Читать книгу The Way of the Air: A Description of Modern Aviation - Edgar Charles Middleton - Страница 6

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Once in the Service, the R.N.A.S. man may be selected for one of three branches of flying, namely, seaplane, aeroplane—which, incidentally, is far preferable to any other branch, and holds forth more opportunities of active service—and kite balloon, probably the safest and most comfortable job of the war, but dull—deadly dull.

For the sake of those of my readers who do not know of the captive kite-balloon, I will here briefly explain. It is a queer sausage-shaped craft, that is tethered to a steam-winch on the ground somewhere beneath it by means of a stout steel cable. Usually situated some five or six miles behind the firing-line, the basket of the balloon will only hold two observers at one time. It is connected to the big guns by telephone, and is useful for the direction of artillery fire, which it does by telling the men at the guns whether their shells are falling over, under, or to the left or right of the target that they are aiming at.

The first day in the life of the “new hand” at the Service school is not always the pleasantest of memories. He discovers that, from a man of parts, he has suddenly been converted into a very junior sub, and is at the beck and call of every member of the mess, with as much or more gold braid on the sleeve of their uniform.

For the first few days he is allowed to wander round at his own sweet will, in order to get the hang of things. To him the matter of greatest importance are the machines, for very often he has never even seen an aeroplane at close quarters, and should he be foolish enough to ask absurd questions, he will always find some one ready with a fitting answer.

He will be told wondrous stories of the time the machines will remain in the air, the breakneck speed at which they will travel, and of the enormous height to which they will climb.

The next most important thing to the actual flying is a thorough knowledge of wireless telegraphy, for without a wireless instrument on board an aeroplane is little better than useless to the army in the field; and, having got the wireless set on board, the pilot or the observer—whosesoever duty it is—must be able to send messages, clearly and distinctly, on the Morse key.

A good tip to the youngster thinking of taking up flying for a profession is to buy a copy of the Morse code, and learn it off by heart. Then to get a “buzzer” or a Morse key (both of which can be obtained for the sum of 5s. 6d.), and to teach himself to read by sound.

In Service circles the dot and the dash of the Morse code are known as “iddy” and “umpty,” respectively. It is a simple matter to learn to send and to receive wireless signals; but to know how to erect and dismantle a wireless set, and to have a sound knowledge of the theory and the working of the thing, and to be able to take to pieces or to repair at a moment’s notice, any portion of the instrument that may get out of order, is a more difficult matter.

That requires several months to acquire, but the “Quirk” will be given a useful, though somewhat “short,” course under an expert wireless operator before he is expected to know these things.

At last the great day arrives when he goes for his first trip up aloft. After donning a leather coat, and trousers to match, a skull cap and goggles, he is ready for the fray, and sits himself gingerly beside what at the first seems to him to be a particularly violent and a particularly ill-disposed individual with a simple wonderful flow of language, an instructor in a “box-kite.” Then the engine is set going.

The instructor bawls some remark into his ear, which, for the life of him, he cannot catch. A long and rapid journey across the bumpy ground, a weird sensation of rising into space and he is up in the air at last. Then the machine gets into the “bumps”; she dips, and drops, and sways, first to one side and then to the other, until the poor unfortunate individual begins to wonder if he will ever get safely to the ground again.

There is a pandemonium of noise. The wind rushes by his face at an alarming rate. He feels himself perspiring all over, and particularly in the palms of his hands. He grips the nearest available object, as a drowning man would clutch at a straw. With every fresh plunge and dip he increases that grip.

The instructor shouts at him at the top of his voice, but he hears nothing; only the racing engine and the whistle of the wind. And then for the first time he ventures to look over the side. Could that curiously-scattered collection of pigmy buildings, long, ribbon-like roads, and distant, narrow, gleaming line of railway line be the earth?

He decides that it is, and is at last beginning to feel comfortable, when the machine begins to heel over violently; it is the worst shock that he has yet had. He grips with both hands as tight as he is able, shuts his eyes, and waits for the worst. By the time his eyes are open again the machine—by what seems to him to have been a miracle—has righted itself and is flying smoothly through the air. Never before has the world appeared so beautiful nor so diminutive in size.

For another five minutes or so the instructor flies to and fro above the aerodrome, then down goes the machine, much to the astonishment and alarm of the bewildered “quirk,” who suddenly finds the earth rushing up to meet him. How he fears that moment when a landing must be made, and how relieved he feels when he realizes there is nothing in it in the least degree terrifying.

Very gently the aeroplane skims on to the landing-ground, like a seagull lighting in the crest of a wave, and all is over; he is safe back again on Mother Earth. Silent and subdued, he clambers out of the aeroplane. How did he enjoy it? “Very much indeed,” he answers in a husky whisper, and the instructor turns his head away and smiles. He has taken “quirks” up before.