"Very good," said the Pilot; and then turning to the Observer, "Before we start you had better have a look at the course I have mapped out (see p. 40).

"A is where we stand and we have to reach B, a hundred and fifty miles due North. I judge that, at the alt.i.tude we shall fly, there will be an East wind, for although it is not quite East on the ground it is probably about twenty degrees different aloft, the wind usually moving round clockways to about that extent. I think that it is blowing at the rate of about fifty miles an hour, and I therefore take a line on the map to C, fifty miles due West of A. The Aeroplane's speed is a hundred miles an hour, and so I take a line of one hundred miles from C to D.

Our compa.s.s course will then be in the direction A--E, which is always a line parallel to C--D. That is, to be exact, it will be fourteen degrees off the C--D course, as, in this part of the globe, there is that much difference between the North and South lines on the map and the magnetic North to which the compa.s.s needle points. If the compa.s.s has an error, as it may have of a few degrees, that, too, must be taken into account, and the deviation or error curve on the dashboard will indicate it.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A--B, 150 miles, A--C, 50 miles; direction and miles per hour of wind.

C--D, 100 miles; airspeed of aeroplane.

A--D, Distance covered by aeroplane in one hour.

A--E, Compa.s.s course.]

"The Aeroplane will then always be pointing in a direction parallel to A--E, but, owing to the side wind, it will be actually travelling over the course A--B, though in a rather sideways att.i.tude to that course.

"The distance we shall travel over the A--B course in one hour is A--D.

That is nearly eighty-seven miles, so we ought to accomplish our journey of a hundred and fifty miles in about one and three-quarter hours.

"I hope that's quite clear to you. It's a very simple way of calculating the compa.s.s course, and I always do it like that."

"Yes, that's plain enough. You have drafted what engineers call 'a parallelogram of forces'; but suppose you have miscalculated the velocity of the wind, or that it should change in velocity or direction?"

"Well, that of course will more or less alter matters," replies the Pilot. "But there are any number of good landmarks such as lakes, rivers, towns, and railway lines. They will help to keep us on the right course, and the compa.s.s will, at any rate, prevent us from going far astray when between them."

"Well, we'd better be off, old chap. Hop aboard." This from the Observer as he climbs into the front seat from which he will command a good view over the lower plane; and the Pilot takes his place in the rear seat, and, after making himself perfectly comfortable, fixing his safety belt, and moving the control levers to make sure that they are working freely, he gives the signal to the Engine Fitter to turn the propeller and so start the engine.

Round buzzes the Propeller, and the Pilot, giving the official signal, the Aeroplane is released and rolls swiftly over the ground in the teeth of the gusty wind.

In less than fifty yards it takes to the air and begins to climb rapidly upwards, but how different are the conditions to the calm morning of yesterday! If the air were visible it would be seen to be acting in the most extraordinary manner; crazily swirling, lifting and dropping, gusts viciously colliding--a mad phantasmagoria of forces!

Wickedly it seizes and shakes the Aeroplane; then tries to turn it over sideways; then instantly changes its mind and in a second drops it into a hole a hundred feet deep; and if it were not for his safety belt the Pilot might find his seat sinking away from beneath him.

Gusts strike the front of the craft like so many slaps in the face; and others, with the motion of mountainous waves, sometimes lift it hundreds of feet in a few seconds, hoping to see it plunge over the summit in a death-dive--and so it goes on, but the Pilot, perfectly at one with his mount and instantly alert to its slightest motion, is skilfully and naturally making perhaps fifty movements a minute of hand and feet; the former lightly grasping the "joy-stick" which controls the Elevator hinged to the tail, and also the Ailerons or little wings hinged to the wing-tips; and the latter moving the Rudder control-bar.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Pilot's c.o.c.k-pit.]

A strain on the Pilot? Not a bit of it, for this is his Work which he loves and excels in; and given a cool head, alert eye, and a sensitive touch for the controls, what sport can compare with these ever-changing battles of the air?

The Aeroplane has all this time been climbing in great wide circles, and is now some three thousand feet above the Aerodrome which from such height looks absurdly small. The buildings below now seem quite squat; the hills appear to have sunk away into the ground, and the whole country below, cut up into diminutive fields, has the appearance of having been lately tidied and thoroughly spring-cleaned! A doll's country it looks, with tiny horses and cows ornamenting the fields and little model motor-cars and carts stuck on the roads, the latter stretching away across country like ribbons accidentally dropped.

At three thousand feet alt.i.tude the Pilot is satisfied that he is now sufficiently high to secure, in the event of engine failure, a long enough glide to earth to enable him to choose and reach a good landing-place; and, being furthermore content with the steady running of the engine, he decides to climb no more but to follow the course he has mapped out. Consulting the compa.s.s, he places the Aeroplane on the A--E course and, using the Elevator, he gives his craft its minimum angle of incidence at which it will just maintain horizontal flight and secure its maximum speed.

Swiftly he speeds away, and few thoughts he has now for the changing panorama of country, cloud, and colour. Ever present in his mind are the three great 'cross-country queries. "Am I on my right course? Can I see a good landing-ground within gliding distance?" And "How is the Engine running?"

Keenly both he and the Observer compare their maps with the country below. The roads, khaki-coloured ribbons, are easily seen but are not of much use, for there are so many of them and they all look alike from such an alt.i.tude.

Now where can that lake be which the map shows so plainly? He feels that surely he should see it by now, and has an uncomfortable feeling that he is flying too far West. What pilot is there indeed who has not many times experienced such unpleasant sensation? Few things in the air can create greater anxiety. Wisely, however, he sticks to his compa.s.s course, and the next minute he is rewarded by a sight of the lake, though indeed he now sees that the direction of his travel will not take him over it, as should be the case if he were flying over the shortest route to his destination. He must have slightly miscalculated the velocity or direction of the side-wind.

"About ten degrees off," he mutters, and, using the Rudder, corrects his course accordingly.

Now he feels happier and that he is well on his way. The gusts, too, have ceased to trouble him as, at this alt.i.tude, they are not nearly so bad as they were near the ground, the broken surface of which does much to produce them; and sometimes for miles he makes but a movement or two of the controls.

The clouds just above race by with dizzy and uniform speed; the country below slowly unrolls, and the steady drone of the Engine is almost hypnotic in effect. "Sleep, sleep, sleep," it insidiously suggests.

"Listen to me and watch the clouds; there's nothing else to do. Dream, dream, dream of speeding through s.p.a.ce for ever, and ever, and ever; and rest, rest, rest to the sound of my rhythmical hum. Droning on and on, nothing whatever matters. All things now are merged into speed through s.p.a.ce and a sleepy monotonous d-d-r-r-o-o-n-n-e------." But the Pilot pulls himself together with a start and peers far ahead in search of the next landmark. This time it is a little country town, red-roofed his map tells him, and roughly of cruciform shape; and, sure enough, there in the right direction are the broken outlines of a few red roofs peeping out from between the trees.

Another minute and he can see this little town, a fairy place it appears, nestling down between the hills and its red roofs and picturesque shape, a glowing and lovely contrast with the dark green of the surrounding moors.

So extraordinarily clean and tidy it looks from such a height, and laid out in such orderly fashion with perfectly defined squares, parks, avenues, and public buildings, it indeed appears hardly real, but rather as if it has this very day materialized from some delightful children's book!

Every city and town you must know has its distinct individuality to the Pilot's eye. Some are not fairy places at all, but great dark ugly blots upon the fair countryside, and with tall shafts belching forth murky columns of smoke to defile clean s.p.a.ce. Others, melancholy-looking ma.s.ses of grey, slate-roofed houses, are always sad and dispirited; never welcoming the glad sunshine, but ever calling for leaden skies and a weeping Heaven. Others again, little coquettes with village green, white palings everywhere, bright gravel roads, and an irrepressible air of brightness and gaiety.

Then there are the rivers, silvery streaks peacefully winding far, far away to the distant horizon; they and the lakes the finest landmarks the Pilot can have. And the forests. How can I describe them? The trees cannot be seen separately, but merge altogether into enormous irregular dark green ma.s.ses sprawling over the country, and sometimes with great ungainly arms half encircling some town or village; and the wind pa.s.sing over the foliage at times gives the forest an almost living appearance, as of some great dragon of olden times rousing itself from slumber to devour the peaceful villages its arms encircle.

And the Pilot and Observer fly on and on, seeing these things and many others which baffle my poor skill to describe--things, dear Reader, that you shall see, and poets sing of, and great artists paint in the days to come when the Designer has captured Efficiency. Then, and the time is near, shall you see this beautiful world as you have never seen it before, the garden it is, the peace it breathes, and the wonder of it.

The Pilot, flying on, is now anxiously looking for the railway line which midway on his journey should point the course. Ah! There it is at last, but suddenly (and the map at fault) it plunges into the earth! Well the writer remembers when that happened to him on a long 'cross-country flight in the early days of aviation. Anxiously he wondered "Are tunnels always straight?" and with what relief, keeping on a straight course, he picked up the line again some three miles farther on!

Now at last the Pilot sees the sea, just a streak on the north-eastern horizon, and he knows that his flight is two-thirds over. Indeed, he should have seen it before, but the air is none too clear, and he is not yet able to discern the river which soon should cross his path. As he swiftly speeds on the air becomes denser and denser with what he fears must be the beginning of a sea-fog, perhaps drifting inland along the course of the river. Now does he feel real anxiety, for it is the _duty_ of a Pilot to fear fog, his deadliest enemy. Fog not only hides the landmarks by which he keeps his course, but makes the control of the Aeroplane a matter of the greatest difficulty. He may not realize it, but, in keeping his machine on an even keel, he is unconsciously balancing it against the horizon, and with the horizon gone he is lost indeed. Not only that, but it also prevents him from choosing his landing-place, and the chances are that, landing in a fog, he will smash into a tree, hedge, or building, with disastrous results. The best and boldest pilot 'wares a fog, and so this one, finding the conditions becoming worse and yet worse, and being forced to descend lower and lower in order to keep the earth within view, wisely decides to choose a landing-place while there is yet time to do so.

Throttling down the power of the engine he spirals downwards, keenly observing the country below. There are plenty of green fields to lure him, and his great object is to avoid one in which the gra.s.s is long, for that would bring his machine to a stop so suddenly as to turn it over; or one of rough surface likely to break the under-carriage. Now is perfect eyesight and a cool head indispensable. He sees and decides upon a field and, knowing his job, he sticks to that field with no change of mind to confuse him. It is none too large, and gliding just over the trees and head on to the wind he skilfully "stalls" his machine; that is, the speed having decreased sufficiently to avoid such a manoeuvre resulting in ascent, he, by means of the Elevator, gives the Aeroplane as large an angle of incidence as possible, and the undersides of the planes meeting the air at such a large angle act as an air-brake, and the Aeroplane, skimming over the ground, lessens its speed and finally stops just at the farther end of the field.

Then, after driving the Aeroplane up to and under the lee of the hedge, he stops the engine, and quickly lashing the joy-stick fast in order to prevent the wind from blowing the controlling surfaces about and possibly damaging them, he hurriedly alights. Now running to the tail he lifts it up on to his shoulder, for the wind has become rough indeed and there is danger of the Aeroplane becoming unmanageable. By this action he decreases the angle at which the planes are inclined to the wind and so minimizes the latter's effect upon them. Then to the Observer, "Hurry up, old fellow, and try to find some rope, wire, or anything with which to picket the machine. The wind is rising and I shan't be able to hold the 'bus steady for long. Don't forget the wire-cutters. They're in the tool kit." And the Observer rushes off in frantic haste, before long triumphantly returning with a long length of wire from a neighbouring fence. Blocking up the tail with some debris at hand, they soon succeed, with the aid of the wire, in stoutly picketing the Aeroplane to the roots of the high hedge in front of it; done with much care, too, so that the wire shall not fray the fabric or set up dangerous bending-stresses in the woodwork. Their work is not done yet, for the Observer remarking, "I don't like the look of this thick weather and rather fear a heavy rain-storm," the Pilot replies, "Well, it's a fearful bore, but the first rule of our game is never to take an unnecessary risk, so out with the engine and body covers."

Working with a will they soon have the engine and the open part of the body which contains the seats, controls, and instruments snugly housed with their waterproof covers, and the Aeroplane is ready to weather the possible storm. Says the Observer, "I'm remarkably peckish, and methinks I spy the towers of one of England's stately homes showing themselves just beyond that wood, less than a quarter of a mile away. What ho! for a raid. What do you say?"

"All right, you cut along and I'll stop here, for the Aeroplane must not be left alone. Get back as quickly as possible."

And the Observer trots off, leaving the Pilot filling his pipe and anxiously scrutinizing the weather conditions. Very thick it is now, but the day is yet young, and he has hopes of the fog lifting sufficiently to enable the flight to be resumed. A little impatiently he awaits the return of his comrade, but with never a doubt of the result, for the hospitality of the country house is proverbial among pilots! What old hand among them is there who cannot instance many a forced landing made pleasant by such hospitality? Never too late or too early to help with food, petrol, oil, tools, and a.s.sistants. Many a grateful thought has the writer for such kind help given in the days before the war (how long ago they seem!), when aeroplanes were still more imperfect than they are now, and involuntary descents often a part of 'cross-country flying.

Ah! those early days! How fresh and inspiring they were! As one started off on one's first 'cross-country flight, on a machine the first of its design, and with everything yet to learn, and the wonders of the air yet to explore; then the joy of accomplishment, the dreams of Efficiency, the hard work and long hours better than leisure; and what a field of endeavour--the realms of s.p.a.ce to conquer! And the battle still goes on with ever-increasing success. Who is bold enough to say what its limits shall be?

So ruminates this Pilot-Designer, as he puffs at his pipe, until his reverie is abruptly disturbed by the return of the Observer.

"Wake up, you _airman_," the latter shouts. "Here's the very thing the doctor ordered! A basket of first-cla.s.s grub and something to keep the fog out, too."

"Well, that's splendid, but don't call me newspaper names or you'll spoil my appet.i.te!"

Then, with hunger such as only flying can produce, they appreciatively discuss their lunch, and with many a grateful thought for the donors--and they talk shop. They can't help it, and even golf is a poor second to flight talk. Says the Pilot, who must have his grievance, "Just observe where I managed to stop the machine. Not twenty feet from this hedge! A little more and we should have been through it and into Kingdom Come! I stalled as well as one could, but the tail touched the ground and so I could not give the Aeroplane any larger angle of incidence. Could I have given it a larger angle, then the planes would have become a much more effective air-brake, and we should have come to rest in a much shorter distance. It's all the fault of the tail. There's hardly a type of Aeroplane in existence in which the tail could not be raised several feet, and that would make all the difference. A high tail means a large angle of incidence when the machine touches ground and, with enough angle, I'll guarantee to safely land the fastest machine in a five-acre field. You can, I am sure, imagine what a difference that would make where forced landings are concerned!" Then rapidly sketching in his notebook, he shows the Observer the following ill.u.s.tration:

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Pilot's Aeroplane.

The Change of Design He Would Like.]

"That's very pretty," said the Observer, "but how about Mechanical Difficulties, and Efficiency in respect of Flight? And, anyway, why hasn't such an obvious thing been done already?"

"As regards the first part of your question I a.s.sure you that there's nothing in it, and I'll prove it to you as follows----"

"Oh! That's all right, old chap. I'll take your word for it," hurriedly replies the Observer, whose soul isn't tuned to a technical key.

"As regards the latter part of your inquiry," went on the Pilot, a little nettled at having such a poor listener, "it's very simple.

Aeroplanes have 'just growed' like Topsy, and they consequently contain this and many another relic of early day design when Aeroplanes were more or less thrown together and anything was good enough that could get off the ground."

"By Jove," interrupts the Observer, "I do believe the fog is lifting.

Hadn't we better get the engine and body covers off, just in case it's really so?"