STRANGE how seeds of drama lurk in trivial things. In times when I was alone I used sometimes to count my disappointments, failed to get into aviation sooner because of my crippled leg; failed to join the NC-Trans-Atlantic planes because of my war duty; failed to cross the Atlantic in the C-5 because she was blown away; surely if hard work should again bring things to the point of success, fate would not persist in dealing me the joker.
But now another failure was brewing, although I didn’t know it.
In retrospect I realize the seed of it was revealed to me in 1921 on a day between battles “on the Hill” when a man in naval ordinance observed:
“Emory Coil is a lucky skate.”
“Glad to hear it,” said I. “He certainly has had enough tough breaks so far. What’s happened?”
“Detailed to the ZR-2 as executive officer.”
The ZR-2 was the British dirigible R-38 being built in England for the American Navy. She was to make a non-stop flight from Howden where she lay, with a mixed complement of American and British personnel aboard. She was a splendid airship. Her length of 700 feet, diameter 85 feet and cubic capacity 2,720,000 feet made her far and away the biggest airship in the world.
I was glad that Coil at last was in line for achievement befitting his proficiency as an officer, and which would offset all that the poor fellow had been through, between the tragedy in his family and the loss of his ship, the C-5.
But I did not confide in my friend that I myself was still secretly nursing a determination to cross the Atlantic by air. Indeed, I was not telling any one. I knew that I would be looked on as mildly insane at this moment if I pushed my scheme to fly the ocean alone. Our NC detachment had missed tragic failure by a hair. Alcock and Brown had barely got to Ireland. Hawker and his companion had escaped death as by a miracle. It didn’t look as if either the Navy Department, Congress or the country would stand for another attempt until aviation had advanced a good deal.
However, I felt deeply that a successful long flight in a small plane would do much toward winning people over to flying. Further, it might help stem the disagreeable reaction against aviation that had definitely set in right after the war.
The biggest step would of course be a non-stop flight from the United States to Europe. This was my goal. But before that I wanted to see developed a big three-engined plane that would fly with one engine dead, thus having a factor of safety large enough to be the Trans-Atlantic plane of the future. I was still continuing my studies of air navigation over the ocean and was determined to see the full Atlantic conquered by an American.
News of the ZR-2 plans impelled me to hasten my own. Perhaps with an air liaison already established between us and England I might find my plan more easily carried out. I tackled Rear Admiral Moffett, who had just been made Chief of the new Bureau of Aeronautics in the Navy, for permission to fly the Atlantic alone. By going alone I could take gasoline instead of a passenger and so fly farther. Then I wanted to prove for the benefit of the single seater combat planes that a flyer could navigate at the same time he was piloting. My request read:—
NAVY DEPARTMENT,
OFFICE OF NAVAL OPERATIONS,
WASHINGTON,
July 30, 1921.
| From: | Lieut. Commander R. E. Byrd, Jr., (U.S.N. Ret.) |
| To: | Chief of Naval Operations. |
| Via: | Chief of Bureau of Aeronautics. |
SUBJECT: Trans-Atlantic Flight.
1. It is requested that I be permitted to make a non-stop flight alone across the Atlantic Ocean from St. John’s, Newfoundland, to England, in a JL type airplane. This is the only type we now have which is capable of a non-stop flight.
2. The distance from St. John’s, Newfoundland, to Clogher Head Island is 1909 miles, and by a very conservative estimation the Naval JL airplane is capable of making 1850 miles by leaving out the extra passenger.
3. The prevailing winds during August and September are westerly and would increase the speed of an airplane traveling east by at least fifteen miles an hour. This also is a conservative estimation. As the wind-speeds at five or six thousand feet are generally from twenty to thirty miles per hour, the speed of the wind then would increase the radius of the plane 330 miles, which would enable the plane to make 2180 miles leaving a margin of safety of 270 miles.
4. The above calculations were made taking into consideration the extra weight which would be added to that of the machine by placing the air bags in the wings and fuselage, the hydrovane under the fuselage and navigational equipment.
5. The hydrovane would enable the pilot to land in very rough water without crashing the machine and the airbags would keep the plane afloat for at least sixty hours. Small combination light and smoke bombs could be carried in order to attract attention of passing steamers in case of a forced landing.
6. The JL is the only type of airplane now owned either by the Army or Navy which is capable of making a non-stop flight from America to Europe.
7. It is thought that this flight will demonstrate that the pilot can both navigate and pilot his machine at the same time. The greater distance and maneuvre- ability obtained by one seater reconnaissance or combat aircraft, by leaving out the extra personnel and seats, would make possible long distance reconnaissance flights from battleships. Also it is thought that much data could be obtained from such a flight which would be of considerable use in solving many problems which now face the sea-going aviator.
8. No destroyers or other such aids to navigation would be needed or desired on this trip.
9. Attention is invited to the enclosures. I have made a deep study of Trans-Atlantic flying since I first received my orders to Aviation in 1917.
10. It is requested that this matter be kept strictly confidential on account of the publicity which would ensue should the project get into the hands of the newspapers.
R. E. BYRD, JR.
To this request Admiral Moffett attached the following endorsement before forwarding it to the Secretary of the Navy:
July 30, 1921.
IST ENDORSEMENT.
| From: | Director of Naval Aviation. |
| To: | Chief of Naval Operations. |
SUBJECT: Trans-Atlantic Flight.
1. Lieut. Commander Byrd has made a deep study of long distance flying and he is strongly of the opinion that an aviator alone can not only pilot and observe but can navigate by utilizing short methods of navigation. This does away with extra personnel and gives a greater range of action which is of such vital importance in scouting at sea. Commander Byrd designed the drift indicator and the aircraft bubble sextant both of which are now used in the service, and it is believed that his experience with these instruments will make it possible for him to navigate and pilot at the same time.
2. Byrd also believes that an all-metal plane, such as the JL, can be made watertight so that the fuselage and the boat can be put into one thus making a seaplane that will have nearly the maneuverability, speed and endurance of a land plane. In this particular flight, however, as the JL airplane was not designed for water tightness, Byrd will have to depend partly upon airbags and empty fuel tanks to keep him afloat (the method which the Navy contemplates using in case of land planes flown from battleships). He will get some protection, however, from some watertight bulkheads in the fuselage.
3. The United States has never attempted a non-stop flight of the Atlantic in heavier-than-aircraft and it is believed that a successful flight of this kind would add to the prestige of the Navy. It is strongly recommended that Byrd be detailed to make this flight and that he be ordered for temporary duty at the Naval Aircraft Factory in order to oversee the making of the necessary alterations in the JL airplane.
4. As it will take twenty days approximately to get this plane in condition for flight, and as the best winds are encountered in August, it is suggested that immediate action be taken.
5. Byrd held up this request for three months on account of important work which had been assigned to him.
W. A. MOFFETT.
Having got my document started on its way I went around and won over the Chief of Operations and Navigation. I can’t say they were any too kindly disposed toward the flight I wanted to make. But they gave me every consideration—were willing to listen, and in the end said they would not put any obstacles in my way.
There remained only the Secretary of the Navy. It so happened that his assistant, Theodore Roosevelt, was acting Secretary at the time. So to fell the job of seeing what could be done by “that lunatic Byrd" as some thought of me.
The Colonel sent for me and, characteristically, came at once to the point:
“I will approve this project if you insist Byrd,” he said. “But we do not want to lose you. We need your services in the Navy for a while yet. Why don’t you wait until the Navy develops an airplane that can make a non-stop flight clear from New York to Europe? When we have such a plane you will have my unreserved approval.”
His attitude gave me a chance to go into detail. I explained that the success of such a flight might do something towards bringing Europe and America closer together; that it would enlist wide popular support of aviation ; and that it would clear up much of our ignorance of flying conditions in the North Atlantic.
But he would not budge from his position that the end did not warrant the risk. I think he ultimately won me to his views through our discussion of the airplane engine, which was certainly still unreliable in long flights. But I don’t believe I would have given in if I had not a card up my sleeve.
I went straight to Admiral Moffett’s office.
“Why can’t I join the ZR-2?” I asked him. “I might help with her navigation and in the test of her piloting instruments.”
The Admiral smiled. “Why didn’t you ask that in the first place? It’s just the job for you.”
I decided then to postpone the solo flight until engines were more reliable.
Again as had happened before, I left the Navy Department with the bouyant feeling that I was going to have my adventure after all.
I felt that an airship voyage could give me much first hand knowledge I could later use on an airplane crossing. As our trip from England to America in the ZR-2 would take about two days and nights we should have more chance to study air conditions. I would get an intimate view of how the British handled flying. Altogether, as I packed my bag for the voyage, I felt thoroughly satisfied with the tum things had taken.
The big airship was at Howden, England, in command of General Edward M. Maitland, senior officer in the airship service of Great Britain. This world flyer was already a brilliant and romantic figure, with a long record of heroic achievement behind him.
In command of the American group sent to take over the ship, which we were buying at a price of $15,000,000, was Commander Louis Maxfield, a splendid officer and old friend. Lieutenant Ralph Pennoyer was navigator. Also my good friends Lieutenant-Commanders Emory Coil and Valentine Bieg were assigned to duty with the ship.
I reached London on August 20, 1921. When I called at the office of the U. S. Naval Attaché I was told that the ZR-2 was going to make a trial flight on the following day in charge of the British. A number of Americans would be taken along. At once I telephoned Commander Maxfield and asked him to put me down on the list of those to go on the trial flight. He replied that billets were very scarce but that if I came right down the British would put me on the list.
As luck would have it, I missed the morning train for Howden, finally not arriving until the night of the 22nd. This accident saved my life. The flight was to begin the following morning. As I had not shown up Maxfield had decided I was not coming and the British took me off the list.
I reached Howden armed with a letter of introduction to General Maitland from the British Air Attaché in Washington, Colonel Charlton. The minute I learned that I was still off the list of those to go up on the morrow I asked Maxfield if there was any way to change the plan. He told me the British had left me off because I had not put in an appearance and said that so many were very anxious to go that they were very touchy about changing the list. I decided that in spite of my great desire to go it would not be courteous to ask them to change the list again. I then suggested that I might request them to leave one of our enlisted men behind and take me because it was important that I have as much experience as possible before we set off for America. Since it was late we left the matter until the following morning.
I sat up until long after midnight talking things over with Coil. He had remarried, this time an attractive English girl. I found him very worried about the forthcoming flight. He felt there was something wrong with the ship, though he confessed he was not sure what it was. Before I left his wife took me off in a corner and confided that he had had a premonition that the ship would never get across the Atlantic. Afterwards she told me Coil had sat up nearly all that night worrying.
Strange to say this same spirit of apprehension pervaded the entire camp. Maxfield’s face was drawn with strain, as were those of the other officers. The men were unusually quiet. There was little or no talk about the airship herself. Medical officer Taylor told me that one of the men had come to him the day before with a tale of a dream that the ship had exploded over the Humber River.
However, the officers realized that this state of mind was not uncommon when men were about to face a test of acknowledged hazard.
I was called early with word that the ship was being taken out of her hangar. I dressed hurriedly and went to the field. The big airship was much like our present Los Angeles. But the novelty of her mammoth size and bright silvery body inspired me more than ever with an intense desire to make the trip on her.
I went aboard with Coil to arrange to take the place of one of our enlisted men. I found that the only one of the mechanics that actually could be spared was a mate named W. J. Steele. When I suggested that I replace him his disappointment was so great that I did not have the heart to force the issue.
“I’ve sent my whole family and baggage ahead to Pulham, sir, where we’re going to tie up to the mooring mast,” he said. “Really, sir, it would make a mess of things for me if I don’t go up in her.”
How futile our plans when fate wills otherwise. The mess poor Steele pictured was microscopic as compared with that of which he was a gruesome part but a few hours later.
The only thing left for me to do was to catch the train to Pulham and rejoin the ship there. I was so grouchy that when I got off the airship just before she took the air I did not go over to say hello to my beautiful cousin Mrs. Maxfield.
An hour later the ZR-2 took the air. How magnificent she looked, the rosy light of sunrise tinting her bright sides a series of soft violet and lavender tints. Officers and observers aboard, lines cast off, she rose slowly and with dignity befitting so huge a craft, sailed away into the cloudless sky.
Feeling that my fate was always to see my friends hop off on air voyages that I should have been the one to take, I boarded the train back to London. From there I could go on to Pulham. As I traveled the sky gradually became overcast, draping a gloom over the landscape that was in keeping with my depression. At the Attaché’s office we received messages that the ZR-2 would cruise all night.
About 6 P.M. the next day, en route to catch the train for Pulham, I went into a barber shop. After what seemed an endless half an hour I emerged to go on to the station. Suddenly I stood stock still. A cry from the street had reached my ears:
“Extry! Extry! Read all about the big airship accident! “
I literally tore a paper out of the nearest boy’s hand. The headlines told the story:
I hailed a taxi and drove top speed to the Embassy. Yes, the story was true. The big ZR-2 had broken in half, caught fire and fallen into the river near Hull. She had had fifty officers and men aboard. A handful seemed to have survived. The reports were so vague we couldn’t be sure. Cream of the British and American lighter-than-air aviators were lost. Despite the long list of deaths in the past no such tragedy had ever befallen aviation.
The Attaché ordered me to proceed at once to the scene of the disaster with Commander Newt White and take charge of the American end of things. Not until I was settled on the train did I realize the full extent of the shock I had received. Only by looking at other people, hearing them talk, listening to the noise of the train and then reading over again in the paper on my lap the broken report of the wreck could I bring myself to believe that this all was not a nightmare.
Inside of me was a queer involuntary feeling of thankfulness. It was instinct telling me how narrow the margin was by which I had escaped death. Had I caught the train to Howden in the first place, had any one been ill, had the enlisted man given way to my importuning, had any one of a dozen contingencies been different, I, too, would now be lying dead in the chill waters of the Humber River. Yet I felt unworthy to give myself a thought at that time. The question kept on recurring again and again in my mind. Had any of my old friends and shipmates been saved and if so, which one?
I reached Hull at 5.30 the next morning. Day dawned as crisp and clear as had the morning of the fateful taking off. For what does the spoiled plans of man matter to the profundity of nature? To brace myself I took some black coffee at the station, then hurried to the dock. There I found a small huddled group of men. One pointed seaward as I came up. With my eyes I followed the direction of his ^m towards the middle of the river.
At once I saw the wreckage, just a small tent-like projection of the shattered airship’s body that lay below the surface. The 20-foot tide had well nigh covered what was left of her.
At this moment Charley Broom, Chief Aviation Mechanic, came up to me.
“How many left?” I asked him
“Five.”
“Any ours?” I could scarcely get out the words.
“One.” He swallowed. “Young Walker; enlisted man.”
That told the story—my friends, all of them, had gone “west.”
Broom had been watching the ship when she broke. He said an explosion came almost at once. One parachute came hurtling down with two men attached to it. Parachutes were considered too cumbersome.
The forward end of the ship fell straight down and disappeared under the water. The after end floated for a while. Broom and others pursued it in a boat, rescuing three uninjured out of four aboard this fragment. My friend Little was still alive when picked up, but died on the way to the hospital.
I asked about poor Coil. He had been seen by one of the survivors just at the point at which the ship broke in half. Coil knew the ship was weak at this point and was there to watch it. His body was later found at frame ten, the critical section he had told me about the night before he died.
Survivors declared there was a ghastly tearing noise when the break came. Though the ZR-2 had been flying at 5.38 P.M., at the time of the accident at an altitude of about 1,200 feet above the river, the noise was clearly heard over the countryside. She had finished her speed test of 60 knots. Her rudder tests at 50 knots were being carried out when she crumpled just abaft the rear engine cars. Fire breaking out immediately was thought to account for the large loss of life. As almost extreme helm wag being used at the moment this no doubt put an excess stress on longitudinals, causing them to fail. Yet the British, always great sports, had previously given the ship very severe tests so that if anything were to happen it would do so before they would turn the ship over to us.
Flight-Lieutenant Wann, injured for life, was the only one rescued alive from the forward section.
I determined not to leave Hull until I had recovered the bodies of my shipmates.
We had a lot of trouble with the treacherous tide. Each day large silent crowds gathered on the banks as we toiled away with barges and cranes. One girl who waited was the daughter of an English Lord. She had been engaged to Lieutenant J. E. Pritchard, attached to the ZR-2. Like Mrs. Draper at Pensacola, she would not believe her man had been killed.
We found General Maitland in the wreckage of the control car, his hand grasping the water ballast lever in an heroic effort to save his ship. He had died at his post. I thought of the undelivered letter of introduction to him I still had in my pocket. Little had I dreamed that our first meeting would be so tragic. Machinist Steele we found wedged in the girder at which he had been stationed. As his limp body came up I thought of the little twist of fate that prevented my being in his place and he in mine.
One by one we found them all. Meanwhile the British organized an impressive funeral service in Westminster Abbey. As we had but a handful left of our detachment English officers and men filled in the gaps by the gun carriages when the day came to take our shipmates to the station. I marched with the last unit by the side of my friends Coil, Bieg and Maxfield.
Hundreds of thousands of people turned out along the line of march of the funeral cortège to do respect to our dead. I lived many years during that march to the station.
More of our small detachment lay on the gun carriages than were left to walk beside their shipmates on their last parade.
The English did homage that day to the American flag that covered the biers. England won me then and there. I cannot describe what that crowd did to me. Not a sound was heard but the rumble of the cortège. Not one of the women had dry eyes. Not one of the men or boys had his head covered. The spirit of them got to me and I realized then and there that my dream of international good fellowship was not senseless or useless; that aviation in tragedy as well as in success held within it an unpalpable something that could bring peoples to a better understanding.
In Westminster Abbey the Chaplain-in-Chief of the Royal Air Force spoke impressively. In part he said:
The blow has fallen with awful suddenness on two kindred Forces of two great Nations. Nations united through a common descent, enjoying a common speech, animated by common aspirations, who yesterday—as it were—were fighting shoulder to shoulder against a common foe for ideals which have ever appealed to our race, and the younger nations sprung from it.
The Rigid Air Detachment of the United States Navy and the Royal Air Force have been associated in developing a once formidable engine of destruction into a pioneer of closer commercial relations, and, consequently, of a better understanding between the two nations they represent. A triumph, so we fondly thought, embodying the lessons and experience of the past, the Airship R-38 lies submerged in a river-bed, and beneath it many of its splendid crews. So tragic! Long months of training and then to be almost home! The goal well-nigh in sight! The trials all but completed! Only the eagerly- awaited voyage remaining! Then the sudden and awful collapse.
The price of progress, the toil of science, a bitter enough price in lives, and yet—thank God—never a lack of splendid men ready so to do and so to dare. ’Tis best so. To be in the forefront of the fight, to conquer what half a generation ago was an untried field, will ever appeal to our splendid manhood.
H. M. S. Dauntless of the British Northern Squadron brought home the Americans’ bodies.
It was all a very grievous thing. And yet there was this great bit of solace: I knew that a common grief, this loss we shared, had helped bring these two of the greatest nations on the globe a little closer together in peace and understanding. So, in still another sense, those old friends of mine who had sacrificed to this great new science had not died in vain.