Читать книгу With the French Flying Corps - Carroll Dana Winslow - Страница 5

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I have rarely been as much impressed as when I first saw the flying school at Pau. It is situated eight miles beyond the town on the hard meadow-lands granted in the sixteenth century to the villages of Osseau by Henri IV. The grant is still in effect, and the fields now in use are only rented by the government. They make a perfect aviation-ground. Four separate camps and a repair-station lie about a mile from one another and are named—Centre, Blériot, etc. At Centre I saw the low, gray hangars that house the aeroplanes, the tall wireless mast over which the communiqués from Paris are daily received, the office-building for the captain and monitors of the school, and the little café across the road where every one goes when off duty. Beyond were the Boche prisoners working on the road, building fences, or cutting wood, under direction of their non-commissioned officers and decrepit old territorials—grim reminders that this flying business is not all play. It was early morning—the mists were slowly lifting—when the "élèves pilotes" gathered for their daily work. Mechanics ran the machines out on the field in long lines, and the motors woke to motion with startling roars. One by one the pilots stepped in, and one by one the little biplanes moved swiftly across the field, rose, dipped slightly, rose again, and then mounted higher and higher into the gray sky. In the distance the snowy peaks of the Pyrenees formed an impressive background. At almost any time during training hours one can see from ten to twenty machines in the air. There are over three hundred men training. The repair-shops are like a large manufacturing plant. Five hundred mechanics are continually employed there. Among these are little Indo-Chinese, or "Anamites," as the French call them, who have come from distant Asia to help France in her struggle for liberty. As French citizens they are mobilized and wear the military uniform, but their tasks are usually of the monotonous, routine variety.

"Mechanics ran the machines out on the field in long lines."

The repair-shops are continually working under pressure, as accidents occur daily.

It is estimated that the average cost to France of training each pilot is five thousand dollars. Most of the accidents, however, are caused by carelessness, stupidity, or overconfidence. The day I joined the school two of the members lost their lives in a curious accident. They were flying at a great height, but thoughtlessly allowed their machines to approach too closely. Before they could change direction there was a crash, and both came tumbling to earth. When two aeroplanes come too near to each other the suction of their propellers pulls them together and they become uncontrollable. That is what happened to these two unfortunate "élèves." The officer in charge of the school explained at length just how this accident happened. We were cautioned against overlooking the fact that the speed of an aeroplane is always spoken of in reference to the body of the air in which the machine is moving. Thus an aeroplane travelling eighty miles an hour with a twenty-mile breeze is travelling at a speed of a hundred miles an hour in reference to the ground. The two machines at the time of the accident were flying east and west, but, while both were travelling at the same speed with reference to the ground, the plane moving in the direction of the wind was making about ninety miles an hour, while the other was covering barely fifty miles at the same time. The speed at which they were approaching one another was, however, approximately one hundred and forty miles an hour, or more than two miles a minute. What, under ordinary circumstances, would have been a safe distance became a danger zone, and before either pilot realized his mistake it was too late to steer clear.

The scene of the accident lay over a part of the field where Wright's Barn stands. This little red building was the workshop of the Wright brothers when they astonished the world by their first aerial flights. To-day that little red barn 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 aeroplane, is the least advanced in this all-important science.

Although I came to Pau with a little preliminary experience, and had the "feel" for engines and steering, I was obliged to begin, with the others, at the bottom of the primary class. It was nearly two months before I was allowed to make my first flight. The French idea is that before a pupil commences his apprenticeship as a pilot he must understand thoroughly the machine he is going to handle and know just what he is trying to do in the air. Together with twenty-five other men, who began their studies at about the same time, I was ordered to attend the theoretical courses. When not in the classroom we were stationed on the aviation-field where we could watch the more advanced "élèves" fly, thus familiarizing ourselves by observation with all the details of our profession. Class-room work and field-practice go hand in hand.

At first I did not realize how important these courses were, or how strict was the discipline under which we lived. One day, when my thoughts were a little more intent upon an expected week-end at Biarritz than upon what was being explained on the blackboard, the lecturer suddenly asked me a question. I could not answer and forthwith my forty-eight-hour leave was retracted. My Sunday was spoiled, but I considered myself lucky not to have received a "consigne," which involves sleeping in the guard-house every night for a week.

The first subject we took up was mechanics. We were made to mount and dismount motors, and were familiarized with every part of their construction. Carburetors and magnetos came next, and then we learned what made a motor "go." At the front a pilot always has two "mecaniciens" to take care of his machine, but if on account of a breakdown he should have to land in hostile territory he must be able to make the necessary repairs himself, and make them quickly, or else run the risk of being taken prisoner. When flying, the pilot can usually tell by the sound of his motor whether it is running perfectly or not. Many a life has been saved in this way—the pilot knowing in time what was out of order before being forced to land in a forest, on a mountain peak, or in some other equally impossible place.

When we had become "apt," we were promoted to a course in aeroplane construction. This is an extremely technical course, and at first we were asked to know only simple subjects, such as the incidence of the wings, the angle of attack of the cellule, the carrying force of the tail in reference to the size of the propeller. By the incidence of the wings is meant their upward slope. This is an extremely important matter, for the stability and climbing propensities of the machine depend entirely upon their model. The angle of attack of the cellule is the angle of the different wings in reference to each other. For instance, the incidence of one side must be greater than that of the other on account of the rotary movement of the propeller. There are also certain fixed ratios between the upper and lower planes. Still more important is the carrying power of the tailplane, for if it has too much incidence it lifts the rear end and makes the machine dive, while if it has too little the reverse happens. If any part of the aeroplane is not correctly regulated it becomes dangerous and difficult for the pilot to control. All this becomes more important as one reaches the close of the apprenticeship. One then appreciates this intimate knowledge acquired at the school. Often a pilot is compelled to land in a field many miles from his base. If something is wrong with his motor he must be able to find out immediately what the trouble is, for if a part is broken the camp must be called up on the telephone, so that a new piece may be sent to the spot by motor, with a mechanic to adjust it.

When a pilot starts on a cross-country trip he is always given blank requisitions, signed by his commanding officer. When he is forced to land he therefore is able to call upon authorities, whether military or civilian, for any service or assistance he may need, and this "scrap of paper" is sufficient in every case to obtain food, lodging, and even transportation to the nearest aviation headquarters for both the pilot and his machine.

The little café across the road

Map-reading and navigation were the next subjects we studied. First we were taught how to read a map, how to judge the height of hills and the size of towns, so that when flying we would know at a glance just where we were. This, we later appreciated, is a very important matter. When passing through clouds or mist an aviator may become momentarily lost, and the instant he again sees the ground he must locate on his map the country he views or else land and ask where he is. Aerial navigation may not be as complicated as that employed by mariners upon the high seas, but it is not easily mastered by any means. One must learn to calculate the direction a straight line takes between two points, and translate this direction into degrees on the compass. Secondly, and more important, is the estimation of the drift caused by the wind. If the wind is from the west and the pilot is attempting to go north, the machine will go "en crabe" (sideways like a crab). The machine will be pointing north by the compass, but in reality it will be moving northeast. After the pilot has laid out his course on the map, and is tearing through the air, he must immediately take into consideration his drift. By watching landmarks selected beforehand the drift is calculated very quickly. The course by the compass is altered, and, though the machine is speeding due north, the compass informs the pilot that he is pointing northwest, a fact very confusing for a beginner.