takes the order in the grey dawn of a February day. The hulk of an old corvette with the Iron Cross of 1870 on her stubby foremast is his quarters in port, and on the corvette's deck he is presently saluted by his first engineer and the officer of the watch. On the pier the crew of U-47 await him. At their feet the narrow grey submarine lies alongside, straining a little at her cables. "Well, we've our orders at last," begins the commander, addressing his crew of thirty, and the crew grin. For this is U-47's first experience of active service. She has done nothing save trial trips hitherto, and has just been overhauled for her first fighting cruise. Her commander snaps out a number of orders. Provisions are to be taken in "up to the neck," fresh water is to be put aboard, and engine-room supplies to be supplemented. A mere plank is the gangway to the little vessel. As the commander, followed by his officers, comes aboard, a sailor hands to each a ball of cotton-waste, the sign and symbol of a submarine officer, which never leaves his hand. For the steel walls of his craft, the doors, and the companion-ladder all sweat oil, and at every touch the hands must be wiped dry. The doorways are narrow round holes. Through one of the holes aft the commander descends by a breakneck iron ladder into the black hole lit by electric glow-lamps. The air is heavy with the smell of oil, and to the unaccustomed longshoreman it is almost choking, though the hatches are off. The submarine man breathes this air as if it were the purest ozone. Here in the engine-room aft men must live and strain every nerve even if for days at a time every crack whereby the fresh air could get in is hermetically sealed. On their tense watchfulness thirty lives depend. Here, too, are slung some hammocks, and in them one watch tries, and, what is more, succeeds in sleeping, though the men moving about bump them with head and elbows at every turn, and the low and narrow vault is full of the hum and purr of machinery. In length the vault is about ten feet, but if a man of normal stature stands in the middle and raises his arms to about half shoulder height his hands will touch the cold, moist steel walls on either side. A network of wires runs overhead, and there is a juggler's outfit of handles, levers, and instruments. The commander inspects everything minutely, then creeps through a hole into the central control station, where the chief engineer is at his post. With just about enough assistance to run a fairly simple machine ashore the chief engineer of a submarine is expected to control, correct, and, if necessary, repair at sea an infinitely complex machinery which must not break down for an instant if thirty men are to return alive to the hulk. Forward is another narrow steel vault serving at once as engine-room and crew's quarters. Next to it is a place like a cupboard, where the cook has just room to stand in front of his doll's house galley-stove. It is electrically heated, that the already oppressive air may not be further vitiated by smoke or fumes. A German submarine in any case smells perpetually of coffee and cabbage. Two little cabins of the size of a decent clothes-chest take the deck and engine-room officers, four of them. Another box cabin is reserved for the commander--when he has time to occupy it. At daybreak the commander comes on deck in coat and trousers of black leather lined with wool, a protection against oil, cold, and sea-water. The crew at their stations await the command to cast off. "Machines clear," calls a voice from the control-station and "Clear ship," snaps the order from the bridge. Then "Cast-off!" The cables slap on to the landing-stage, the engines begin to purr, and U-47 slides away into open water. A few cable-lengths away another submarine appears homeward bound. She is the U-20 returning from a long cruise in which she succeeded in sinking a ship bound with a cargo of frozen mutton for England. "Good luck, old sheep-butcher," sings the commander of U-47 as the sister-ship passes within hail. The seas are heavier now, and U-47 rolls unpleasantly as she makes the light-ship and answers the last salute from a friendly hand. The two officers on the bridge turn once to look at the light-ship already astern, then their eyes look seaward. It is rough, stormy weather. If the egg-shell goes ahead two or three days without a stop, the officers in charge will get no sleep for just that long. If it gets any rougher they will be tied to the bridge-rails to avoid being swept overboard. If they are hungry, plates of soup will be brought to them on the bridge, and the North Sea will attend to its salting for them. Frequently this "meal" is interrupted by some announcement from the watch, such as: "Smoke on the horizon off the port bow." Then--so we are told: The commander drops his plate, shouts a short, crisp command, and an electric alarm whirs inside the egg-shell. The ship buzzes like a hive. Then water begins to gurgle into the ballast-tanks, and U-47 sinks until only her periscope shows. "The steamship is a Dutchman, sir," calls the watch officer. The commander inspects her with the aid of a periscope. She has no wireless and is bound for the Continent. So he can come up and is glad, because moving under the water consumes electricity, and the usefulness of a submarine is measured by her electric power. After fifty-four hours of waking nerve tension, sleep becomes a necessity. So the ballast-tanks are filled and the nutshell sinks to the sandy bottom. This is the time for sleep aboard a submarine, because a sleeping man consumes less of the precious oxygen than one awake and busy. So a submarine man has three principal lessons to learn--to keep every faculty at tension when he is awake, to keep stern silence when he is ashore (there is a warning against talkativeness in all the German railway-carriages now), and to sleep instantly when he gets a legitimate opportunity. His sleep and the economy of oxygen may save the ship. However, the commander allows half an hour's grace for music. There is a gramophone, of course, and the "ship's band" performs on all manner of instruments. At worst, a comb with a bit of tissue paper is pressed into service. Another American who suffered an enforced voyage on an _unterseeboot_ made public later some of his experiences. His captor's craft was a good sized one--about 250 feet long, with a crew of 35 men and mounting two 4-1/2 inch guns. She could make 18 knots on the surface and 11 submerged and had a radius of 3200 miles of action. Her accommodations were not uncomfortable. Each officer had a separate cabin while the crew were bunked along either side of a narrow passage. The ventilation was excellent, and her officers declared that they could stand twenty-four hours continuous submergence without discomfort, after that for six hours it was uncomfortable, and thereafter intolerable because of the exudation of moisture--or sweating--from every part. At such times all below have to wear leather suits. The food was varied and cooked on an electric stove. The original stores included preserved pork and beef, vegetables, tinned soups, fruits, raisins, biscuits, butter, marmalade, milk, tea, and coffee. But the pleasures of the table depended greatly on the number of their prizes, for whenever possible they made every ship captured contribute heavily to their larder before sinking her. Of the tactics followed the observer writes: It appears that 55 per cent., or more than half, of the torpedoes fired miss their mark, and with this average they seem satisfied. Once they let go at a ship two torpedoes at 3000 yards' range, and both missed, the range being too long but they did not care to come any nearer, as they believed the ship to be well armed. They prefer to fire at 500 to 700 yards, which means that at this range the track or "wake" of a projectile would be discernible for, say, twenty-five to thirty seconds--not much time, indeed, for any ship to get out of the way. At 100 yards' range or less they do not care to fire unless compelled to, as the torpedo is nearly always discharged when the submarine is lying ahead of the object, _i. e._, to hit the ship coming up to it; it follows that a gun forward is more useful than one aft, the gun aft being of real service when a submarine starts shelling, which she will do for choice from aft the ship rather than from forward of her, where she would be in danger of being run over and rammed. CHAPTER XVI SUBMARINE WARFARE At the moment of writing these words the outcome of the greatest war the world has ever known is believed by many to hang upon the success with which the Allies can meet and defeat the campaign of the German submarines. The German people believe this absolutely. The Allies and their sympathizers grudgingly admit that they are only too fearful that it may be true. To such a marvellous degree of military efficiency has the ingenuity of man brought these boats which so recently as our Civil War were still in the vaguest experimental stage and scarcely possessed of any offensive power whatsoever! Nevertheless these machines had reached a degree of development, and had demonstrated their dangerous character so early in the war that it was amazing that the British were so slow in comprehending the use that might be made of them in cutting off British commerce. It is true that the first submarine actions redounded in their results entirely to British credit. In September of 1914 a British submarine ran gallantly into Heligoland Bay and sank the German light cruiser _Hela_ at her moorings. Shortly after the Germans sought retaliation by attacking a British squadron, but the effort miscarried. The British cruiser _Birmingham_ caught a glimpse of her wake and with a well-aimed shot destroyed her periscope. The submarine dived, but shortly afterwards came up again making what was called a porpoise dive--that is to say, she came up just long enough for the officer in the conning tower to locate the enemy, then submerged again. Brief, however, as had been the appearance of the conning tower, the British put a shell into it and in a few minutes the submarine and most of her crew were at the bottom of the sea. Soon after followed the attack upon and sinking of the three cruisers by the submarine under the command of Lieutenant Commander Otto von Weddigen, the narrative of which we have already told. But while after that attacks upon British armed ships were many, successes were few. There were no German ships at sea for the British to attack in turn, but some very gallant work was done by their submarines against Austrian and Turkish warships in the Mediterranean and the Dardanelles. All this time the Germans were preparing for that warfare upon the merchant shipping of all countries which at the end they came to believe would force the conclusion of the war. It seems curious that during this early period the Allies were able to devise no method of meeting this form of attack. When the United States entered the war more than three years later they looked to us for the instant invention of some effective anti-submarine weapon. If they were disappointed at our failure at once to produce one, they should have remembered at least that they too were baffled by the situation although it was presented to them long before it became part of our problems. About no feature of the war have the belligerents thrown more of mystery than about the circumstances attending submarine attacks upon battleships and armed transports and the method employed of meeting them. Even when later in the war the Germans apparently driven to frenzy made special efforts to sink hospital and Red Cross ships the facts were concealed by the censors, and accounts of the efforts made to balk such inhuman and unchristian practices diligently suppressed. In the end it seemed that the British, who of course led all naval activities, had reached the conclusion that only by the maintenance of an enormous fleet of patrol boats could the submarines be kept in check. This method they have applied unremittingly. Alfred Noyes in a publication authorized by the British government has thus picturesquely told some of the incidents connected with this service: It is difficult to convey in words the wide sweep and subtle co-ordination of this ocean hunting; for the beginning of any tale may be known only to an admiral in a London office, the middle of it only to a commander at Kirkwall, and the end of it only to a trawler skipper off the coast of Ireland. But here and there it is possible to piece the fragments together into a complete adventure, as in the following record of a successful chase, where the glorious facts outrun all the imaginations of the wildest melodrama. There were suspicious vessels at anchor, one moonless night, in a small bay near the Mumbles. They lay there like shadows, but before long they knew that the night was alive for a hundred miles with silent talk about them. At dawn His Majesty's trawlers _Golden Feather_ and _Peggy Nutten_ foamed up, but the shadows had disappeared. The trawlers were ordered to search the coast thoroughly for any submarine stores that might have been left there. "Thoroughly" in this war means a great deal. It means that even the bottom of the sea must be searched. This was done by grapnels; but the bottom was rocky and seemed unfit for a base. Nothing was found but a battered old lobster pot, crammed with seaweed and little green crabs. Probably these appearances were more than usually deceitful; for shortly afterward watchers on the coast reported a strange fishing boat, with patched brown sails, heading for the suspected bay. Before the patrols came up, however, she seemed to be alarmed. The brown sails were suddenly taken in; the disguised conning tower was revealed, and this innocent fishing boat, gracefully submerging, left only the smiling and spotless April seas to the bewildered eyes of the coast guard. In the meantime signals were pulsing and flashing on land and sea, and the U-boat had hardly dipped when, over the smooth green swell, a great sea hawk came whirring up to join the hunt, a hawk with light yellow wings and a body of service grey--the latest type of seaplane. It was one of those oily seas in which a watcher from the air may follow a submarine for miles, as an olive green shadow under the lighter green. The U-boat doubled twice; but it was half an hour before her sunken shadow was lost to sight under choppy blue waters, and long before that time she was evidently at ease in her mind and pursuing a steady course. For the moment her trail was then lost, and the hawk, having reported her course, dropped out of the tale. [Illustration: Photo by U. & U. _A British Submarine._] The next morning in the direction indicated by that report several patrol boats heard the sound of gunfire and overhauled a steamer which had been attacked by a submarine. They gave chase by "starring" to all the points of the compass, but could not locate the enemy. A little later, however, another trawler observed the wash of a submarine crossing her stern about two hundred yards away. The trawler star-boarded, got into the wake of the submarine and tried to ram her at full speed. She failed to do this, as the U-boat was at too great a depth. The enemy disappeared, and again the trawlers gathered and "starred." [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _Sectional View of the Nautilus._] In the meantime, certain nets had been shot, and, though the inclosed waters were very wide, it was quite certain that the submarine was contained within them. Some hours later another trawler heard firing and rushed toward the sound. About sunset she sighted a submarine which was just dipping. The trawler opened fire at once without result. The light was very bad and it was very difficult to trace the enemy, but the trawler continued the search, and about midnight she observed a small light close to the water. She steamed within a few yards of it and hailed, thinking it was a small boat. There was a considerable amount of wreckage about, which was afterward proved to be the remains of a patrol vessel sunk by the submarine. There was no reply to the hail, and the light instantly disappeared. For the third time the patrols gathered and "starred" from this new point. And here the tale was taken up by a sailor who was in command of another trawler at the time. I give it, so far as possible, in his own words. "About 4 o'clock in the morning I was called by Deckhand William Brown to come on deck and see if an object sighted was a submarine. I did so, and saw a submarine about a mile distant on the port bow. I gave the order, 'Hard a-starboard.' The ship was turned until the gun was able to bear on the submarine, and it was kept bearing. At the same time I ordered hands to station, and about ten minutes afterward I gave the order to fire. The submarine immediately altered her course from W. to N. N. W., and went away from us very fast. I burned lights to attract the attention of the drifters, and we followed at our utmost speed, making about eight knots and shipping light sprays. We fired another shot about two minutes later, but it was breaking dawn, and we were unable to see the fall of the shots. After the second shot the submarine submerged. I hoisted warning signals and about half an hour later I saw a large steamer turning round, distant between two and three miles on our starboard beam. I headed toward her, keeping the gun trained on her, as I expected, judging by her action, that she had smelt the submarine. When we were about a mile and a half from the steamer I saw the submarine half a mile astern of her. We opened fire again, and gave her four shots, with about two minutes between 'em. The submarine then dodged behind the off quarter of the steamer." He paused to light his pipe, and added, quite gravely, "When she had disappeared behind the steamer I gave the order 'Cease fire,' to avoid hitting the larger vessel." I made a mental note of his thoughtfulness; but, not for worlds would I have shown any doubt of his power to blast his way, if necessary, through all the wood and iron in the universe; and I was glad that the blue clouds of our smoke mingled for a moment between us. "I saw two white boats off the port quarter," he continued. "But I paid no attention to them. I ordered the helm to be star-boarded a bit more, and told the gunner to train his gun on the bow of the steamer; for I expected the submarine to show there next. A few minutes later she did so, and when she drew ahead I gave the order to fire. I should say we were about a mile and a quarter away. We gave him two more shots and they dropped very close, as the spray rose over his conning tower. He altered his course directly away from us, and we continued to fire. The third shot smothered his conning tower with spray. I did not see the fourth and fifth shots pitch. There was no splash visible, although it was then broad daylight; so I believe they must have hit him. A few moments after this the submarine disappeared. "I turned, then, toward the two white boats and hailed them. The chief officer of the steamer was in charge of one. They were returning to their ship, and told me that we had hit the submarine. We escorted them through the nets and parted very good friends." "But how did you get the scalp of this U-boat?" I asked. "We signalled to the admiral, and sent the Daffy to investigate. She found the place, all right. It was a choppy sea, but there was one smooth patch in it, just where we told 'em the submarine had disappeared; a big patch of water like wavy satin, two or three hundred yards of it, coloured like the stripes on mackerel, all blue and green with oil. They took a specimen of the oil." "Did it satisfy the Admiralty?" "No. Nothing satisfies the Admiralty but certainties. They count the minimum losses of the enemy, and the maximum of their own. Very proper, too. Then you know where you are. But, mind you, I don't believe we finished him off that morning. Oil don't prove that. It only proves we hit him. I believe it was the 'Maggie and Rose' that killed him, or the 'Hawthorn.' No; it wasn't either. It was the 'Loch Awe.'" "How was that?" "Well, as Commander White was telling you, we'd shot out nets to the north and south of him. There were two or three hundred miles, perhaps, in which he might wriggle about; but he couldn't get out of the trap, even if he knew where to look for the danger. He tried to run for home, and that's what finished him. They'll tell you all about that on the 'Loch Awe.'" So the next day I heard the end of the yarn from a sandy-haired skipper in a trawler whose old romantic name was dark with new significance. He was terribly logical. In his cabin--a comfortable room with a fine big stove--he had a picture of his wife and daughters, all very rigid and uncomfortable. He also had three books. They included neither Burns nor Scott. One was the Bible, thumbed by his grandfather and his father till the paper had worn yellow and thin at the sides. The second, I am sorry to say, was called _The Beautiful White Devil_. The third was an odd volume of Froude in the _Everyman_ edition. It dealt with the Armada. "I was towin' my nets wi' the rest o' my group," he said, "till about 3 o'clock i' the mornin' on yon occasion. It was fine weather wi' a kind o' haar. All at once, my ship gaed six points aff her coorse, frae S. E. to E. N. E., and I jaloused that the nets had been fouled by some muckle movin' body. I gave orders to pit the wheel hard a-port, but she wouldna answer. Suddenly the strain on the nets stoppit. "I needna tell you what had happened. Of course, it was preceesely what the Admiralty had arranged tae happen when gentlemen in undersea boats try to cut their way through our nets. Mind ye, thae nets are verra expensive." A different situation, however, has lately developed in the more unequal fight between submarines and merchant vessels. There the submarine unquestionably has gained and maintained supremacy. Two factors are primarily responsible for this: lack of speed and lack of armament on the part of the merchantman. Of course, recently the latter condition has been changed and apparently with good success. But even at best, an armed merchantman has a rather slim chance at escape. Neither space nor available equipment permits a general arming of merchantmen to a sufficient degree to make it possible for the latter to attack a submarine from any considerable distance. Then, too, what chance has a merchant vessel unprotected by patrol boats to escape the torpedo of a hidden submarine? How successfully this question will finally be solved, the future only will show. At present it bids fair to become one of the deciding factors in determining the final issue of this war. The first authentically known case of an attack without warning by a German submarine against an allied merchantman was the torpedoing of the French steamship _Amiral Ganteaume_ on October 26, 1914, in the English Channel. The steamer was sunk and thirty of its passengers and crew were lost. A number of other attacks followed during the remainder of 1914 and in January, 1915. Then came on February 3, 1915, the now famous pronouncement of the German Government declaring "all the waters around Great Britain and Ireland, including the whole of the English Channel, a war zone," and announcing that on and after Feb. 18th, Germany "will attempt to destroy every enemy ship found in that war zone, without its being always possible to avoid the danger that will thus threaten neutral persons and ships." Germany gave warning that "it cannot be responsible hereafter for the safety of crews, passengers, and cargoes of such ships," and it furthermore "calls the attention of neutrals to the fact that it would be well for their ships to avoid entering this zone, for, although the German naval forces are instructed to avoid all violence to neutral ships, in so far as these can be recognized, the order given by the British Government to hoist neutral flags and the contingencies of naval warfare might be the cause of these ships becoming the victims of an attack directed against the vessels of the enemy." This was the beginning of the submarine controversy between Germany and the United States and resulted in a note from the United States Government in which it was stated that the latter viewed the possibilities created by the German note with such grave concern, that it feels it to be its privilege, and, indeed, its duty, in the circumstances to request the Imperial German Government to consider before action is taken the critical situation in respect of the relation between this country and Germany which might arise were the German naval forces, in carrying out the policy foreshadowed in the Admiralty's proclamation, to destroy any merchant vessel of the United States or cause the death of American citizens:--To declare and exercise a right to attack and destroy any vessel entering a prescribed area of the high seas without first certainly determining its belligerent nationality and the contraband character of its cargo would be an act so unprecedented in naval warfare that this Government is reluctant to believe that the Imperial Government of Germany in this case contemplates it as possible. After stating that the destruction of American ships or American lives on the high seas would be difficult to reconcile with the friendly relations existing between the two Governments, the note adds that the United States "would be constrained to hold the Imperial Government of Germany to a strict accountability for such acts of their naval authorities, and to take any steps it might feel necessary to take to safeguard American lives and property and to secure to American citizens the full enjoyment of their acknowledged rights on the high seas." It is not within the province of this book to go in detail into the diplomatic history of the submarine controversy between Germany and the United States. Suffice it to say, therefore, that from the very beginning the controversy held many possibilities of the disastrous ending which finally came to pass when diplomatic relations were broken off between the two countries on February 3, 1917, and a state of war was declared by President Wilson's proclamation of April 6, 1917. The period between Germany's first War Zone Declaration and the President's proclamation--two months and three days more than two years--was crowded with incidents in which submarines and submarine warfare held the centre of the stage. It would be impossible within the compass of this story to give a complete survey of all the boats that were sunk and of all the lives that were lost. Nor would it be possible to recount all the deeds of heroism which this new warfare occasioned. Belligerents and neutrals alike were affected. American ships suffered, perhaps, to a lesser degree, than those of other neutrals, partly because of the determined stand taken by the United States Government. On May 1, 1915, the first American steamer, the _Gulflight_, was sunk. Six days later the world was shocked by the news that the _Lusitania_, one of the biggest British passenger liners, had been torpedoed without warning on May 7, 1915 and had been sunk with a loss of 1198 lives, of whom 124 were American citizens. Before this nation was goaded into war, more than 200 Americans were slain. Notes were again exchanged between the two Governments. Though the German government at that time showed an inclination to abandon its position in the submarine controversy under certain conditions, sinkings of passenger and freight steamers without warning continued. All attempts on the part of the United States Government to come to an equitable understanding with Germany failed on account of the latter's refusal to give up submarine warfare, or at least those features of it which, though considered illegal and inhuman by the United States, seemed to be considered most essential by Germany. Then came the German note of January 31, 1917, stating that "from February 1, 1917, sea traffic will be stopped with every available weapon and without further notice" in certain minutely described "prohibited zones around Great Britain, France, Italy, and in the Eastern Mediterranean." The total tonnage sunk by German submarines from the beginning of the war up to February 1, 1917, has been given by British sources as over three million tons, while German authorities claimed four million. The result of the German edict for unrestricted submarine warfare has been rather appalling, even if it fell far short of German prophesies and hopes. During the first two weeks of February a total of ninety-seven ships with a tonnage of about 210,000 tons were sent to the bottom of the sea. Since then the German submarines have taken an even heavier toll. It has, however, become next to impossible, due to the restrictions of censorship, to compute any accurate figures for later totals, though it has become known from time to time that the Allied as well as the neutral losses have been very much higher during the five months of February to July, 1917 than during any other five months. [Illustration: © U. & U. _U. S. Submarine H-3 Aground on California Coast._] The figures of the losses of British merchantmen alone are shown by the following table: Ships Over 1,600 Under 1,600 Week ending-- Tons. Tons. Total. March 4 14 9 23 March 11 13 4 17 March 18 16 8 24 March 25 18 7 25 April 1 18 13 31 April 8 17 2 19 April 15 19 9 28 April 22 40 15 55 April 29 38 13 51 May 6 24 22 46 May 13 18 5 23 May 20 18 9 27 May 27 18 1 19 June 3 15 3 18 June 10 22 10 32 June 17 27 5 32 June 24 21 7 28 July 1 15 5 20 July 8 14 3 17 July 15 14 4 18 July 22 21 3 24 July 29 18 3 21 Aug. 5 21 2 23 Aug. 12 14 2 16 Aug. 19 15 3 18 Aug. 26 18 5 23 Sept. 2 20 3 23 Sept. 9 12 6 18 Sept. 16 8 20 28 Sept. 23 13 2 15 Sept. 30 11 2 13 Oct. 7 14 2 16 Oct. 14 12 6 18 Oct. 21 17 8 25 Oct. 28 14 4 18 Nov. 4 8 4 12 Nov. 11 1 5 6 The table with its week by week report of the British losses is of importance because at the time it was taken as a barometer indicative of German success or failure. The German admiralty at the moment of declaring the ruthless submarine war promised the people of Germany that they would sink a million tons a month and by so doing would force England to abject surrender in the face of starvation within three months. During that period the whole civilized world looked eagerly for the weekly statement of British losses. Only at one time was the German estimate of a million tons monthly obtained. Most of the time the execution done by the undersea boats amounted to less than half that figure. So far from England being beaten in three months, at the end of ten she was still unshattered, though sorely disturbed by the loss of so much shipping. Her new crops had come on and her statesmen declared that so far as the food supply was concerned they were safe for another year. During this period of submarine activity the United States entered upon the war and its government immediately turned its attention to meeting the submarine menace. In the first four months literally nothing was accomplished toward this end. A few submarines were reported sunk by merchantmen, but in nearly every instance it was doubtful whether they were actually destroyed or merely submerged purposely in the face of a hostile fire. Americans were looked upon universally as a people of extraordinary inventive genius, and everywhere it was believed that by some sudden lucky thought an American would emerge from a laboratory equipped with a sovereign remedy for the submarine evil. Prominent inventors indeed declared their purpose of undertaking this search and went into retirement to study the problem. From that seclusion none had emerged with a solution at the end of ten months. When the submarine campaign was at its very height no one was able to suggest a better remedy for it than the building of cargo ships in such quantities that, sink as many as they might, the Germans would have to let enough slip through to sufficiently supply England with food and with the necessary munitions of war. Many cruel sufferings befell seafaring people during the period of German ruthlessness on the high seas. An open boat, overcrowded with refugees, hastily provisioned as the ship to which it belonged was careening to its fate, and tossing on the open sea two or three hundred miles from shore in the icy nights of midwinter was no place of safety or of comfort. Yet the Germans so construed it, holding that when they gave passengers and crew of a ship time to take to the boats, they had fully complied with the international law providing that in the event of sinking a ship its people must first be given an opportunity to assure their safety. There have been many harrowing stories of the experiences of survivors thus turned adrift. Under the auspices of the British government, Rudyard Kipling wrote a book detailing the agonies which the practice inflicted upon helpless human beings, including many women and children. Some of the survivors have told in graphic story the record of their actual experiences. Among these one of the most vivid is from the pen of a well-known American journalist, Floyd P. Gibbons, correspondent of the Chicago _Tribune_. He was saved from the British liner, _Laconia_, sunk by a German submarine, and thus tells the tale of his sufferings and final rescue: I have serious doubts whether this is a real story. I am not entirely certain that it is not all a dream and that in a few minutes I will wake up back in stateroom B. 19 on the promenade deck of the Cunarder _Laconia_ and hear my cockney steward informing me with an abundance of "and sirs" that it is a fine morning. I am writing this within thirty minutes after stepping on the dock here in Queenstown from the British mine sweeper which picked up our open lifeboat after an eventful six hours of drifting, and darkness and baling and pulling on the oars and of straining aching eyes toward that empty, meaningless horizon in search of help. But, dream or fact, here it is: The first-cabin passengers were gathered in the lounge Sunday evening, with the exception of the bridge fiends in the smoking-room. _Poor Butterfly_ was dying wearily on the talking-machine and several couples were dancing. About the tables in the smoke-room the conversation was limited to the announcement of bids and orders to the stewards. This group had about exhausted available discussion when the ship gave a sudden lurch sideways and forward. There was a muffled noise like the slamming of some large door at a good distance away. The slightness of the shock and the mildness of the report compared with my imagination was disappointing. Every man in the room was on his feet in an instant. I looked at my watch. It was 10.30. Then came five blasts on the whistle. We rushed down the corridor leading from the smoking-room at the stern to the lounge, which was amidships. We were running, but there was no panic. The occupants of the lounge were just leaving by the forward doors as we entered. It was dark when we reached the lower deck. I rushed into my stateroom, grabbed life preservers and overcoat and made my way to the upper deck on that same dark landing. I saw the chief steward opening an electric switch box in the wall and turning on the switch. Instantly the boat decks were illuminated. That illumination saved lives. The torpedo had hit us well astern on the starboard side and had missed the engines and the dynamos. I had not noticed the deck lights before. Throughout the voyage our decks had remained dark at night and all cabin portholes were clamped down and all windows covered with opaque paint. The illumination of the upper deck, on which I stood, made the darkness of the water, sixty feet below, appear all the blacker when I peered over the edge at my station boat, No. 10. Already the boat was loading up and men and boys were busy with the ropes. I started to help near a davit that seemed to be giving trouble, but was stoutly ordered to get out of the way and get into the boat. We were on the port side, practically opposite the engine well. Up and down the deck passengers and crew were donning lifebelts, throwing on overcoats, and taking positions in the boats. There were a number of women, but only one appeared hysterical.... The boat started downward with a jerk toward the seemingly hungry rising and falling swells. Then we stopped and remained suspended in mid-air while the men at the bow and the stern swore and tusselled with the lowering ropes. The stern of the boat was down, the bow up, leaving us at an angle of about forty-five degrees. We clung to the seats to save ourselves from falling out. [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _Salvaging H-3, View I._] [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _Salvaging H-3, View II._] [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _Salvaging H-3, View III._] "Who's got a knife? A knife! a knife!" bawled a sweating seaman in the bow. "Great God! Give him a knife," bawled a half-dressed, gibbering negro stoker who wrung his hands in the stern. A hatchet was thrust into my hand, and I forwarded it to the bow. There was a flash of sparks as it crashed down on the holding pulley. Many feet and hands pushed the boat from the side of the ship and we sagged down again, this time smacking squarely on the billowy top of a rising swell. As we pulled away from the side of the ship its receding terrace of lights stretched upward. The ship was slowly turning over. We were opposite that part occupied by the engine rooms. There was a tangle of oars, spars and rigging on the seat and considerable confusion before four of the big sweeps could be manned on either side of the boat. The gibbering bullet-headed negro was pulling directly behind me and I turned to quiet him as his frantic reaches with his oar were hitting me in the back. "Get away from her, get away from her," he kept repeating. "When the water hits her hot boilers she'll blow up, and there's just tons and tons of shrapnel in the hold." His excitement spread to other members of the crew in the boat. It was the give-way of nerve tension. It was bedlam and nightmare. We rested on our oars, with all eyes on the still lighted _Laconia_. The torpedo had struck at 10.30 P. M. It was thirty minutes afterward that another dull thud, which was accompanied by a noticeable drop in the hulk, told its story of the second torpedo that the submarine had despatched through the engine room and the boat's vitals from a distance of two hundred yards. We watched silently during the next minute, as the tiers of lights dimmed slowly from white to yellow, then a red, and nothing was left but the murky mourning of the night, which hung over all like a pall. A mean, cheese-coloured crescent of a moon revealed one horn above a ragged bundle of clouds low in the distance. A rim of blackness settled around our little world, relieved only by general leering stars in the zenith, and where the _Laconia's_ lights had shone there remained only the dim outlines of a blacker hulk standing out above the water like a jagged headland, silhouetted against the overcast sky. The ship sank rapidly at the stern until at last its nose stood straight in the air. Then it slid silently down and out of sight like a piece of disappearing scenery in a panorama spectacle. Boat No. 3 stood closest to the ship and rocked about in a perilous sea of clashing spars and wreckage. As our boat's crew steadied its head into the wind a black hulk, glistening wet and standing about eight feet above the surface of the water, approached slowly and came to a stop opposite the boat and not six feet from the side of it. "What ship was dot?" The correct words in throaty English with a German accent came from the dark hulk, according to Chief Steward Ballyn's statement to me later. "The _Laconia_," Ballyn answered. "Vot?" "The _Laconia_, Cunard Line," responded the steward. "Vot did she weigh?" was the next question from the submarine. "Eighteen thousand tons." "Any passengers?" "Seventy-three," replied Ballyn, "men, women, and children, some of them in this boat. She had over two hundred in the crew." "Did she carry cargo?" "Yes." "Well, you'll be all right. The patrol will pick you up soon." And without further sound save for the almost silent fixing of the conning tower lid, the submarine moved off. There was no assurance of an early pick-up, even tho the promise were from a German source, for the rest of the boats, whose occupants--if they felt and spoke like those in my boat--were more than mildly anxious about their plight and the prospects of rescue. The fear of some of the boats crashing together produced a general inclination toward further separation on the part of all the little units of survivors, with the result that soon the small craft stretched out for several miles, all of them endeavouring to keep their heads in the wind. And then we saw the first light--the first sign of help coming--the first searching glow of white brilliance, deep down on the sombre sides of the black pot of night that hung over us. It was way over there--first a trembling quiver of silver against the blackness; then, drawing closer, it defined itself as a beckoning finger, altho still too far away yet to see our feeble efforts to attract it.... We pulled, pulled, lustily forgetting the strain and pain of innards torn and racked from pain, vomiting--oblivious of blistered hands and wet, half frozen feet. Then a nodding of that finger of light--a happy, snapping, crap-shooting finger that seemed to say: "Come on, you men," like a dice-player wooing the bones--led us to believe that our lights had been seen. This was the fact, for immediately the coming vessel flashed on its green and red side-lights and we saw it was headed for our position. "Come alongside port!" was megaphoned to us. And as fast as we could we swung under the stern, while a dozen flashlights blinked down to us and orders began to flow fast and thick. A score of hands reached out, and we were suspended in the husky tattooed arms of those doughty British jack tars, looking up into the weather-beaten, youthful faces, mumbling thanks and thankfulness and reading in the gold lettering on their pancake hats the legend "H. M. S. Laburnum." Of course, the submarine fleets of the various navies paid a heavy toll too. It has become, however, increasingly difficult to get any accurate figures of these losses. The British navy, it is known, has lost during 1914, 1915, and 1916 twelve boats, some of which foundered, were wrecked or mined while others simply never returned. The loss of eight German submarines has also been definitely established. Others, however, are known to have been lost, and their number has been greatly increased since the arming of merchantmen. In 1917 it was estimated that the Germans lost one U-boat a week and built three. Just what sensations a man experiences in a submerged submarine that finds it impossible to rise again, is, of course, more or less of a mystery. For, though submarines, the entire crew of which perished, have been raised later, only one record has ever been known to have been made covering the period during which death by suffocation or drowning stared their occupants in the face. This heroic and pathetic record was written in form of a letter by the commander of a Japanese submarine, Lieutenant Takuma Faotomu, whose boat, with its entire crew, was lost on April 15, 1910, during manoeuvres in Hiroshima Bay. The letter reads in part as follows: [Illustration: © International Film Service, Inc. _U. S. Submarine D 1 off Weehawken._] Although there is, indeed, no excuse to make for the sinking of his Imperial Majesty's boat and for the doing away of subordinates through my heedlessness, all on the boat have discharged their duties well and in everything acted calmly until death. Although we are departing in pursuance of our duty to the State, the only regret we have is due to anxiety lest the men of the world may misunderstand the matter, and that thereby a blow may be given to the future development of submarines. While going through gasoline submarine exercise, we submerged too far, and when we attempted to shut the sluice-valve, the chain in the meantime gave way. Then we tried to close the sluice-valve, by hand, but it was too late, the rear part being full of water, and the boat sank at an angle of about twenty-five degrees. The switchboard being under water, the electric lights gave out. Offensive gas developed and respiration became difficult. The above has been written under the light of the conning-tower when it was 11.45 o'clock. We are now soaked by the water that has made its way in. Our clothes are very wet and we feel cold. I have always expected death whenever I left my home, and therefore my will is already in the drawer at Karasaki. I beg, respectfully, to say to his Majesty that I respectfully request that none of the families left by my subordinates shall suffer. The only matter I am anxious about now is this. Atmospheric pressure is increasing, and I feel as if my tympanum were breaking. At 12.30 o'clock respiration is extraordinarily difficult. I am breathing gasoline. I am intoxicated with gasoline. It is 12.40 o'clock. Could there be a more touching record of the way in which a brave man met death? * * * * * More interest in submarine warfare than ever before was aroused in this country when the German war submarine U-53 unexpectedly made its appearance in the harbour of Newport, R. I., during the afternoon of October 7, 1916. About three hours afterwards, without having taken on any supplies, and after explaining her presence by the desire of delivering a letter addressed to Count von Bernstorff, then German Ambassador at Washington, the U-53 left as suddenly and mysteriously as she had appeared. This was the first appearance of a foreign war submarine in an American port. It was claimed that the U-53 had made the trip from Wilhelmshaven in seventeen days. She was 213 feet long, equipped with two guns, four torpedo tubes, and an exceptionally strong wireless outfit. Besides her commander, Captain Rose, she was manned by three officers and thirty-three men. Early the next morning, October 8, it became evident what had brought the U-53 to this side of the Atlantic. At the break of day, she made her re-appearance southeast of Nantucket. The American steamer _Kansan_ of the American Hawaiian Company bound from New York by way of Boston to Genoa was stopped by her, but, after proving her nationality and neutral ownership was allowed to proceed. Five other steamships, three of them British, one Dutch, and one Norwegian were less fortunate. The British freighter _Strathend_, of 4321 tons was the first victim. Her crew were taken aboard the Nantucket shoals light-ship. Two other British freighters, _West Point_ and _Stephano_, followed in short order to the bottom of the ocean. The crews of both were saved by United States torpedo boat destroyers who had come from Newport as soon as news of the U-53's activities had been received there. This was also the case with the crews of the Dutch _Bloomersdijk_ and the Norwegian tanker, _Christian Knudsen_. Not often in recent years has there been put on American naval officers quite so disagreeable a restraint as duty enforced upon the commanders of the destroyers who watched the destruction of these friendly ships, almost within our own territorial waters, by an arrogant foreigner who gave himself no concern over the rescue of the crews of the sunken ships but seemed to think that the function of the American men of war. It was no secret at the time that sentiment in the Navy was strongly pro-Ally. Probably had it been wholly neutral the mind of any commander would have revolted at this spectacle of wanton destruction of property and callous indifference to human life. It is quite probable that had this event occurred before the invention of wireless telegraphy had robbed the navy commander at sea of all initiative, there might have happened off Nantucket something analogous to the famous action of Commodore Tatnall when with the cry, "Blood is thicker than water" he took a part of his crew to the aid of British vessels sorely pressed by the fire of certain Chinese forts on the Yellow River. As it was it is an open secret that one commander appealed by wireless to Washington for authority to intervene. He did not get it of course. No possible construction of international law could give us rights beyond the three-mile limit. He had at least however the satisfaction when the German commander asked him to move his ship to a point at which it would not interfere with the submarine's fire upon one of the doomed vessels, of telling him to move his own ship and accompanying the suggestion with certain phrases of elaboration thoroughly American. The rapid development of submarine warfare naturally made it necessary to find ways and means to combat this new weapon of naval warfare. Much difficulty was experienced, especially in the beginning, because there were no precedents and because for a considerable period everything that was tried had necessarily to be of an experimental nature. To protect harbours and bays was found comparatively easy. Nets were spread across their entrances. They were made of strong wire cables and to judge from the total absence of submarines within the harbours thus guarded they proved a successful deterrent. In most cases they were supported by extensive minefields. The danger of these to submarines, however, is rather a matter of doubt, for submarines can dive successfully under them and by careful navigating escape unharmed. The general idea of fighting submarines with nets was also adopted for areas of open water which were suspected of being infested with submarines. Recently, serious doubts have been raised concerning the future usefulness of nets. Reports have been published that German submarines have been fitted up with a wire and cable cutting appliance which would make it possible for them to break through nets at will, supposing, of course, that they had been caught by the nets in such a way that no vital parts of the underwater craft had been seriously damaged. A sketch of this wire cutting device was made by the captain of a merchantman, who, while in a small boat after his ship had been torpedoed, had come close enough to the attacking submarine to make the necessary observations. The sketch showed an arrangement consisting of a number of strands of heavy steel hawsers which were stretched from bow to stern, passing through the conning tower and to which were attached a series of heavy circular knives a foot in diameter and placed about a yard apart. Even as early as January, 1915, Mr. Simon Lake, the famous American submarine engineer and inventor, published an article in the _Scientific American_ in which he dwelt at length on means by which a submarine could escape mines and nets. One of the illustrations, accompanying this article, showed a device enabling submarines travelling on the bottom of the sea to lift a net with a pair of projecting arms and thus pass unharmed under it. [Illustration: © International Film Service, Inc. _Submarine Built for Spain in the Cape Cod Canal._] Many other devices to trap, sink or capture submarines have been invented. A large number of these, of course, have been found impracticable. Others, however, have been used with success. Few details of any of these have been allowed to become known. The most dangerous power of submarines, is their ability to approach very closely to their object of attack without making their presence known to their prey. This naturally suggested that a way be found to detect the presence of submarines early enough to make it possible to stave off an attack or even to assume the offensive against the underwater boat. A recent invention, the perfection of which is due to the work of Mr. William Dubilier, an American electrical engineer, and of Professor Tissot, a member of the French Academy of Science, is the microphone. Few details are known about this instrument except that it records sound waves at as great a distance as fifty-five miles. This would permit in most cases the calling of patrol boats or the use of other defensive means before the submarine would be able to execute an attack. At the present moment it would appear that the most dangerous enemy of the submarine yet discovered is the airplane or the dirigible. Some figures as to the mortality among submarines due to the efforts of aircraft have been published in an earlier chapter. The chief value of aircraft in this work is due to the fact that objects under the water are readily discernible at a considerable depth when viewed from a point directly over them. An illustration familiar to every boy is to be found in the fact that he can see fish at the bottom of a clear stream from a bridge, while from the shore the refraction of the water is such that he can see nothing. From the air the aviator can readily see a submarine at a depth of fifty feet unless the water is unusually rough or turbid. The higher he rises the wider is his sphere of vision. With the lurking craft thus located the airman can either signal to watching destroyers or may bide his time and follow the submarine until it rises to the surface, when a well placed bomb will destroy it. Both of these methods have been adopted with success. For a time the submarines were immune from this form of attack because of the difficulty of finding a bomb which would not explode on striking the surface of the water, thus allowing its force to be dissipated before it reached the submarine, or else would not have its velocity so greatly checked by the water that on reaching the submarine the shock of its impact would not be great enough to explode it at all. Both of these difficulties have been overcome. The new high explosives have such power, taken in connection with the fact that water transmits the force of an explosion undiminished to a great distance, that many of them exploding at the surface will put out of action a submarine at a considerable depth. Furthermore bombs have been invented, which being fired, not merely dropped from an airplane, will go through the water with almost undiminished momentum and explode on striking the target, or after a period fixed by the assailant. Other bombs known as "depth bombs" are fitted with flanges that revolve as they sink, causing an explosion at any desired depth. About the actual achievements of the airplane as a foe to submarines there hangs a haze of mystery. It has been the policy of the Allied governments to keep secret the record of submarines destroyed and particularly the methods of destruction. But we know that a few have met their fate from bolts dropped from the blue. In _The Outlook_ Lawrence La Tourette Driggs, himself a flying man of no contemptible record, describes the method and result of such an attack. After recounting the steps by which a brother airman attained a position directly above a submerged submarine preparatory to dropping his bomb, he says: Down shot his plummet of steel and neatly parted the waters ahead of the labouring submarine. But it did not explode. I could see a whirling metal propeller on the torpedo revolve as it sank. It must have missed the craft by twenty feet. Suddenly a column of water higher than my position in the air stood straight up over the sea, then slipped noiselessly back. By all that is wonderful how did that happen? As we covered the spot again and again in our circling machines, we were joined by two more pilots, and finally by a fast clipper steam yacht. The surface of the water was literally covered with oil, breaking up the ripple of the waves, and smoothing a huge area into gleaming bronze. Here and there floated a cork belt, odd bunches of cotton waste, a strip of carpet, and a wooden three-legged stool. These fragments alone remained to testify to the _corpus delicti_. "Philip," I said half an hour later, as the hot coffee was thawing out our insides, "what kind of a civilized bomb do you call that?" "That bears the simple little title of trinitrotoluol; call it T. N. T. for short," replied Sergeant Pieron. "But what made it hang fire so long?" I demanded. "It's made to work that way. When the bomb begins sinking the little propeller is turned as it is pulled down through the water. It continues turning until it screws to the end. There it touches the fuse-pin and that sets off the high explosive--at any depth you arrange it for." I regarded him steadfastly. Then I remarked, "But it did not touch the submarine. I saw it miss." "Yes, you can miss it fifty yards and still crush the submarine." He took up an empty egg shell. "The submarine is hollow like this. She is held rigidly on all her sides by the water. Water is non-compressible like steel. Now when the T. N. T. explodes, even some distance away, the violent expending concussion is communicated to this hollow shell just as though a battering ram struck it. The submarine can't give any because the surrounding water holds her in place. So she crumples up--like this." Pieron opened his hand and the flakes of egg shell fluttered down until they struck the floor. Gunfire undoubtedly is still the most reliable preventive against submarine attacks. Comparatively small calibred guns can cause serious damage to submarines even by one well directed shot. Submarines have been sunk both by warships and merchantmen in this way and many more have been forced to desist from attacks. Not every merchantman, of course, can be equipped with the necessary guns and gunners. Neither equipment nor men can be spared in sufficient quantities. But the efficiency of gun protection has been proved beyond all doubt by many authentic reports of successful encounters between armed merchantmen and submarines in which the latter were defeated. Ramming, too, has been advocated and tried. It is, however, a procedure involving considerable danger to the attacking boat. For one thing all the submarine has to do is to dive quick and deep enough and it is out of harm's way. Then, too, the chances are that the submarine can launch a torpedo in time to reach the ramming vessel before the latter can do any damage. [Illustration: _A Critical Moment._ _Painting by John E. Whiting._] There have been reports of submarine duels between Austrian and Italian submarines in the Adriatic in which it was claimed that in each at least one submarine was destroyed, and, at least, in one instance both the duellists were sunk. Generally speaking the fact has been established, however, that submarines cannot fight submarines with any degree of success, except in exceptional cases and under exceptional conditions. Since the outbreak of the war between the United States and Germany the question of combating the submarine has become more acute than ever. The latest development has been along negative rather than affirmative lines. It has apparently been decided that none of the devices, known at present and capable of destroying submarines, is sufficient either alone or in combinations to defeat the submarines decisively. The best means of balancing as much as possible the losses which German submarines are inflicting on the shipping facilities of the Allies at the present seems to be the unlimited and prompt building of large fleets of comparatively small ships. If this can be accomplished in time, the German submarines undoubtedly will find it impossible to destroy a tonnage sufficient to exert any great influence on the final outcome of the war. CHAPTER XVII THE FUTURE OF THE SUBMARINE The world will not always be at war. Interminable as the conflict by which it is now racked seems, and endless as appear the resources of the nations participating in it, the time must come when victory or sheer exhaustion shall compel peace. People talk of that peace being permanent. That is perhaps too sanguine a dream while human nature remains what it is, and nations can still be as covetous, ambitious, and heedless of others' rights as are individuals. But beyond doubt a prolonged period of peace awaits the world. What then is to be the future of the aircraft and the submarine which had to wait for war to secure any recognition from mankind of their prodigious possibilities? Of the future of the aircraft there can be no doubt. Its uses in peace will be innumerable. Poor old Count Zeppelin, who thought of his invention only as a weapon of war, nevertheless showed how it might be successfully adapted to the needs of peace merely as a byproduct. As for the airplane both for sport and business its opportunities are endless. Easy and inexpensive to build, simple to operate with but little training on the part of the aviator, it will be made the common carrier of all nations. Already the United States is maintaining an aërial mail service in Alaska. Already too, bi- and triplanes are built capable of carrying twenty-five to thirty men besides guns and ammunition. It is easy to foresee the use that can be made of machines of this character in times of peace. Needing no tracks or right of way, requiring no expensive signalling or operative system, asking only that at each end of the route there shall be a huge level field for rising and for landing, these machines will in time take to themselves the passenger business of the world. But the future of the submarine is more dubious. Always it will be a potent weapon of war. It may indeed force the relegation of dreadnoughts to the scrap heap. But of its peaceful services there is more doubt. That it can be made a cargo carrier is unquestionably true. But to what good? There is no intelligent reason for carrying cargoes slowly under water which might just as well be carried swiftly on the surface unless war compels concealment. Underwater navigation must always be slower and more expensive than surface navigation, nor does it seem probable that the underwater boats can ever equal in size ordinary ships, though undoubtedly their present proportions are going to be greatly increased. As a result of the German submarine campaign it is possible that the United States may develop a fleet of underwater merchantmen to circumvent the enemy while this war continues, though there has been but little discussion of it. But even so, commonsense would indicate that such a fleet would be abandoned on the restoration of peace. If anything is to be done toward making the submarine a vessel of ordinary everyday use the present double system of motors--the Diesels for surface navigation and the electric for submerged service--will have to be abandoned. Inventors however are diligently working on this problem to-day. Indeed so well known and successful a builder of submarines as Mr. Simon Lake seemed to have faith in their possibilities as merchant craft. As early as February, 1916, he announced that he had taken out a patent on a new form of cargo-carrying submarine which he described as made up of "nests of light-weight circular tanks of comparatively small diameter surrounded by a ship-shape form of hull." What advantage was to accrue from this type of vessel Mr. Lake has not explained. However the Germans who seemed to originate everything successfully demonstrated that the merchant submarine was a practicable and useful craft with which to beat the blockade. This was proved by the two successful trips made by the unarmed German merchant submarine _Deutschland_ between Germany and the United States in 1916. Loaded with a cargo of dyestuffs and chemicals she left Bremen on June 14, 1916, and arrived in Baltimore early in July. After a short stay, during which she took on a full return cargo, consisting chiefly of rubber and metal, she started on August 1, 1916, for her return trip to Bremen where she arrived safely soon after August 15, 1916. Once more, in October of the same year she made a successful round trip, docking this time in New London. There was considerable talk about additional trips by other German merchant submarines, but none of them were ever carried out. It has never become known whether this was due to the loss of these merchant submarines or to political relations between Germany and the United States which were then gradually assuming a less friendly form. [Illustration: Photo by International Film Service. _A Submarine Built for Chili, Passing through Cape Cod Canal._] Of course, it is true that such boats are blockade runners and in a way, therefore, part and parcel of warfare. But they are unarmed merchantmen just the same and their exclusively mercantile character has been officially acknowledged by the United States Government. Under conditions of peace, however, it is very doubtful whether submarine merchantmen would pay, nor does it seem as if they possessed any advantages at all over surface merchant vessels. Nevertheless they represent an entirely new development of submarine navigation and, therefore, deserve attention. During her stay in the United States, very few people were permitted to get more than a glance of the _Deutschland_. As a result, comparatively little became known regarding her mechanical details. The _Scientific American_, however, in its issue of July 22, 1916, gives a fairly detailed description of this first merchant submarine. From this account we learn that the _Deutschland_ conforms rather closely to the typical German naval U-boat. The hull proper consists of an internal cigar-shaped, cylindrical structure, which extends from stem to stern, and in its largest diameter measures about twenty feet. Enclosing this hull is a lighter false hull, which is perforated, to permit the entrance and exit of the sea-water, and is so shaped as to give the submarine a fairly good ship model for driving at high speed on the surface and at a much lesser speed submerged. The upper portion of the false hull does not present such a flat deck-like appearance as is noticeable in the naval U-boats. In fact, the whole modelling of the _Deutschland_, as compared with the naval boats, suggests that she has been fulled out somewhat, with a view to obtaining the necessary displacement for cargo carrying. The interior cylindrical hull is divided by four transverse bulkheads into five separate water-tight compartments. Compartment No. 1, at the bow, contains the anchor cables and electric winches for handling the anchor; also general ship stores, and a certain amount of cargo. Compartment No. 2 is given up entirely to cargo. Compartment No. 3, which is considerably larger than any of the others, contains the living quarters of the officers and crew. At the after end of this compartment, and communicating with it, is the conning tower. Compartment No. 4 is given up entirely to cargo. Compartment No. 5 contains the propelling machinery, consisting of two heavy oil engines and two electric motors. The storage batteries are carried in the bottom of the boat, below the living compartment. For purposes of communication, a gangway, 2 feet 6 inches wide by 6 feet high, is built through each cargo compartment, thus rendering it possible for the crew to pass entirely from one end of the boat to the other. The length of the _Deutschland_ is about 315 feet; beam 30 feet, and draught 17 feet. For surface propulsion and for charging the batteries, the boat carries two 4-cylinder, Diesel, heavy-oil motors of about 600 H. P. each. The speed at the surface is from 12 to 13 knots; and submerged it is 7 knots. At the surface the displacement of the boat is about 2000 tons, and she has a cargo capacity of about 700 tons. The freeboard to the main deck, which runs the full length of the boat, but is only about 5-1/2 feet wide, is about 6 feet, and the cockpit at the top of the conning tower is about 15 feet above the water. This cockpit, by the way, is suggestive of the protection afforded a chauffeur in an automobile, there being a shield in front of the quartermaster, so shaped as to throw the wind and spray upwards and clear of his face. Two periscopes are provided; one at the forward end of the conning tower, and the other, of larger diameter, being forward and on the starboard of the conning tower. An interesting feature is the two folding, steel, wireless masts, about 50 feet in height, both of which fold aft into pockets built in the deck of the ship. The forward one of these masts carries a crow's nest for the lookout. The commander of the _Deutschland_, Captain Paul König, was before the war a popular captain of North German Lloyd liners. He has published a very vivid and interesting account of the _Deutschland's_ trip, the _Voyage of the Deutschland_. In this book, he tells us how he was offered this novel command while the plans were still being drawn and that he immediately accepted, making, however, the proviso "if the thing really comes off." The men, backing the venture, lost no time and, so Captain König tells us, in less than two months a telegram called me to Berlin to an important conference. Here I looked at sketches, plans, and working drawings until my eyes swam. Four more months passed which I utilized to the full. I then went to Kiel and saw a remarkable framework of steel slowly take shape upon the stocks across the way at Gaarden. Rotund, snug, and harmless the thing lay there. Inside it were hidden all the countless, complicated, and powerful features of those sketches and working drawings. I cannot boast that the reality as executed in steel and brass was any easier to grasp than the endless network of lines and circles which had bewildered me when inspecting the blueprints. Those of you who have seen illustrations and photographs of the interior of the "central station" or the "turret" of a submarine, will understand what I mean. And should you have entered a submarine itself and felt yourself hopelessly confused by the bewildering chaos of wheels, vents, screws, cocks, pipes, conduits--above, below, and all about--not to speak of the mysterious levers and weird mechanisms, each of which has some important function to fulfill, you may find some consolation in the thought that my own brains performed a devils' dance at the sight. But after this monster, with its tangle of tubes and pipes, had been duly christened, and its huge grey-green body had slid majestically into the water, it suddenly became a ship. It swam in its element as though born to it--as though it had never known another. For the first time I trod the tiny deck and mounted the turret to the navigation platform. From here I glanced down and was surprised to see beneath me a long, slender craft--with gracious lines and dainty contours. Only the sides, where the green body vaulted massively above the water, gave an indication of the huge size of the hull. I felt pride and rapture as my eye took in this picture. The fabric swayed slightly beneath my feet--an impressive combination of power and delicacy. And now I know that what had at first seemed to me nothing more than the product of some mad phantasy on the part of the technicians was in reality a ship. It was a ship in which oceans might be crossed, a real ship, to which the heart of an old sailor like myself might safely attach itself. Then came a short period of trial trips and diving tests, all of which were carried off successfully, and at last the day of departure arrived. As soon as the last escort had turned around a final diving test was ordered. Instantly the response came back from the turret and the central station, and the men hurried to their posts. The oil engines were still hammering away at a mad rate. I left the manhole of the turret. The cover was battened down, the engines stopped at the same moment. We felt a slight pressure in our ears for a moment. We were cut off from outside and silence reigned. But this silence was merely an illusion--and was due to the change. [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _A Submarine Entrapped by Nets._] "Open the diving-valves! Submerge!" The valves were flung open and the compressed air escaped hissing from the tanks. At the same time a gigantic, intermittent snorting ensued, like the blowing and belching of some prehistoric monster. There was an uncomfortable pressure in our ears, then the noise became more regular, followed by a buzzing and a shrill hum. All the high notes of the engines in the central station intermingled and made a bewildering noise. It was like a mad diabolical singsong. And yet it was almost like silence after the dull, heavy pounding of the oil-motors--only more insistent and irritating. The penetrating hum in the various vents announced the fact that the diving mechanism was in operation. It moaned and sang lower and lower in the scale of tones. These slowly diminishing and steadily deepening tones give one the physical feeling of mighty volumes of water pouring in and flooding full. You have the sensation of growing heavier and sinking as the boat grows heavier and sinks, even though you may not be able to see through the turret window, or the periscope, how the bows are gradually submerged and the water climbs higher and higher up the turret until all things without are wrapped in the eerie twilight of the depths. The faithful lamps burned, however, and then a real silence suddenly ensued. There was no sound but the gentle trembling rhythm of the electric engines. I then gave the order: "Submerge to twenty meters!" "Both engines half steam ahead!" I was able to follow our submersion by means of the manometer. Through flooding the tanks, the boat is given several tons over-weight and the enclosed ship's space is made heavier than the displaced quantity of water. The titanic fish, therefore, began to sink downward in its element, that is to say, it began, in a certain sense, to fall. At the same time the electric engines are put into motion and the propulsive force of the propellers acts upon the diving rudders and causes the sinking to become a gliding. After the required depth has been reached--something which may easily be read from the manometer that records the depth--all further sinking may be stopped by simply lightening the hull, which is done by forcing out some of the water in the submarine's tanks. The furious growling of the pump is always a sure sign that the required depth is being approached. The noise ceased, only the electric motors continued to purr, and the word came from the central station: "Twenty meters--even keel!" "Rudder set!" So we forged ahead at a depth of twenty meters. Of course we are "blind" under such conditions and can regulate our movements only by means of the depth recorder and that precious little jewel of the boat, our compass. No ray of light reached us any longer from without, the periscope was submerged long ago and the steel safety covers over the windows were closed. We had been metamorphosed completely into a fish.[1] [Footnote 1: ©] Orders were then given to rise again. The _Deutschland_ carried out this manoeuvre with the same facility with which she had taken the initial dive of her long voyage. In record time the ballast tanks were emptied and the change from electric motors to oil engines was completed without further loss of time. The boat was started at top surface speed towards her ultimate goal, the United States. On the following day the _Deutschland_ barely escaped running foul of a British submarine chaser, disguised as a neutral merchantman. A quick dive alone saved her. When she came up again a wild storm and a heavy sea were raging. Even before the change from the electric motors to the oil engines had been completed, another dangerous looking vessel appeared and before long was recognized as a hostile destroyer by Captain König. He tells us that he "Made one jump into the turret and slammed the cover fast." "Alarm! Dive quickly! Flood!" "Set diving rudder!" "Twenty meters' depth!" The commands were uttered in almost one breath. But the execution of them! To attempt to dive with such a sea running was sheer madness, as experience has taught us. What was I to do? The destroyer might have seen us already! Well, we knew we must get under--and as quickly as possible. The men in the central below me were working away in silent haste. All the exhausts were opened wide, the compressed air hissed from the tanks--the diving vents were chanting in all possible keys. I stood with my lips pressed together and stared out of the turret window upon the tossing sea, and watched for the first sign of our going down. But our deck remained still visible and we were continually lifted into the air by some wave. There was not a moment to be lost. I ordered the diving rudder to be set still more sharply and both engines to drive ahead with full power. The whole vessel quivered and thrilled under the increased pressure of the engines and made several leaps. She staggered about in the furious seas--but still seemed loath to leave the surface. Then she gave a jerk and her bows suddenly dipped and cut into the flood. She began to sink into the depths at an ever-increasing angle. The coming daylight vanished from the windows of the turret, the manometer in rapid succession showed 2--3--6--10 meters' depth. But the angle of the boat also began to increase. We staggered about, leaned back, slipped off our feet. We then lost our footing entirely--for the floor of the _Deutschland_ slanted sharply toward the front. I was just able to catch hold of the ocular or eye-piece of the periscope. Down in the central the men were hanging on to the hand-wheels of the diving rudder. A few terrible seconds passed thus. We had not yet seized the full significance of this new situation when there came a severe shock. We were hurled to the floor and everything that was not fastened down went flying in all directions. We found ourselves in the queerest attitudes--and stared into one another's faces. There was a grim silence for a moment, then First Officer Krapohl remarked dryly: "Well, we seem to have arrived!" This broke the ghastly tension. We were all rather pale around the gills, but at once tried to get our bearings. What had happened? What had caused this unnatural inclination of the boat? And why were the engines above us raving at intervals in a way that made the whole boat roar from stem to stern? Before any of us had arrived at any solution of the mystery, our Chief Engineer, little Klees, had jumped up from his crouching position, and, swift as lightning, had swept the engine-signal dial around to "Stop!" And suddenly there was a deep silence. We slowly assembled our proper legs and arms and thought hard over what had happened. The vessel had slanted down toward the bows at an angle of about 36 degrees. She was standing, so to speak, on her head. Our bow was fast upon the bottom of the sea--our stern was still oscillating up and down like a mighty pendulum. The manometer showed a depth of about 15 meters.[2] [Footnote 2: ©] [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _Diagram of a German Submarine Mine-Layer Captured by British._] However, the _Deutschland_ finally worked herself free and soon was again on the surface. Luck must have been with her, for she had suffered no damage and, in spite of the mountains of water which she must have thrown up, the hostile destroyer had not discovered her. Once more she was off on her way. So the days went by and before long the merchant submarine had passed, without having been detected, beyond the territory in which British patrol boats were operating. Then came a succession of uneventful days and fine weather. Practically every day diving tests were made. One of these the captain describes as follows: During these experimental diving tests we were treated to a spectacle of fairy-like loveliness. I had set the rudder in such a way that the turret was travelling about three yards under water. Overhead the sun shone brilliantly and filled the deeps with a clear radiance. The pure water was luminous with colour--close at hand it was of a light azure blue, of fabulous clearness and transparent as glass. I could see the entire boat from the turret windows. The shimmering pearls of the air-bubbles which rise constantly from the body of the craft played about the entire length of the vessel from deck to bows, and every detail stood out in miraculous sharpness. Farther ahead there was a multi-coloured twilight. It seemed as if the prow kept pushing itself noiselessly into a wall of opalescent green which parted, glistening, and grew to an ethereal, rainbow-like translucency close at hand. We were spell-bound by this vision of beauty. The fairy-like effect was increased by medusæ which, poised in the transparent blue, frequently became entangled in the wires of the mine-guards or the railings and glowed like trembling fires of rose, pale gold, and purple.[3] [Footnote 3: ©] But less pleasant things were in store for the _Deutschland's_ crew. The nearer the boat came to the region of the Gulf Stream, the more violent the weather became. Though she still ran most of the time on the surface, it became necessary to keep all openings battened down. Even the manhole, leading to the turret, could be kept open only for short periods. Naturally the temperature was rising all the time. It was midsummer and the Gulf Stream contributed its share of warmth. No wonder, therefore, that Captain König compares conditions below decks to a "veritable hell," and then continues: While in the Gulf Stream we had an outer temperature of 28° Celsius. This was about the warmth of the surrounding water. Fresh air no longer entered. In the engine-room two 6-cylinder combustion motors kept hammering away in a maddening two-four time. They hurled the power of their explosions into the whirling crankshafts. The red-hot breath of the consumed gases went crashing out through the exhausts, but the glow of these incessant firings remained in the cylinders and communicated itself to the entire oil-dripping environment of steel. A choking cloud of heat and oily vapour streamed from the engines and spread itself like a leaden pressure through the entire ship. During these days the temperature mounted to 53° Celsius. And yet men lived and worked in a hell such as this! The watch off duty, naked to the skin, groaned and writhed in their bunks. It was no longer possible to think of sleep. And when one of the men fell into a dull stupor, then he would be aroused by the sweat which ran incessantly over his forehead and into his eyes, and would awake to new torment. It was almost like a blessed deliverance when the eight hours of rest were over, and a new watch was called to the central or the engine-room. [Illustration: Redrawn from _The Sphere_. Permission of _Scientific American_. _A Submarine Discharging a Torpedo._] But there the real martyrdom began. Clad only in an undershirt and drawers, the men stood at their posts, a cloth wound about their foreheads to keep the running sweat from streaming into their eyes. Their blood hammered and raced in their temples. Every vein boiled as with fever. It was only by the exertion of the most tremendous willpower that it was possible to force the dripping human body to perform its mechanical duty and to remain upright during the four hours of the watch.... But how long would we be able to endure this? I no longer kept a log during these days and I find merely this one note: "Temperature must not rise any higher if the men are to remain any longer in the engine-room." But they did endure it. They remained erect like so many heroes, they did their duty, exhausted, glowing hot, and bathed in sweat, until the storm centre lay behind us, until the weather cleared, until the sun broke through the clouds, and the diminishing seas permitted us once more to open the hatches.[4] [Footnote 4: ©] The _Deutschland_ was now near her goal. Without any trouble she entered Hampton Roads and was docked at Baltimore. There her cargo was discharged and her return cargo loaded. This latter operation involved many difficulties. During her stay a United States Government Commission made a detailed inspection of the _Deutschland_ to determine beyond all question her mercantile character. But at last the day of departure, August 1, had arrived. Properly escorted she made the trip down the Patapsco River and Chesapeake Bay. On her way down she made again diving trials which Captain König describes as follows: In order to see that everything else was tight and in good order, I gave the command to set the boat upon the sea bottom at a spot which, according to the reading upon the chart, had a depth of some 30 meters. Once again everything grew silent. The daylight vanished the well-known singing and boiling noise of the submerging vents vibrated about us. In my turret I fixed my eyes upon the manometer. Twenty meters were recorded, then twenty-five. The water ballast was diminished--thirty meters appeared and I waited the slight bump which was to announce the arrival of the boat at the bottom. Nothing of the sort happened. Instead of this the indicator upon the dial pointed to 32--to 33--to 35 meters.... I knocked against the glass with my finger--correct--the arrow was just pointing toward thirty-six. "Great thunder! what's up?" I cried, and reached for the chart. Everything tallied. Thirty meters were indicated at this spot and our reckoning had been most exact. And we continued to sink deeper and deeper. The dial was now announcing 40 meters. This was a bit too much for me. I called down to the central and got back the comforting answer that the large manometer was also indicating a depth of over forty meters! The two manometers agreed. This, however, did not prevent the boat from continuing to sink. The men in the central began to look at one another.... Ugh! it gives one a creepy feeling to go slipping away into the unknown amidst this infernal singing silence and to see nothing but the climbing down of the confounded indicator upon the white-faced dial.... There was nothing else to be seen in my turret. I glanced at the chart and then at the manometer in a pretty helpless fashion. In the meantime the boat sank deeper; forty-five meters were passed--the pointer indicated forty-eight meters. I began to think the depth of the Chesapeake Bay must have some limit; we surely could not be heading for the bottomless pit? Then--the boat halted at a depth of fifty meters without the slightest shock. I climbed down into the central and took counsel with Klees and the two officers of the watch. There could be only one explanation; we must have sunk into a hole which had not been marked upon the chart.[5] [Footnote 5: ©] [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _A German Submarine in Three Positions._] When orders were now given to rise, it was found that the exhaust pumps refused to work. After a while, however, the chief engineer succeeded in getting them started. They reached the surface after about two hours of submergence. It was dark by the time the merchant submarine was approaching the three-mile limit. Outside of it hostile warships were lying in wait. That the _Deutschland_ escaped them well illustrates the fact that submarines may be kept by various means from entering a bay or a harbour, but that to blockade their exit is practically impossible. This is how Captain König speaks of his escape. We knew that the most dangerous moment of our entire voyage was now approaching. We once more marked our exact position, and then proceeded to make all the preparations necessary for our breaking through. Then we dived and drove forward. All our senses were keyed to the utmost, our nerves taut to the breaking-point with that cold excitement which sends quivers through one's soul, the while outwardly one remains quite serene, governed by that clear and icy deliberation which is apt to possess a man who is fully conscious of the unknown perils toward which he goes.... We knew our path. We had already been informed that fishermen had been hired to spread their nets along certain stretches of the three-mile limit; nets in which we were supposed to entangle ourselves; nets into which devilish mines had very likely been woven.... Possibly these nets were merely attached to buoys which we were then supposed to drag along after us, thus betraying our position.... We were prepared for all emergencies, so that in case of extreme necessity we should be able to free ourselves of the nets. But all went well. It was a dark night. Quietly and peacefully the lighthouses upon the two capes sent forth their light, the while a few miles further out death lay lowering for us in every imaginable form. But while the English ships were racing up and down, jerking their searchlights across the waters and searching again and again in every imaginable spot, they little surmised that, at times within the radius of their own shadows, a periscope pursued its silent way, and under this periscope the _U-Deutschland_. That night at twelve o'clock, after hours of indescribable tension, I gave the command to rise. We Had Broken Through! Slowly the _Deutschland_ rose to the surface, the tanks were blown out and the Diesel engines flung into the gearing. At our highest speed we now went rushing toward the free Atlantic.[6] [Footnote 6: ©] The homeward voyage was completed without untoward incident and long before the month had ended, the first--and probably last--merchant submarine was again safe and snug in her home port. The cargo-carrying submarine, however, is by no means the only type of underwater vessel engaged in peaceful pursuits which has been suggested so far. Mr. Simon Lake, the American submarine engineer and inventor, has frequently pointed out the commercial possibilities of the submarine. In the early part of 1916 a series of articles from his pen appeared in _International Marine Engineering_. They contained a number of apparently feasible suggestions looking towards the commercial development of the submarine. First of all he tells of experiments made with submarines for navigation under ice. The proper development of this idea, of course, would be of immense commercial value. Many harbours in various parts of the world are inaccessible during the winter months for vessels navigating on the surface. Navigation on many important inland lakes likewise has to be stopped during that period. Submarines, built so that they can safely travel under the ice, would overcome these conditions and would make it possible to use most ice-bound ports throughout the entire year at least in Mr. Lake's view. Ever since Mr. Lake began inventing and building submarines he has been interested in the possibilities which submarines offer for the exploration of the sea-bottom and for the discovery of wrecks and recovery of their valuable cargoes. His first boat, the _Argonaut_, as we have heard, possessed a diving chamber for just such purposes. He has continued his investigations and experiments along this line, and in these articles he shows illustrations of submarine boats and devices adapted for such work. Properly financed and directed, the recovery of cargoes from wrecks undoubtedly would not only bring large financial returns to the backers of such a venture, but also do away with the immense waste which the total loss of sunken vessels and cargoes inflicts now on the world. Submarines in peace may yet recover for the use of man much of the wealth which submarines in war have sent to the bottom of the sea. Marine insurance, too, would be favourably affected by such an undertaking. Still one other commercial submarine boat is advocated by Mr. Lake. This is to be used for the location and collection of shellfish on a large scale. Of this vessel its inventor says: The design of this submarine oyster-dredging vessel is such that the vessel goes down to the bottom direct, and the water is forced out of the centre raking compartment so that the oysters may be seen by the operator in the control compartment. With only a few inches of water over them, headway is then given to the submarine and the oysters are automatically raked up, washed, and delivered through pipes into the cargo-carrying chambers. Centrifugal pumps are constantly delivering water from the cargo compartments, which induces a flow of water through the pipes leading from the "rake pans" with sufficient velocity to carry up the oysters and deposit them into the cargo holds. In this manner the bottom may be seen, and by "tracking" back and forth over the bottom the ground may be "cleaned up" at one operation. This boat has a capacity of gathering oysters from good ground at the rate of five thousand bushels per hour. The use of the submarine will make the collection of oysters more nearly like the method of reaping a field of grain, where one "swathe" systematically joins on to another, and the whole field is "cleaned up" at one operation. Man's greediness for profit has already driven the salmon from the rivers of New England where once they swarmed. Mechanical devices for taking them by the hundreds of thousands threaten a like result in the now teeming rivers of Washington and British Columbia. Mr. Lake's invention has the demerit of giving conscienceless profiteers the opportunity to obliterate the oyster from our national waters. [Illustration: Permission of _Scientific American_. _Sectional View of a British Submarine._] It does not appear, however, that, except as an engine of war the submarine offers much prospect of future development or future usefulness. And as we of the United States entered this war, which now engages our energies and our thoughts, for the purpose of making it the last war the world shall ever know, speculation on the future of the submarine seems rather barren. That does not mean however that there will be a complete stoppage of submarine construction or submarine development. War is not going to be ended by complete international disarmament, any more than complete unpreparedness kept the United States out of the struggle. A reasonable armament for every nation, and the union of all nations against any one or two that threaten wantonly to break the peace is the most promising plan intelligent pacifism has yet suggested. In such an international system there will be room and plenty for submarines. Indeed it is into just such a plan that they intelligently fit. Though not wholly successful in their operations against capital ships, they have demonstrated enough power to make nations hesitate henceforth before putting a score of millions into ponderous dreadnoughts which have to retire from submarine-infested waters as the British did in their very hour of triumph at Jutland. They have not nullified, but greatly reduced the value of overwhelming sea power such as the British have possessed. A navy greater than those of any two other nations has indeed kept the German ships, naval and commercial, locked in port. But less than two hundred inexpensive submarines bid fair to sweep the seas of all merchant ships--neutral as well as British unless by feverish building the nations can build ships faster than submarines can sink them. Huge navies may henceforth be unknown. The submarine has been the David of the war. It is a pity that its courage and efficiency have been exerted mainly in the wrong cause and that the missiles from its sling have felled the wrong Goliath. Aircraft and submarine! It is still on the cards that when the definitive history of the war shall be written, its outcome may be ascribed to one or the other of these novel weapons--the creation of American inventive genius. INDEX A _Aboukir_, 235, 236 Aërial mail service, 362 Aërial instruction, 109-121 Aërial Coast Patrol Unit, 188 Aerodromes, 170 Airplane costs, 224, 225 American aviators in France, 109, 111, 174 American Flying Corps, 175 André, General, 267-269 Andrée, Polar expedition, 41, 56, 57 Anti-aircraft guns, 128, 129, 144-147, 150, 151, 169, 172, 173, 211, 230, 297, 305 Antwerp, 195 "Archies," _see_ anti-aircraft guns Arlandes, Marquis, d', 29 Archimedes, 19 Army Aviation School, Mineola, 188 Arras, 185 Astra-Torres, 81 Austrian, submarine, U-11, 190; seaplane, 191; warships _vs._, British submarines, 334; submarines, 261, 360; submarine strength of, 306, 307 Aviation, in England, 104, 105, 106; in France, 104-106; Germany, 104-106, 108; Russia, 106; United States, 182-190, 194, 202, 221 "Avro" machines, 148 B Baker, Ray Stannard, quoted, 287-293 Ball, Captain, 212-214 Baltic, 157 Bauer, Wilhelm, 253, 254 Belgium, 18, 108, 184, 196 Belgium, mapping coast of, 150 Berlin, 65, 74, 75, 156, 357 Besnier, wings, 16 Blanchard, aeronaut, 35 Bleriot, aviator, 35, 95, 109; airplane, 186 Blockade, United States, 10 Boelke, Lieutenant, 118-120; story of air duel of, 214-216 Brazil, submarine strength of, 307 Briggs, Commander, 148 Bristol, biplane, 126 British, 105, 147, 149, 151, 152, 164, 166, 171, 183, 188, 190, 334; Admiralty, 236, 272; Navy, 195, 274; Royal Flying Corps, 105, 106, 164, 166, 167, 174, 212; Royal Naval Air Service, 150, 200; submarine strength, 301, 302 Brussels, 165 Bushnell, David, 246-249, 263 C Calmette, M., 267-270 Canada, airplane factories in, 107 Caproni, airplanes, 204, 228 Cayley, Sir George, 36, 83 Channel, English, 30, 35, 55, 144, 324, 340, 341 Chanute, 90 Chapman, Victor, 176, 179, 180, 214 Charles, M., 25; balloon, 31 Churchill, Winston, 155 Civil War, 5, 7, 10, 61, 260, 261, 333 _Clement-Bayard II._, 56 Coffin, Howard E., 202 Congress of the United States, 182, 187, 194, 196, 201, 221, 276, 301 Congressional Committee, 204 _Cressy_, 235, 236 Curtis, Glenn, 83, 98 Cuxhaven, 8, 108, 132, 148, 149, 150, 155 D Dardanelles, 157, 190, 310, 334 Da Vinci, Leonardo, 15 Day, J., 242-246 "D. H. 5," 126 Denmark, submarine strength of, 306, 307 Department of Aeronautics, 182 Deutsch, Henry, prize for aviation, 39, 46-50 _Deutschland_, The, 13, 364-378 Dewey, Admiral, 271, 272 Diesel motor, 308, 309, 319, 325, 363, 366 Douaumont, 162 Drachens, 220 Drebel, Cornelius, 238-240 Driggs, Lawrence La Tourette, 358, 359 Dubilier, William, 357 E Eiffel Tower, 42, 46-49, 51. _See also_ Santos-Dumont Emperor of Germany, 65, 69, 72 England, 73, 75, 95, 105, 108, 142, 147, 166, 182, 184, 194, 201, 202, 207, 209, 240, 251, 253, 303, 345 Essen, 8, 108 Expeditionary Army, 106 F Faotomu, Lieutenant Takuma, 352, 353 Farman, 95, 108, 218 Farragut, Admiral, 132 Fiske, Rear-Admiral, 155, 157, 206 Flanders, 6, 148 Fléchette, 138, 186 Fokker, 126, 128, 163, 170, 171, 212 Fort Myer, 96, 97 _Foucault_, submarine, 191 France, 59, 80, 81, 95, 104-106, 111, 120, 133, 142, 147, 167, 180, 182, 183, 195, 199, 200-202, 208, 209, 214, 240, 251, 254, 295, 303, 343 Franklin, Benjamin, views of balloons, 24; letters, 32, 33 French, airplanes at Battle of Somme, 198; Commission to United States, 196; guns, 147; improve on German airplane, 204; inspection of captive Zeppelin, 81; standardize their airplanes, 104; submarine, 309; submarine strength, 302, 303 French, General Sir John, 3-5, 106 Friedrichshaven, 8, 70, 75, 76, 108, 147 Fulton, Robert, 251, 252, 253 G George, Lloyd, 210 German, Admiralty, 190; air champion, 214; air raids on England, 207; attempt to starve England, 194; fleet, 183, 184; submarine attacks on allied shipping, 305; submarine destroyed by bombs, 191; submarines _vs._ international law, 192; submarine strength, 303-305 German U-boats, 188, 206, 236, 304, 310, 314, 333, 336, 338 Germany, 61, 62, 69, 72, 73, 75, 79, 80, 81, 97, 104, 105, 106, 108, 121, 133, 142, 146-149, 157, 171, 183-185, 193, 198, 200, 210, 235, 280, 297, 310, 341, 361, 364 Ghent, 165 Gibbons, Floyd P., 347-351 Giffard, dirigible, 37, 38, 41, 43 Grange, de la, Lieutenant, 196, 199 Great Britain, 57, 58, 105, 106, 120, 142, 143, 157, 191, 192, 202, 203, 204, 207, 310, 341, 343 Great War, 3, 12, 72, 80, 98, 103, 159 Greece, submarine strength of, 307 Grey, C. G., quoted, 189 Gross, dirigible, 77, 78 Guynemer, Captain Georges, 211, 212, 214 Gyroscope compass, 312 H Hartlepool, 208 Harvard University, 175, 176 Harwich, 208 Heligoland, 155-157, 202, 333 _Hogue_, 235, 236 Holland, 150, 235; submarine strength of, 306, 307 Holland, John P., 241, 274-277, 294; submarine, 294-296, 298, 301, 302, 304, 306, 313 Holland Torpedo Boat Company, 272, 277, 298 Hotchkiss, 147 _Housatonic_, U. S. S., 259, 260 Hydro-airplane, 160, 189, 190, 206, 225 Hydroplane, 280, 308 I Icarus, 14 Immelman, Captain, 119, 212-214 Instruction, in aviation, 111-118; of American aviators, 11 _Ironsides_, 256, 257, 295 Italy, 81, 343; submarine strength of, 306 Italian submarines, 360 J Japan, submarine strength of, 306, 307 Japanese submarines, 352 Joffre, General, 4, 196 Jutland, battle of, 12, 381 K Kaiser, 78. _Also see_ Emperor of Germany Kiel, 9, 108, 155-157, 183, 195, 202, 230, 253, 314, 367 Kipling, Rudyard, 80, 166, 226, 227, 346 Kitchener, Lord, 58 Kitty-Hawk, 89, 94 Kluck, General von, 3, 4 König, Captain Paul, 367-377 Krebs, 39 L Lafayette Escadrille, 121, 175, 176, 216 Lake Constance, 62, 148 Lake, Simon, 278-295, 356, 364, 378-380; submarine, 294-296, 302, 304, 306, 317 Lana, Francisco, 17 Lancaster, F. W., 144 Langley, Professor Samuel, 82, 83, 84, 183 _La Patrie_, 55 _La République_, 55 Latham, 95 Laurenti, Major, 300; submarine, 302, 306 Lebaudy Brothers, 54; airplane, 56, 78 Le Bris, 86-88 Lee, Ezra, 249, 250 Lewis gun, 217 Liberty motor, 222, 226; plane, 127 Liège, 159 Lilienthal, Gustav, 84 Lilienthal, Otto, 84-86, 90 Lilienthals, 88 Lille, 185 London, 9, 134, 142, 156, 208, 209, 230 Lufbery, Captain Raoul, 121, 180 Lunardi, aeronaut, 30 _Lusitania_, 193, 210, 263, 343 M McConnell, Sergeant James R., 160 Marne, battle of, 5, 183, 196 Maxim, Sir Hiram, 83 _Merrimac_, 12 Meuse river, 4, 161 _Monitor_, 12 Mons, battle of, 3, 5 Montgolfier Brothers, Jos. & Jacques, 20, 22; balloon, 21, 22, 23, 24, 28, 30 Moranes, 186 N Namur, 4 Napoleon, 99, 108, 252 Naval Committee, House of Representatives, 271, 272 Navy Department of U. S., 188, 189, 278, 298, 300, 301 Navy Department, Civil War, 256, 257 Navy, Secretary of, 187, 194, 222 Needham, Henry Beach, 166 Nieuport, airplane, 140, 163, 186; town of, 150, 151, 154 Nordenfeldt, Swedish inventor, 263, 264, 275 North Sea, 6, 76, 144, 149, 154, 156, 157, 187, 188, 190, 235, 236, 305 Norway, submarine strength of, 306, 307 Noyes, Alfred, quoted, 335-340 O Ostend, 9, 150, 151, 191, 194, 200 P Paris, 3, 23-25, 28, 48, 50-53, 61, 110 Parseval, dirigible, 77, 78 Parseval-Siegfeld, 141 Pau, 110 Père Galien, 17 Periscopes, 296, 305, 310, 311, 326-328, 333, 366 Petersburg, 6 Pilcher, Percy S., 84, 86, 88 Pitney, Fred B., quoted, 323-328 Porter, Admiral David, 259 Prince, Norman, 176, 180, 216-221 R Rees, Major L. W. B., 174 Renard, 38, 42, 43 Richmond, 6 Roberts Brothers' balloon, 34, 35 Rockwell, Kiffen, 176-179, 214 Royal Aërial Factory, 105 Rozier, Pilatre de, 27, 29; death of, 30 Rumsey, Adjt., quoted, 217-220 Russia, 81, 106, 203, 254; submarine strength of, 306, 307 Russian ships sunk in Baltic, 157; submarine sunk by bombs, 190 S Santos-Dumont, 34; quoted, 38, 39-47, 48-50, 51-54, 59, 60, 62, 63, 88, 95 Scarborough, 208 Schutte-Lanz, dirigible, 77, 79 Schwartz, David, 63 Scott, Lieutenant, 133 Seaplanes, 105, 106, 108, 143, 149, 150, 154, 188, 191, 225, 236 _Severo Pax_, 77 Sikorsky, airplanes, 203 Sincay, Lieutenant de, 191 Sopwith, biplane, 126, 219 "S. P. A. D.," 217 Spain, 81; submarine strength of, 306 St. Louis Exposition, 54 St. Petersburg, 63 Submarine, controversy between U. S. and Germany, 342; cruise on, 323-331; interior of, 318-323; losses, 351-354; tenders, 316; strength of different countries, 306, 307; ventilation, 239, 240, 307, 312; war zones, 342, 343 Submarine warfare, allied losses, 344; British losses, 344, 345; neutral losses, 344 Submarines: _Argonaut_, 282-295, 379 _David_, 256, 257 "E" class, 301 _Fenian Ram_, 275 "F-1," 300 "F" (Holland type), 301 German type, 304 _Gustave Zédé_, 266, 267 _Gymnote_, 265, 266 _Holland No. 2_, 275 _Holland No. 4_, 275 _Holland No. 8_, 278 _Holland No. 9_, 271-273, 278 _Hundley_, 258-260 _Intelligent Whale_, 261 _Le Diable Marin_, 254 Laurenti type, 306 _Morse_, 267-270 _Mute_, 253 _Narval_, 267, 270 _Nautilus_, 252 _Nordenfeldt II._, 264 _Octopus_, 299 _Plongeur_, 260 _Plunger_, 277, 278 _Resurgam_, 263 "S" class, 302 (Laurenti or "F. I. A. T." type) _Turtle_, 247, 249, 275 "U-3," 314 "U-20," 330 "U-47," 328-331 "V" class (Lake type), 302 "W" class (Laubeuf type), 302 "Viper" class, 299 Submarines, aircraft as enemy of, 357, 358; armament of, 312; (general topic), 159, 188, 190-195, 209; marksmanship, 322; microphone, 357; motives powers of, 308, 309; precautions and devices against, 345, 346, 355, 361; requirements of modern, 307-317 Sweden, submarine strength of, 306, 307 Switzerland, 150 T Taube, 126 Thaw, Lieutenant William, 214 Tissot, Professor, 357 Torpedo chamber, 320; plane, 156, 157; tubes, 298, 301, 303-306, 312, 315, 317, 320, 353 Trocadero, 49-51 Tulasne, Major, 196, 199 Turkey, submarine strength of, 307 Turkish, 177, 188, 334 U U-53, 12, 206, 353, 354 U-Boat attacks on, allied merchantmen; _Amiral Ganteaume,_ 340; _Gulflight_, 343; _Lusitania_, 193, 210, 263, 343; _Laconia_, 347-351; _Strathend_, 354; _West Point_, 354; _Stephano_, 354; _Bloomersdijk_, 354; _Christian Knudsen_, 354; in general, 346-354 United States, 56-58, 81, 91, 94-96, 103, 107, 111, 120, 142, 158, 166, 180, 182, 185, 187, 193, 194, 200, 202, 209, 221, 228, 230, 239, 260, 261, 271, 295, 297, 301, 303, 310, 334, 341, 343, 345, 361, 364, 365, 381; government of, 96, 272, 273, 276, 296, 343; declares war upon Germany, 342; Navy, 297, 298, 300, 354; submarine strength, 350 V Vanniman, 57, 159 Vaux, 162 Venice, 108 Verdun, 6, 55, 161, 162 Verne, Jules, 40, 262, 287 Vickers, gun, 217; scout airplane, 126, 131, 147, 164 Vicksburg, 6 Viney, Lieutenant, 191 von Bernstorff, Count, 353 W Wanamaker, Rodman, 160 War, Department of, 101; Secretary of, 187, 194, 222 War zones, 341, 342 Warneford, sub-Lieutenant R. A. J., 164, 165, 214 Washington, D. C., 96, 97, 204 Washington, General George, 247 Watt, James, 19 Weddigen, Captain, Otto von, 236, 305, 334 Wellington, 108 Wellman, Walter, 56, 57, 159 White, Claude Graham, 128 Whitehead torpedo, 261, 262, 264, 266 Wilhelmshaven, 132, 156, 157, 183, 195, 230, 353 Winslow, Carroll Dana, 111, 115, 116, 139 Woodhouse, Henry, 190 Wright Brothers, 14, 43, 58, 60, 64, 83, 84, 87, 89, 90-95, 97, 98, 109, 111, 183 Wright, Orville, 74, 75, 88, 99-102 Wright, Wilbur, 88, 91, 96, 97 Z Zédé, M. Gustav, 265, 266, 303 Zeebrugge, 8, 9, 150, 151, 153, 155, 195, 200, 230 Zeppelin, Count, von, 28, 34, 38, 50, 54, 59-65, 68-77, 79, 105, 362 Zeppelin, Eberhard, 64 Zeppelin disasters: _Zeppelin I._, 66-69 _IV._, 66, 72 _L-I_, 76 _L-II_, 67 Zeppelin raids, 9, 208, 209 Zeppelins, 8, 60, 62, 65-81, 100, 101, 104, 105, 108, 133, 134, 148-150, 164, 165, 208 _A Selection from the Catalogue of_ G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS Complete Catalogues sent on application THE MAKING OF A MODERN ARMY And Its Operations in the Field A Study Bated on the Experience of Three Years on the French Front 1914-1917 René Radiguet Général de Division, Army of France Translated by Henry P. du Bellet Formerly American Consul at Rheims _12{o}. 18 Illustrations and Diagrams. $1.50 net. By mail, $1.65_ The younger Americans who are now in training for active service in the field, and particularly those who have secured commissions as officers or who are preparing to compete for such commissions, will have a very direct interest in the instructions and suggestions presented by General Radiguet in regard to the organization of an army and the method of its operations in the field. General Radiguet's treatise is based upon a varied experience in the campaigns of the present war. The old text-books must be put to one side. The methods of organization and the methods of fighting have alike changed. It is only those who have had responsibilities as leaders in the present war whose instructions can be accepted as authoritative. LIFE AT THE U. S. NAVAL ACADEMY The Making of the American Navy Officer: His Studies, Discipline, and Amusements By Ralph Earle Rear-Admiral, U. S. N. (Formerly Head of the Department of Ordnance and Gunnery, U. S. Naval Academy) With an Introduction by Franklin Roosevelt Assistant-Secretary of the Navy _12{o}. 73 Illustrations and a Map. $2.00 net By mail, $2.20_ This book follows the boy's procedure in entering and his first summer's course, after which it takes the midshipman through the course, not by years, but by clear discussions of the various activities that make up his daily life. The recitations, drills, practice cruises, physical training, medical care, athletics, recreations, and the career that the Navy affords one after graduation are related in a manner that will make the midshipman's life easily understood by his parents and friends, and also show the boy intending to enter the Academy just what he may expect there. _At All Booksellers_ WEST POINT An Intimate Picture of the National Military Academy, and of the Life of the Cadet By Robert C. Richardson, Jr. Captain, 2d Cavalry, U. S. A.; Aide-de-Camp to Major-General Thomas H. Barry Foreword by Major-General Hugh L. Scott Chief-of-Staff, U. S. Army _12{o}. 32 Illustrations, $2.00 net By mail, $2.20_ The book, while of interest to all who have attended the institution, is addressed primarily to the general public so that that public may become better acquainted with the aims and ideals of their National Military Academy. To the prospective cadet the book is invaluable as a foretaste of the duties, responsibilities, and privileges obtaining at West Point. TACTICS AND DUTIES FOR TRENCH FIGHTING By Georges Bertrand Capitaine, Chasseurs, de l'Armée de France and Oscar N. Solbert Major, Corps of Engineers, U. S. A. _16{o}. 35 Diagrams. $1.50 net. By mail, $1.65_ 000.7 (OD) 1st Ind. War Department, A. G. O., December 21, 1917--To Major O. N. Solbert, Corp of Engineers, Office of the Chief of Engineers. 1. The manuscript forwarded with this letter has been examined in the War College Division and the opinion given that it has exceptional merit, presenting the principles governing trench warfare in such a clear and logical manner that the publication, with some changes and additions,[7] will be of considerable value to our Officers. [Footnote 7: These changes have been made.] 2. You are directed to confer with the Chief of the War College Division regarding the effecting of the changes desired. By order of the Secretary of War (Signed) F. W. Lewis Adjutant General. G. P. Putnam's Sons New York London