FOR twelve years I had been dreaming of a flight across the Atlantic Ocean. The NC boats had done the trick in stages. The R-34, the airship which had flown from England to New York and return was not an airplane. No one had as yet crystallized my dream into a single successful non-stop flight from New York to Europe.
When we hoisted anchor at Spitzbergen after the North Pole flight I turned to Bennett and said:
“Now we can fly the Atlantic.”
To which he replied: “I hope you take me with you.”
“We go together,” I retorted, not knowing that cruel circumstances would prevent my ever carrying out this promise.
I have decided to go into details for the first time about the trans-Atlantic flight of the America.
Thirty valuable lives were lost in trans-oceanic flights last summer. Aviation lost some of its best flyers. But it was not aviation’s fault that so many brave men were lost. They were pioneering. Enough sacrifice has been made. My purpose in facing facts is to show reasons why disaster is preventable and so prevent a recurrence of many similar deaths in the future of trans-oceanic flying.
I want to say with emphasis that commercial aviation should not suffer on account of these pioneer flights.
I am going to speak out in plain words which I so often wished I could use in the summer of 1927 :
“I have spent years planning and thinking about this trans-Atlantic flight problem,” was my constant feeling about the poor fellows who were going to their deaths. “I know some of you are going to kill yourselves for you haven’t prepared properly.”
Yet shouting this in the newspapers after our successful flight in the America would only have unsaid it. I would have been accused of poor sportsmanship and egotism. I tried every other way to stop them but they were fixed with some spirit that would not be quenched.
While crossing the Atlantic returning from Spitzbergen Bennett and I discussed types of planes at great length. We wanted to be scientific, to point the way for the trans-Atlantic plane of the future, to the practical way of crossing the Atlantic commercially. I knew from past conversations on the subject, that many good aeronautical men at home would favor our using a single-engined plane. We had a number of single-engined planes that could cross the Atlantic; and engines were already reliable enough for the flyer to put considerable trust in them. But we did not want our flight to be a matter of chance. We felt that if we could fly to Europe in a machine that would be a precursor of the practical trans-Atlantic plane of the future we would be contributing more to the progress of ocean flying.
I knew that it had long been the desire of Rodman Wanamaker to send an airplane to Paris. He felt deeply the value of such a flight to international goodwill. He was a lifelong friend of France and had for years lived in Paris. Hence the destination he chose for his project was the French capital. I had always felt the same way about the goodwill aspects of such a flight. The disaster to the ZR-2 showed what aviation, even in tragedy, could do for international good fellowship. I knew that in success it could do still more.
For years as I contemplated this project it had given me much pleasure to formulate in my mind messages of friendship to drop over England. My relations with Englishmen during the war had been extremely pleasant. Even before that I had cause to be grateful to England. While on a cruise once during sea duty I had been carried from one· of our battleships, on a stretcher in a most desperate condition, to the Royal Naval Hospital at Plymouth. I pulled out by the skin of my teeth and I owed my recovery to the extraordinary and friendly care the English gave me.
I had no difficulty in gaining Mr. Wanamaker’s approval and backing for our plan for a New York to Paris flight. It was his wish that we build an entirely new plane at his expense. But I foresaw the chance of hitting on a design that would not be practicable on first production. There are always many kinks to get out of an entirely new design. So I stuck to the type which had successfully carried Bennett and me over the Pole, only we planned a bigger plane.
As we had thought, there rose much criticism against taking a multi-engined plane. A machine with a single engine, it was pointed out, would have a longer cruising radius; would be cheaper to run; would have less resistance in the air; and its one engine would be a great deal less care before we started—nothing like so complicated as the great three-engined plane. This was all true, I had to admit. It seems extraordinary that a small one-engined plane has a bigger cruising radius than a big three-engined plane. Unfortunately, the airplane is not like a steamer, where the bigger the ship, the longer the ship can cruise.
We had just a single powerful demurrer to make to all these points; if anything went wrong with a single engine the expedition would end then and there, and the prestige of aviation, we felt, would be damaged in the public mind.
How many times we have been glad that we clung to this theory. For it was want of just the lack of this extra engining that I think had much to do with the long list of tragedies in the fatal ocean flights which followed ours.
Mr. Wanamaker, whom I have found to be a very patriotic man, decided to name the plane the America after a trans-Atlantic plane he had built in 1914.
It gives me much pleasure to mention the quality of the backing we got from Mr. Wanamaker. He denied us nothing we needed and the experimental nature of the expedition made it a very expensive proposition indeed. He assigned Mr. Grover Whalen of New York City as his representative and Whalen did everything that was humanly possible for the expedition.
From a scientific standpoint there were a lot of things we wanted to prove by the flight of the America that would help point the way for the regular trans-Atlantic flyer. It would take a whole book to cover that aspect of our flight. But I will discuss here some of our experiments that we hoped would bring us very near the trans-Atlantic plane of the future.
In the winter of 1926 the Atlantic Aircraft Corporation set about building the America. It was to be a big three-engined plane similar to our North Pole machine, except that it had an increase in the wing spread from 63 to 71 feet. With this extra surface we expected to be able to get off the ground with at least 3000 pounds more than we had taken on the North Pole flight.
This extra capacity would permit us to take fuel for our very long flight and 800 pounds of equipment over and above that which was absolutely necessary. We wanted to show that some pay load could be carried across the Atlantic. We took a special radio set, as well as a water-proof installation in case of a forced landing; two rubber boats for the crew; and emergency food and equipment of all sorts; Very’s pistols for night signalling, etc., etc. Also we wanted to take three or four people to demonstrate that passengers could even now be taken across the Atlantic.
We even went in for a kite with which our wireless antennæ would be kept in the air if we settled on the ocean; and which would act as a sail to pull the plane along at the same time. We put in an extra sextant and hand compasses for navigating. Our food was a scientifically worked out ration that would permit us to subsist for at least three weeks. We had a special apparatus that would make water so that we would not thirst to death.
I was sworn in by the Post Office Department as the first trans-Atlantic air mail pilot and we carried the first bag of U. S. air mail from the States to France.
In addition to the preparation mentioned above, we had built a big 1200-gallon gasoline tank. The building of that great gas tank designed to carry over 7000 pounds of gasoline was an interesting experiment. We put a dump valve in it. This was the first time such a device was used in aviation. Its purpose was to empty our fuel in a few seconds in case we saw we were going to crash. There is a vast difference between a forced landing on rough ground with a light load, and such a landing with a very heavy load. Also the empty tank would give flotation in case we landed in the ocean. Then it gave another great advantage; if an engine should stop we could dump gasoline down to the point where we could fly on two engines.
Bennett designed a switch that would cut out all three engines at once. This was also a fire prevention device and one that later saved our lives, as I shall presently show.
We had a catwalk built from our fusilage leading to the outboard engines. By means of this a man could get out and work on a dead engine while the plane continued to fly. This was a new departure in plane design, and one we hoped that was a step forward.
Our radio set was devised especially for our flight by Malcolm P. Hanson and L. A. Hyland, in the Naval Research Laboratory at Washington, with a view to the greatest possible sending range for its weight. We wanted to prove that we could locate ourselves at sea with radio.
One of the most interesting features of our radio was the automatic sending device, by which call letters were repeated constantly, at the rate of about ten complete calls a minute on a prearranged wave length.
Then we carried a small water-proof set to use in case we should come down in the ocean. Surely the plane of the future would need such a set.
The next important matter had been the meteorology. There was no suitable trans-Atlantic meteorological service and this had to be devised. Long ago Lieutenant-Commander Noel Davis and I had requested the Secretary of Agriculture to give us the cooperation of the United States Weather Bureau. This was granted. The bureau needed reports of conditions over the Atlantic, so we requested the Radio Corporation of America to procure radio reports from sea going ships, which they did magnanimously and patriotically.
The Weather Bureau assigned Dr. James H. Kimball, of its New York office, to make weather predictions for the trans-Atlantic flights and, for the first time in history, regular weather maps for aviation uses were made of the North Atlantic. This work, I think, undoubtedly is the beginning of a valuable meteorological service. I was further assisted by Mr. Roswell Barrett of New York, who received reports from Dr. Kimball and spent many nights with me studying weather conditions. Mr. Rossby, an expert of the Weather Bureau, also conferred with us.
We devoted some time to the study of a proper take-off field for a trans-Atlantic flight. The biggest field available around New York was the Roosevelt Field on Long Island. Mr. Grover Whalen leased it and we set about developing it for the heavy loads the long distance plane must carry.
Next to the plane, the take-off field was the most important consideration. It is the swinging of very heavy loads in the air that makes long distance flights difficult. A very long run and high speeds are necessary to get off the ground. The bigger and the more heavily loaded the plane, the longer the run.
René Fonck used a three-engined plane and one of the things that made for his fatal accident was the irregularity and shortness of the runway he had to use. We repaired this same runway and took out its worst bumps and soft spots. Day after day I personally went over every inch of the ground, striving for the same smoothness that we got on our Spitzbergen snow-way, and which finally had made the North Pole flight possible.
Even with a very smooth field and the biggest one within a radius of hundreds of miles, the field was not, we thought, big enough.
What could we do!
After many conferences we got the answer. Some one suggested building a little hill. Great! We had taken off going down hill with skis on the North Pole flight. Surely it would work with wheels. It did! We built the hill and got in effect at least 500 feet to the end of the runway by the fast initial start it gave us.
And this can solve the problem of cities that have small fields without chance of expansion.
With preparations as complete as this I felt that we would be hopping off equipped as nearly as possible for a practical commercial air travel between Europe and America. The next step would be to use pontoons instead of wheels. The reason we used land planes last summer instead of seaplanes was because, on account of the weight and resistance of the pontoon or boat, we could not quite make the necessary distance.
Things were going merrily along by the middle of March, when I ran into an altogether unexpected complication. Several other trans-Atlantic flights were being planned. Noel Davis, René Fonck, Charles Lindbergh, Clarence Chamberlin and nearly a dozen others announced their intentions of flying across the Atlantic Ocean from New York to Paris.
This was not exactly news. I knew they had been preparing. Each had his own ideas. We were working toward a workable commercial plane, while the others were no doubt interested also in that phase. Some of them were competing to be first to reach Paris to win the Orteig Prize of $25,000, which we were not. We didn’t even enter our names.
As a result there was competition between them, but hardly between them and us. Mr. Wanamaker was very clear on this point ; so were Bennett and the others attached to my camp.
Despite this, the first thing I knew I had been projected into what was euphemistically called by the press the “Great 1927 New York-to-Paris Air Derby.” I admit it would have been gratifying to be first across; but that was only a secondary consideration with us. So we repeatedly said we were in no race, though the public insisted that we were.
On the surface, such a canard would seem to have no bearing on my work. But this country of ours is so large and its press so powerful that sway of public opinion can easily make a terrific difference. I think it may be compared to the swelling of the sea which carries the seaweed far below its surface to and fro.
My desire was to keep quiet our plans, do the best we could and then make the flight if possible. This would avoid hurting aviation if we failed. Now I found that my inclination to be quiet was looked on as a conspiracy of silence directed against my so-called competitors in the race who were really my friends whom I was rooting for.
Then there was another very important factor; in trying to point towards the trans-Atlantic plane of the future, our work was necessarily experimental—pioneering. We knew all about lifting heavy loads with single-engined planes but very little indeed about load lifting with a great three-engined plane. We knew we were taking big risks though, of course, we expected no recognition of this fact from the public. It was possible that we might find that we couldn’t fly the distance necessary to go from New York to France. Should there be a great deal of publicity and then should we have to admit the plane couldn’t make the distance, aviation would be hurt. We didn’t want to hurt the game we were trying to help.
I was shadowed. Questions were put my family and friends about me to find out what I had “up my sleeve.” Exaggerations and rumors flew about thick and fast. Caustic criticism of other entrants was attributed to me. Presently I found that instead of being a technical explorer I was some sort of frenzied political candidate. At least that was the impression I got.
As I would not speak, exaggerated things were published right and left, and so I was finally forced to break my silence. In dismay, I asked Mr. Wanamaker to employ a “public relations” man to get the “straight dope.” I must add that I think representatives of the press, later on when I had a chance to explain things, sympathized with my position. But at that time their owners and editors had to get news. The public demanded it, due to its great interest in the forthcoming flight.
This passing phase of the venture is worthy of mention if only because it is one of the truly American phenomena that a man in public notice is forced to encounter and deal with as best he can.
On April 20, 1927, our plane was ready for the factory test. It was through no especial effort that we were many weeks ahead of all the others planning to fly the Atlantic. We wanted to make the flight in May when we would have the full moon. Our plan had no doubt gone smoothly because it was years old with me.
Having received word from the factory at Hasbrouck Heights, N. J. that the designer was ready to take his machine up for its first flight, I sent for Noville and Bennett to join me. Some of my friends tried to dissuade me from the flight. The plane was brand new and had not been in the air yet. But I did not want to accept the plane without personally observing its performance.
We got off all right. Fokker was at the controls; the other three of us were passengers.
So long as the engines were running everything went all right. But the moment they were cut off the plane felt nose heavy. Noville and I saw Bennett licking his lips. This is the only sign Bennett gives when he is nervous—which, I may say, is very rare. I nudged Noville and nodded toward Bennett.
Fokker brought the plane down for a landing. But when he slowed up to touch the ground again came unmistakable signs that the plane was nose heavy. He took her up again for another turn. and to think over what we had better do.
As we had very little fuel we couldn’t stay up long. And as there was no way to shift weights we could not help ourselves. We couldn’t get aft on account of our great 1300 gallon tank—another experiment—that filled the fuselage aft of us. Fokker brought her down within a few feet of the ground. I caught hold of a steel upright just back of Fokker’s seat—kept my gaze concentrated on the air speed meter. We were going a mile a minute. The wheels touched the ground. Instantly I saw Fokker rise and make frantic efforts to jump out. Bennett was trapped as Fokker occupied the only exit. There was no way Noville and I could even try to get out.
With all my strength I clung to the heavy steel upright. Abruptly the body of the fusilage rose under us. In a flash we knew she was going completely over. There came a terrific crash. It sounded as if every inch of the plane were being crushed to kindling. Something struck me a stunning blow on my head and in the small of my back. It was Noville thrown forward from the sudden stop. The impact snapped my arm like a match stick. Then dead silence.
“Look out for fire!” cried a strained voice. I learned afterward this was Bennett, caught in the wreckage. Noville and I, jumbled together with broken rods, frames, seats and other gear scrambled to our feet to find ourselves trapped. With my broken arm and bruised body I was of little use. Noville wildly broke a hole through the fabric wall with his bare fist. Both of us were thinking of Fonck’s similar crash in which his men inside the plane were trapped and burned to death before they could escape.
Noville dove through the hole and fell on the ground in great agony. He was injured internally. I followed.
There was no fire. Some one had at the last instant had the presence of mind to pull Bennett’s switch, cutting off all three engines.
I rushed to Bennett. He was hanging head downward, held by the wreckage of the pilot’s seat. It certainly looked as if he had “got his” at last. His leg was badly broken and his face streaming blood. He was drenched with oil.
It seemed tough to get it on a trial flight after all we had been through.
I leaned over him and told him who I was. He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t.
“Guess I’m done for, Commander,” he said weakly. “I’m all broken up. I can’t see and I have no feeling in my left arm.”
“Nonsense, old man,” I came back quickly, but was sure he was right.
Presently I noticed that his eyes were filled with oil. When I wiped the oil away he could see. It was a great relief.
However, for a week it looked as if Bennett might not pull out. But the fine attention he got from Dr. Sullivan and his own courage and grit saved the day. His leg took many weeks to knit. He was out of the ocean flight for good. That was heartbreaking for him and a very great disappointment to me.
Noville suffered a great deal and for a while was not expected to live. It was thought that he might have to be operated on. But it turned out that he had torn loose some of the muscles of his stomach. In several weeks he was up and back on the job again.
I set my broken arm on the way to the hospital. Two bones were fractured and there were many bruises. But beyond being something of a nuisance for a few weeks the injuries did not interfere with our plans.
We minimized the seriousness of our crash as much as possible, fearing that on account of the great amount of publicity our project had had, it would seriously hurt aviation. I felt like making a plea to the people of the country then not to let such pioneering accidents hurt the advancement of commercial aviation. Such an accident had nothing to do with regular commercial flights. The country was not yet sufficiently air-minded to distinguish the great difference.
We felt it our duty to go ahead with our flight—for the science of trans-oceanic flying.
The damage to our plane was serious. It took a month of day and night toil to get her back into shape again.
In the meantime others planning for long flights were able to go forward with their preparations and were ready to leave. While we were still working on the America installing instruments and mechanical appliances and making our tests at Roosevelt Field, before we could possibly have been ready on account of our crash, other trans-Atlantic planes were being tuned up and reports of the imminence of their hop-offs, and ours too, were in every edition of the daily papers.
That was tough, for the whole country looked upon us as feverishly active contenders in the great race. That crash—fate had indeed engineered me into a tight place. My stock was down to zero.
What was wrong with Byrd? What would the crossing of the Atlantic be with his great plane as compared to the other smaller ones in the race. Why was he delaying the hop-off?
I got thousands of letters, many of them reproving me unmercifully. Some of those fellows must have been betting on me in the race. I was called all sorts of ugly names. “Coward” one typical letter read. “I am sick of seeing your name. You are a disgrace to America. You have never had any idea of flying across the Atlantic.”
Many were worse than that.
Our problem was somewhat at variance with that of others attempting to cross the ocean by air. I felt it important to go through a full series of scientific tests of plane and equipment, fuel and engine, in order that we should know exactly what our machine would do. To hasten this laboratory work for the sake of notoriety was to undermine the scientific character of our expedition. The others were using one-engined planes about which there was ample data available and they already knew about what their planes would lift. Bellanca’s single-engined monoplane had already flown fifty hours.
No one knew just what a three-engined plane the size of ours could lift, or what its cruising radius would be. We had to find out.
Lindbergh and Chamberlin were on hand and ready to go. With much pleasure Mr. Whalen and I offered them our field. When Lindbergh hopped off early in the morning, we went down to the field to tell him goodbye and to wish him luck. It was a great moment when we saw his wheels just clear the telephone wire at the end of the runway.
Mr. Wanamaker had set May 21st as the date for the christening of the America. Many people had been invited to it. It was too late to call the cere money off. Just as it began we received news of Lindbergh’s arrival. Over 2,000 guests were gathered around the America to hear us tell about the scientific aspects of our flight, and the goodwill we hoped would result from it. The French and American flags were hung side by side.
It was just a moment before I was to get up to speak that I got the news of Lindbergh’s arrival. I could of course think of nothing else but his magnificent feat. I realized what it meant to aviation and to international good-fellowship. I had seen enough of Lindbergh to know that he would make an ideal representative of our country. I knew also that his flight would create far more enthusiasm for aviation than ours could possibly do.
We promptly turned our christening into a celebration of Lindbergh’s safety and success. The stage was well set with the French and American flags hanging side by side.
I found out later that the news of his arrival was premature and that while I was describing to the crowd his great take off Lindbergh reached Paris.
The next day in addition to letters, I got telegrams from all over the country criticizing me for not getting away first. I’m afraid a lot of fellows lost bets on us. They were very peeved. One man from North Carolina wired me as follows:
“I just want you to know what you may not realize that you are the world’s prize boob to get left at the switch as you did.”
It did not seem exactly the right thing to do to fly immediately to Paris while Lindbergh was still there. To delay a little did not hurt our flight; while to have gone might well have done harm to the fine work he was doing in cementing French and American friendship. We didn’t know. We simply didn’t want to take a chance of lessening in any way the wonder of that which was going on in France.
So I took things a little easily until after he had come back to America. But again I was not allowed to pursue my course without criticism. Hundreds of letters poured in reproaching me for not having more backbone. Such is the capricious human nature.
However, having been projected into the “Trans-Atlantic Derby” this was all part of the game.
It was at this point that I had to thank the press for much heart-warming support. The great majority of the newspapermen assigned to cover my flight understood my plight; had seen the misfortune of our delay that had been caused by our crash.
They realized too, I think, that we were not racing—that we were making a very serious effort to point the way for the trans-Atlantic plane of the future. A few of those fellows knew that we were suffering from having kept from the people as much as possible the drama and seriousness of our crash so as to hurt commercial aviation as little as possible, so the people of the country did not understand that even if we wanted to race we were disabled and could not do so.
Fortunate had been those who had been able to make their preparations quietly.
But when I carefully explained to them day after day the difficulties of obtaining the then unknown facts about our very complicated piece of mechanism, the three-engined plane, they showed themselves to be among the best sports I have ever come in contact with. I owe them a debt of gratitude I can never repay.
This is an important point, because it is to the supporting press of America that advance in aeronautical interest in this country is largely due. American newspaper editors and publishers were among the first to see and believe in the future of American aviation.
Few people realize how difficult it is, with a plane like the America to obtain revolutions of the engines for the various loads carried that will give maximum mileage per gallon of gasoline used, because these revolutions vary for every different weight carried. Of course, as the plane consumes gasoline, there will be an infinite number of ever-lightening loads. To calculate this we had to run over a course of known length, noting the speed over the ground and the fuel consumption for each number of revolutions. This had to be done for very many of the different loadings of the plane.
The calculations proved fairly accurate, but they were difficult to make because of rough air and winds blowing across the course, which affected our speed over the ground. We decided, after many tests, that we probably could fly to Rome. In the meantime Chamberlin and Levine made their epochal flight to Germany, breaking the world’s record for distance. Again I took my hat off. They flew through two nights, and Chamberlin’s wonderful success in locating their position after having been driven south by a storm was an astonishing feat.
After my return to Roosevelt Field from Lindbergh’s reception in Washington and New York, we determined to make the flight at the first okay of the weather man.
Many times we sat up nearly all night hoping that the weather would be suitable for taking off next morning. at daybreak.
At 1.00 A.M., June 29, 1927, Dr. Kimball phoned that, though conditions were not ideal, the weather was about as good as we could expect. I had determined not to wait, because I felt that the trans-Atlantic plane of the future could not wait for ideal conditions. Moreover, we probably could gain more scientific and practical knowledge if we met some adverse weather.
I now think that the America could conquer almost any storms that might be met in crossing the Atlantic. The only ocean weather conditions that need be serious for the planes of the future is a hurricane, which might exhaust the fuel supply.
Having decided to start, I telephoned my loyal crew to prepare the plane for the flight. I did not worry about the response I should get. For throughout this trying time three of my North Pole shipmates had stood like a stone wall: Tom Mulroy, Doc Kinkaid and Demas. Kinkaid had tended the engines for Lindbergh and Chamberlin as well as ours; and as a plane is largely its engine surely Kin-kaid should go down in history. In the same category are Titterington and Goldsborough, representatives of the Pioneer Instrument Company who slaved day and night on the instruments and compasses of the Spirit of St. Louis, the Columbia and the America.
I had only about one hour’s sleep that night, and I knew I had nearly two more nights to go through before I would be able to sleep. “When I reached the field at 3.00 A.M. (standard time), June 29th, the plane was at the top of our little hill and, by the aid of powerful lights, the crew was applying the finishing touches. It was dark, dismal, and raining slightly, but even then a large crowd had gathered.
We felt that probably the most critical’ period of the whole flight was at hand, that of getting into the air with our load of over 15,000 pounds.
In order to get into the air with this terrific load we would have to get up to a speed of nearly a mile and a half a minute. If we should not quite make this speed we would crash as our great momentum would carry us over the end of the runway. All of the equipment we were carrying, four men, radio, the resistance of the radio generator propeller, pay load of 800 pounds, etc., would not only add to the take-off weight of our plane but would cut down our cruising radius as we would have to leave out a certain amount of gasoline.
And this too, in addition to the fact that originally our cruising radius was not as great as a single engine plane. So we had handicaps here which the public thought were an advantage.
Now let us review our preparations in so far as our plans to overcome whatever might be ahead of us.
First, was the take-off with a very heavy load—an extremely hazardous undertaking with a field not more than a mile in length. The very smooth hard field would help and our hill would add to the length of the field, and, if that failed, our dump valve would lighten the load.
Having gotten into the air successfully, our next immediate great hazard would be from an engine stoppage and a consequent forced landing while swinging seven and one half tons in the air. A forced landing with such a load would smash the plane to pieces. Besides our dump valve to take care of this, we had arranged a cat-walk out to the engines so that if one should start to go bad there would be a real chance of repairing it in the air.
Another grave risk would be from ice forming on the wing. We anticipated this by placing thermometers about the plane so that we could keep a sharp lookout for the critical temperature. We were careful about our flashlights. We prepared to fly high so that should we get into the critical temperature and should we fail to climb out of it, we could dash down to a very low altitude and so change our temperature to a warmer one.
In case of an oil leak we carried extra oil and supplied a means of getting oil into the engines.
If our lights should fail we would be in grave danger of eventually going into a tail spin without instruments. So we provided luminous substances to show them up in the dark.
There might readily be a leak in our great 1200 gallon gasoline tank, as, of course, it had to be made of very light material. To meet this we carried a putty like substance with which we could quickly repair such a leak.
We would undoubtedly be drifted off our course by the wind. We would use a wind drift indicator which could be operated through a trap door in the bottom of the plane. We carried bombs which would ignite upon reaching the water so that we could get wind drift even during the night. These same bombs would give us smoke in the daytime.
In case of good weather we carried a special airplane sextant that would enable us to get a line of position from an altitude of the sun. This instrument contained a special bubble in it that would enable observations of the sun to be taken at any altitude. Then the mathematics of the operation, which generally takes an hour or so, we had learned by short methods to make in a few minutes.
If, however, the plane should get in fog in the storm and clouds where it would be impossible to use the drift indicator or the sextant, there was our radio with which we could locate our position by getting lines of direction from ships or shore stations.
In case of strong adverse winds combined with engine stoppage, which would cut down our radius so that we would be in danger of not reaching our destination before running out of gasoline, we were equipped with instruments with which we could cut loose an engine and drop it into the ocean and so reduce down our resistance to the air. If a propeller should burst and cut a hole in the gasoline tank so that a forced landing into the ocean would be unavoidable, we would then dump all the gasoline before landing, then shut the valve of the great tank and stuff up the hole so that it would give as much flotation as possible.
We had two rubber boats, one large enough to more than accommodate four passengers and all of our emergency equipment—the other to use as a life boat in the larger boat. We carried along materials to repair these boats.
Our water-proof radio and a kite for the radio antennæ would get us in radio communication with passing steamers. The kite also would serve as a sail to pull us toward the steamer lane. Our three weeks food and water making apparatus, as well as water-proof tarpaulins to keep dry, would keep us in good physical condition. We also carried Very pistol lights to attract attention of passing steamers at night.
Another grave danger was from coming down in the night in a tail spin in the dark clouds. We were O.K. there as we all had experience in night flying. It is very easy to fly at night when not in the clouds but night flying in clouds requires practice.
There is always a chance of a compass going bad. We provided three compasses to meet this danger.
The trans-Atlantic meteorological service that had been worked up would inform us as nearly as was possible at that time, what weather we would be going to have.
We carried a medical kit that it took months to prepare.
We hoped that our attention to the details mentioned above would indicate something useful for the trans-Atlantic plane of the future.
In all of the years of thought we gave to preparations for the trans-Atlantic flight, the worst thing we could think of that ever could happen—and the only thing we felt that could prevent success after our thorough preparations, was to have the hard luck to reach our destination in the middle of the night during a storm with very thick weather making a low visibility.