In 1966, Sheila Scott, a British actress who had learned to fly a few years earlier, decided to pursue her passion in aviation by setting a series of records.  To that end, she purchased a brand new Piper Comanche PA-24-260B, a single-engine American airplane that she had registered in the UK as G-ATOY.  She named it “Myth Too”.  The plane, a type that is in the same class as a common single-engine Cessna 172 or Piper Warrior, types often used in flight training for new pilots, featured a more powerful, fuel-injected Lycoming IO-540 engine with 260 hp.  In short, it was more suited to weekend flying than any type of speed trials, endurance or range records — or so went the common wisdom.

Sheila Scott, however, saw things differently.  For her first challenge, she set her sights on a round-the-world, record-setting flight.  Today in aviation history, at 4:55 pm on May 18, 1966, Sheila Scott took off from London’s Heathrow Airport and headed east into good weather.  Incredibly, her goal was one that had somehow never before been attempted — not only to circumvent the globe, but to do it solo, alone in the cockpit, making it the longest solo flight in history.  She also flew almost exclusively barefoot, a personal quirk that allowed her to better feel the vibrations of the plane through her feet.

Photo of Sheila Scott at a press conference.

The Flight

Her departure from London, however, was delayed several times due to avionics problems, principally with her radio.  Finally, when all was repaired, she flew first to Rome where additional radio problems further delayed her onward progress.  Her autopilot too burned out, leading her to consider that something might be basically flawed with the aircraft’s electrical system.  She arrived in Karachi, Pakistan, on May 22, still suffering badly from recurring electrical problems.

Her flights, in her own words, “The major aims of this British attempt are to be the first Briton round solo in a light aircraft; to make the longest solo flight in history, touching the Commonwealth wherever possible; to be the first non-American woman round solo (third woman round); and to break certain records which necessitate the weight restrictions.”  For much of the rest of the flight, she suffered from electrical problems, though she made the journey successfully, even the long legs over the South Pacific where she island-hopped, even stopping at Canton Island in a flight that recalled Amelia Earhart.

As it was, she was rounded criticized by the British press and other aviators for not flying a British-made plane, but rather an American plane built by Piper.  She explained quite simply she would have rather flown a British plane, indeed the Beagle 242 would have been fine, but to have done that she would have had to fly the prototype!  No other British aircraft were available that could successfully complete her flight within the weight class she had selected.  She also pointed out that she enjoyed extraordinary support from virtually all sides within the British aviation industry, down to and including the provision of a personal mirror in her plane so she could check her make-up prior to landing.

In the cockpit of her single engine Piper 260B Comanche — ever the movie star and actress, she sports a pair of Hollywood style sunglasses.

The Full Route of her Flight

For those considering tracing the route she took on the map — or flying it themselves! — the following are the way points that defined her trip:

• London, England
• Rome, Italy
• Athens, Greece
• Damascus, Syria
• Manama, Bharain
• Karachi, Pakistan
• Jaipur, India
• Delhi, India
• Calcutta, India
• Rangoon, Burma
• Butterworth, Malaysia
• Singapore
• Bali, Indonesia
• Sumbawa, Indonesia
• Darwin, Australia
• Mount Isa, Australia
• Brisbane, Australia
• Sydney, Australia
• Auckland, New Zealand
• Norfolk Island
• Nandi, Fiji
• Pago Pago, Samoa
• Canton Island
• Honolulu, HI
• San Francisco, CA
• Phoenix, AZ
• El Paso, TX
• Oklahoma City, OK
• Louisville, KY
• New York, NY
• Gander, Newfoundland
• Lagens, Azores
• Lisbon, Portugal
• London, England

Sheila Scott and her Piper Comanche, its wings and surfaces covered in penned good luck wishes.

Her Place in Aviation History

At each stop along the way on her first round the world flight (she later flew another two circumnavigations), she asked bystanders and others aviators to sign their names on her plane.  Many wrote messages conveying their best wishes for a successful flight, others just wrote “Good luck!”, and so forth.  One person, in a variation on the American term for good luck, “break a leg” and the German similar phrase, “break your bones”, attempted instead the words, “I hope you crash.”  She didn’t and by the end of the flight, the plane was covered in signatures.  It was a fine testimony to her daring and extraordinary achievement and, for her, it cemented her position as as a pilot in the public sphere, the center of attention and a heroic figure who strode among the giants of aviation’s storied past.

Her Comanche 260B “Myth Too” at Heathrow a couple of years after her record flight. Even then, it still carried the signatures and best wishes of hundreds.

The flight had been expected to take six weeks to complete and, at the end, she could rightfully walk tall.  She finished early, arriving on June 20, just four and a half weeks after having departed.  Ultimately, she was made a Dame of the British Empire in recognition of her extraordinary achievements.  She had become one of the members of the last generation of the great aviators in the style of the 1910s and 1920s, whose exploits made her a more modern Amelia Earhart, “Pancho” Barnes, Amy Johnson, Vivian Hewitt, Harriet Quimby and Jean Batten — nonetheless, many have never heard her name as her achievements were overshadowed by the advances of flight which had, in the late 1960s and early 1970s, taken man to the Moon.  The era of aviation’s popular appeal had been overshadowed by the rocket, astronauts and cosmonauts.

She did have her quirks — the barefoot flying was but one.  When she flew, she sometimes took along a doll named “Bucktooth” as a passenger (she would sometimes speak to it during flights).  She also used to hang a champagne cork from her overhead compass bracket, which would swing around — actually, this served as a helpful visual indicator to her yaw balance!

Sheila Scott enters the cockpit of her twin-engined, Piper Aztec “Mythre” during her 1971 flight that flew over the North Pole. Source: NASA

Aftermath

Over the following thirteen years after her first flight around the world, Sheila Scott and her Piper Comanche, “Myth Too”, lived up to her new popular status as a leading aviatrix.  With her plane and later, twin-engined Piper Aztec that she named “Mythre”, she set 104 aviation records, many in her aircraft’s light class.  Among other incredible journeys, she competed solo in a 14,000 mile air race between England and Australia.  In 1971, she flew over the North Pole, becoming the first woman to achieve that feat.

Ultimately, she suffered a plane crash and her precious Comanche was written off as an insurance loss — she came through it alright.  In 1988, after a long and costly battle with lung cancer, she passed away at London’s Royal Marsden Hospital.  She was just 66 years old, having been a cigarette smoker (as were many in her day) who typically smoked heavily, usually with a long, graceful cigarette holder in her hand.  Today, her plane can be found reconstructed and on display at the National Museum of Flight in East Lothian, Scotland.

Looking back, it is worth noting that Sheila Scott, an actress who made no claim to any significant technical abilities, had become one of Britain’s greatest aviation record holders.  She had come from an unlikely beginning — requiring nine months to solo! — and yet had risen to stardom within England for her incredible deeds.  Her view of her own life can be best summed up by her one-time statement:  “Each flight is a triumph, not only over machinery, weather and terrain but over oneself.”

The Memphis Belle, a B-17 with the 324th Bomb Squadron of the 91st Bomb Group, flew its 25 mission at this time in history — the crew, under the command of Capt. Bob Morgan, had completed a total of 29 missions in all, four on other aircraft.  With that, their tour was completed and, just a few weeks later, they would depart for a War Bonds tour across the United States.  For the USAAF, the mission was a landmark event — prior to that, with but one exception, no other bomb crew had made it through all 25 missions to complete their full tour.  While others had gotten close, they had all failed to complete the 25th mission, most being shot down.

The odds in 1943 were that the USAAF lost roughly 5 percent of its planes on each mission.  Thus, for the bomb crews, surviving a tour of 25 missions was a tall order.  Yet there were no shortage of volunteers.

May 17, 1943

Exactly 70 years ago today, the 91st Bomb Group was tasked with a mission to bomb the U-Boat pens at Lorient, France.  As missions went, the flight that day was a “milk run”, with no losses.  The following is the official record of the mission, recording the planes flown, the claims of enemy fighters shot down or damaged and the casualties suffered.

(40)   Keroman    17 May 1943

A/C PILOT        CLAIMS CASUALTIES BATTLE DAMAGE REMARKS   
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
485 Capt. Morgan 1-0-0   None      None          Bombs on target.
480 Lt. DeBaum   None    None      None          Mostly in target area.
053 Lt. Smith    None    None      None          Hits on aiming point.
515 Capt Gaitley 1-0-0   None      None          Perfect weather.
031 Lt. Jackson  1-0-1   None      Minor         Explosions in target area.
857 Lt Freschauf None    None      None          Hits on sub. Pens.
970 Lt. Cox      None    None      None          Bombed with 306th Group.

Target: - Platform for pulling U-Boats out of water.
Squadron Losses: - None
Group Losses: - None

Remarks:

Practically all bombs of this Group fell in target area, beginning short of target and stringing through M.P.I.  Smoke and large fires visible long after leaving French coast.

The flight crew of the B-17 “Memphis Belle” under the command of Major Robert Morgan

May 19, 1943

The following is the final mission of the Memphis Belle, flown not by Capt. Morgan, but by another aircraft commander, Lt. Anderson.

(41)   Kiel   19 May 1943   

A/C PILOT          CLAIMS CASUALTIES BATTLE DAMAGE REMARKS
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
480 Lt. DeBaum               Abortive- #3 engine fuel pump out.
857 Lt. Miller     1-0-0   None      None          None
970 Capt. Gaitley  None    None      None          Smoke screen at target.  
487 Lt. Freschauf  None    None      Slight        JU 88 out of range firing cannon  
031 Lt. Jackson    None    None      None          Air to air bombing.
053 Lt. Smith      None    None      Slight        Bombs on target.    
485 Lt. Anderson   None    None      None          None    

Target: - Turban engine workshop and engineering workshop.  

Squadron Losses: - None  

Group Losses: - One (10 missing)  

Remarks:

Results questionable, Much smoke in target area. Lt. Baxley, 32 2nd, lost.

The B-17 Flying Fortress “The Memphis Belle” is shown on her way back to the United States June 9, 1943, after successfully completing 25 missions from an airbase in England. Source: USAF

A Salute and Final Thoughts

The flight crews who flown bomb missions during the critical turning point year of 1943 suffered greatly.  Many were shot down, often badly injured or killed.  Thousands became POWs.  Escort fighters didn’t have the range to attend long range and the Luftwaffe’s defenses were strong and well-skilled, yet to suffer the extraordinary losses of late 1943 and 1944.  The men of the Memphis Belle were real heroes, but they were also lucky, twice over.  First, they survived with only one man getting injured in their entire tour.  And second, they got to enjoy a War Bond tour of the USA afterward where they were celebrated as the true heroes they really were.

Close-up of the nose section of the Boeing B-17F-25-BO “Hell’s Angels” after squadron signatures were added, prior to its departure on the War Bond tour in early 1944. Photo Credit: USAF

Of course, they really weren’t the first crew to survive 25 missions in their plane — that honor actually went to another flight crew and airplane, the B-17 Flying Fortress “Hell’s Angels” of the 303rd Bomb Group.  Why didn’t they receive the laurels given to the Memphis Belle?  It is hard to say, but one thing is worth pointing out — at the end of their tour, the crew of the Hell’s Angels signed on for a second tour and continued to fly, finishing nearly twice the missions before they returned to the USA.  They did get their War Bond tour, but not for being the first plane and crew to make it through 25 missions, but rather for having survived two tours.

Those were heroes of the first order, no doubt.

One hundred and one years ago today in aviation history, on Monday, May 13, 1912, there was a terrible accident at Brooklands.  Two men, the pilot, Edward Victor Beauchamp “E. V. B.” Fisher, and his passenger, Victor Mason, an American, were killed.  The plane, a Flanders F.3, burst into flames immediately after impact.  Just what had happened was unclear, despite that the crash was witnessed by over 200 people.  Faced with a mystery, the Royal Aero Club took the opportunity to undertake a formal investigation.  In fact, it was the first aviation accident investigation in history.

Despite the crude nature of the aircraft and low technologies involved, the professional of the British set a first and rather high standard (in early aviation terms) — one that would quickly become the world standard for all aviation.  Therefore, in honor of the efforts done all those years ago to establish a methodology that would enable manufacturers, maintenance personnel, support personnel and aviators to learn from mistakes made and the unexpected, we hereby republish what amounts to Accident Report No. 1.

Though outtakes have been republished before, we present the full findings — all 13 points, a rather unlucky number….

The Flanders F.3 monoplane of E. V. B. Fisher, as seen at Brooklands from the roof of its hangar. In conversation are Mr. E. V. B. Fisher (right), the pilot in the muffler, and Mr. Dukinfield-Jones. Source: Flight

The Report — from Flight, June 8, 1912

BROOKLANDS ACCIDENT.

Report on the fatal accident to Mr. E. V. B. Fisher and his passenger, Mr. Victor Mason, when flying at Brooklands on Monday, May 13th, 1912, at about 6 p.m.

Brief Description of the Accident. — Mr. E. V. B. Fisher flying with a passenger on a Flanders monoplane fitted with a 60-h.p. Green engine had made two or three circuits of the Brooklands flying ground.  He was making a left-hand turn when the aircraft fell to the ground, killing both the aviator and passenger.  Almost immediately after contact with the ground, the aircraft was in flames.

Report. — The Special Committee sat on the following dates: — Tuesday, May 21st, Wednesday, May 22nd, and Tuesday, May 28th, 1912, and heard the evidence of two eye witnesses, both of whom were aviators holding certificates.  The Committee also heard the evidence of the designer and manufacturer of the aircraft, and of the representative of the maker of the motor.  The written reports of other witnesses, and the report of Dr. Eric Gardner, were also considered.

From the consideration of this evidence the Committee is of opinion that the following facts are clearly established: –

(1) That the accident originated while the aircraft was making a left-hand turn at about 100 feet from the ground.  (Evidence as to height, in the opinion of the Committee, is not conclusive.)

(2) That the aircraft had turned through an angle of about 90° in the horizontal plane.

(3) That it then side-slipped inwards.

(4) That it struck the ground head first, with the tail practically vertical.

(5 ) That from the effect produced on the engine and other part *  the velocity at the moment of striking the ground was very considerable.

(6 ) That the fire which took place originated subsequently to the fall, and was the result not the cause of the accident.

(7) That there is no reason to suppose that the structural failure of any part of the aircraft was the cause of the accident.

(8) That from the commencement of the flight the aircraft was flying tail down.

(9) That the engine was actually running when the aircraft struck the ground.

(10) That Mr. Fisher was not in any way incapacitated so far as the normal control of the aircraft was concerned by an injury to his  left shoulder, which he had sustained on April 18th, 1912.

(11) That the passenger did not cause the accident.

(12) That Mr. Fisher was thrown, fell, or jumped out of the aircraft when the latter was a considerable height from the ground, his body being found about 60 ft. in front of the spot where the aircraft struck.  The passenger remained in the aircraft:  his position was such that he could not readily have been thrown out.

(13) Mr. Fisher was granted his Aviator’s Certificate No. 77, on May 2nd, 1911, by the Royal Aero Club.

E. V. B. Fisher in the cockpit of a Flanders F.3, this one fitted with a Marconi wireless. Fisher is in the rear seat.

Opinion. — The Committee is of opinion that the cause of the accident was the aviator himself, who failed sufficiently to appreciate the dangerous conditions under which he was making the turn, when the aircraft was flying tail down, and in addition was not flying in a proper manner.

A side slip occurred, and Mr. Fisher lost control of the aircraft.

It seems probable that his losing control was caused by his being thrown forward on to the elevating gear, thereby moving this forward involuntarily, which would have had the effect of still further turning the aircraft down.  This would explain his being thrown out whilst in the air.

In the opinion of the Committee it is possible that if the aviator had been suitably strapped into his seat he might have retained control of the aircraft.

It was unanimously resolved that this Report be forwarded to the Committee with a recommendation that it be published in extenso.

The Flanders F.3 monoplane makes a low pass over Brooklands, probably Mr. E. V. B. Fisher at the controls. Source: Flight

Comments

In the annals of early aviation, accidents and incidents were all too common.  Many early aviators lost their lives, sometimes when attempting to set new records for distance or altitude, sometimes when attempting the crossing of lakes, seas and the English Channel, or sometimes just to bad luck when an engine malfunctioned or something failed.  Bad fuel, improper oil weights and more conspired against safe flight.

When E. V. B. Fisher and Victor Mason died, their accident was something of a mystery.  They had been flying on a good day, at a reasonable altitude, just around the airfield.  Suddenly, the plane simply fell out of control and crashed vertically into the ground.  The Royal Aero Club’s investigation was therefore a welcome effort — many wondered what had happened.  Fisher was just 24 years old and was buried at Weybridge Cemetery in Surrey, England.

On May 18, 1912, on the first page of its newsletter, the RAeC published the following, which signaled their interest in undertaking investigations:

Readers of FLIGHT will have gathered from the official notices appearing in its columns of that the Royal Aero Club is keenly appreciative of the need that exists for the thorough and systematic investigation of all flying accidents which are of at all a serious nature.  To that end has been established a Public Safety and Accidents Investigation Committee — the title is rather a cumbrous one, perhaps, but it is its work rather than its name which matters…..

E. V. B. Fisher’s Flanders F.3 monoplane, some weeks prior to the crash. Source: Flight

Analysis

Incredibly, from the first, the RAeC applied what would later be recognized as required, standard methods — they held inquiries over multiple days, consulted with both the aircraft and engine manufacturer to check for defects in design or materials or other flaws, and they consulted with eyewitnesses to determine the events with some detail, implicitly putting weight on opinions of those who were certificated pilots.  The doctor who examined the bodies was also consulted for any evidence of a medical type that might have influenced the accident.

The findings were thereafter numbered, discussed and approved in formal committee.  They were written succinctly and with clarity, and then published for wide review and challenge.  The accident investigation and results were extraordinary work.

Sadly, in the end, it appears that the most likely cause is one that we hear all too often these days — whether it is true or not — that “pilot error” was involved.

“The Pont Corneille, Rouen, Morning Mist”, a painting by Camille Pissarro in 1896.

One More Bit of Aviation History

On May 10, 1912, an airman in France succeeded in winning the Claudel Prize, which had been offered and had stood awaiting an aviator who would seek the prize — what exactly was it that asked?  Well, it was a bit non-traditional by today’s standards, as reported in the May 11, 1912, issue of Flight, the newsletter of the Royal Aero Club:

Flying Under and Over a Bridge.
AMONG a number of £40 prizes offered two years ago by the Ligue Nationale Aerienne, was one known as the Claudel Prize, to be given to the first aviator who should succeed in flying over and then under the Corneille Suspension Bridge at Rouen.  The feat was accomplished on Sunday afternoon by Cavelier on a Deperdussin monoplane.  He started from the Bruyeres Aerodrome, flew over the bridge at a good height, and then turning swooped down and passed under it, afterwards returning to his starting point.

As the Pont Corneille wasn’t a suspension bridge, we rather suspect that what the writers at the RAeC really meant was the Pont Transbordeaux at Rouen, which is a rather impressive, though fragile looking bridge — shown here in a French postcard. Somehow, it doesn’t look that hard to fly under and over….

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

What was Accident Report No. 2?

• A twin-tailed plane designed for the military.
  
• Early enough that it uses wing warping!
  
• A Wright design — with Manning, however.
  
• 2,000 total load with a top speed of 60 mph / 95 kph.
  

So do you know what this aircraft is?

Post a REPLY below with your best guess!

Click here to check out last week’s What’s That?

It was clear day, VFR and with smooth seas when LTJG Robert “Rocket” Rabuse and his B/N, ENS Al Hux, USN, circled the USS Lexington for a landing.  At the time, the ship and squadron, VA-42 “The Green Pawns”, were doing carrier qualifications and both of the flight crew members were new to their A-6E Intruder.  With the extensive training the two men had, they were eminently prepared for the “trap”, US Navy parlance for an aircraft carrier landing.  Such carrier qualifications were a routine, if dangerous part of the training required for Naval pilots.  Today’s flight, however, wouldn’t end well — despite nearly everything being done correctly.  Luckily, nobody would die, though the plane would go down in Naval history as “the one that flew away.”

A later A-6 of VA-42 lines up for take off, probably at NAS Oceana.

The Events of May 12, 1987

When LTJG R. Rabuse and ENS A. Hux made the final turn and called the ball (a light indicator on the ship that gives reference to the approach angle), they had no idea that their flight would end up a part of Naval history.  It was May 12, 1987 — today in aviation history — and the men were confident if a bit nervous of their qualifications, as was typical for young pilots joining the fleet.

Their final landing checks were complete and all that remained was to fly it down to the deck and make a landing.  It was a reasonably good approach and the plane stayed roughly on center as the pilot flew down toward the deck, generally on glide path.  In the final seconds, LTJG Rabuse over corrected and pulled off too much power, causing the plane to begin to settle, perhaps 5 or 10 feet below the glide path.  Such mistakes, however, were normal in both carrier qualifications and in regular fleet work as pilots adjusted and flew the planes onto the deck.

In better times, an A-6E aircraft of VA-42 being recovered on the carrier deck of the USS Saratoga (CV-60), January 1980. Photo Credit: Robert L. Lawson

The Terminal Phase

Over the radio, the Landing Signals Officer (LSO) handled the under power situation as a routine matter.  He’d seen it all before a hundred times.  As the A-6E mushed a bit below the glide path on short final, he issued a routine correction call — “More power.”  LTJG Rabuse applied a gentle nudge of the throttle and the A-6E Intruder came up onto glide path, even going a could of feet high before if touched down.

The Intruder catches the 4 wire.

On hitting the deck, the LTJG Rabuse applied full power (MRT), a normal precaution in the event that the plane had missed all the “wires” (arrestor cables), thus allowing them to simply take back off and try again.  They “caught a 4 wire”, i.e., the fourth cable on the deck.  As the cable spooled out, slowing the jet, nobody suspected that in less than two seconds, the two men would be swimming.

The tail hook snaps…

It all happened very quickly.  The tail hook broke.  In more technical terms, the Navy calls it a “hook point departure”.  The end of the tail hook, sometimes called the “stinger”, snapped off.  Sometimes, when that happened, the plane hadn’t yet slowed too much and they could just lift back off and, without a tail hook, take a course for NAS Pensacola for a normal landing.  This time, however, the aircraft had already slowed well below flying speed.

And the plane sails off the angled ramp over the water, starting its descent toward the waves…

With full power on, the two men found that they were now accelerating as the plane headed off the angled deck of the USS Lexington.  Even though the P-8 engines spooled up quickly, there wasn’t really enough deck for them to properly fly it off.  Instead, the instant they went off the end of the deck, the plane settled downward toward the water.

The LSO’s voice was screaming over the radio — “Power!  Power! Power!” — but they’d already done that.  As the plane disappeared below the line of the deck, falling out the LSO’s sight, it was clear that the two men were destined for the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico.

ENS Al Hux ejects first, within a half second of hearing the order…

“Eject!  Eject!  Eject!” came the call.

Out and Up

When the command comes over the radio to eject, you don’t question it.  Your knowledge in the cockpit isn’t complete — maybe there is a fire you don’t know about, or a piece of the plane maybe fell off or maybe there’s something else terribly wrong.  You can’t tell and in the one or two seconds that separate you from life and death, there isn’t a lot of time to ask questions.  Training takes over and you pull your legs in, grab the handles and pull.  Ejecting is dangerous, but it is better than dying in a stricken airplane when it crashes.

LTJG Rabuse ejects next, nearly 1.5 seconds after ENS Hux ejected…

ENS A. Hux was the first out.  He pulled the handles and was gone.  Within a second and a half, “Rocket” Rabuse pulled and was out as well.  Both men’s seats separated correctly and their parachutes opened.  Seconds later, less than a full swing from hitting the water, they were both swimming off the port bow of the USS Lexington.  At that point, flight training lessons were not longer of much use.  A different regime of training takes over – memories of the dunk tank, of flipping inverted into the water pool at Pensacola, and of lectures of water survival are suddenly all that count.  Free yourself from the ‘chute’, check/inflate your life vest, situate yourself, check for injuries, find any others….

As the two splash into the water, their ‘chutes collapsing above them, the plane soars upward (at top of frame, near the time).

Pilotless, the A-6E Intruder, however, had no intention of landing.  Suddenly freed of more than 800 pounds of equipment and perhaps another 400 or 500 pounds of combined pilots and uniform equipment, the CG had shifted aft.  With a suddenly lighter weight, likewise the stall speed in the airplane was instantly lowered.  What before had been a certain crash, now turned into a steady and ever increasingly steepening climb out.  Unmanned, the Intruder dangerously soared up and away from the deck.

On its own, the plane flew itself back into the sky.

The End of the Intruder

As the Air Boss, LSO and others watched, the Intruder soared up, curving skyward into the clear air off the port bow.  For all intents and purposes, it looked like the USAF’s famed “Cornfield Bomber” of about three decades earlier, except for one thing, this plane wasn’t going very far.

As it climbed, its angle steepening from the aft CG, it soon fell into a stall.  The plane then fell off its near vertical ascent and plunged downward.  Frighteningly, the USS Lexington was sailing straight toward the point where the descending plane would hit.  With a ship of that size, changing course was not really possible.  As everyone watched, the plane hit the water just 300 feet off the bow.  Had it fallen off on the other wing or taken a different angle of descent, it would have potentially crashed near vertically into the deck of the ship, doing untold damage.  It would have been a modern, unmanned kamikaze weighing 20 tons and loaded with jet fuel.

An A-6 Intruder of VA-42 “The Green Pawns”, in flight in clear skies.

In retrospect, it was a close call.  Had the plane struck the Lexington, many men might well have died — but as it was, the plane was just written off, sinking to the bottom of the Gulf.

Shortly afterward, a helicopter standing guard came in and picked up the two men, bringing them back aboard the ship for a much dreaded debriefing.

Watch the Video — CLICK HERE =>

Aftermath

After the fact, hundreds of armchair observers have questioned the flight crew’s decision to eject from what looks like a perfectly flyable plane, at least based on the video.  They’re wrong to do so, in fact.  The order was clear — whether it was the Air Boss or the LSO who called it out was immaterial and there was no time to ask questions.  The words, “Eject!  Eject!  Eject!” had been called over the radio — in that context, they become an order from a superior officer to follow or face the consequences.  In that context, the consequences were quite possibly fatal.  Thus, for the two men, it was simply a matter of training and discipline to eject from the airplane.

A later evaluation of the mishap by the US Navy determined that had the flight crew not ejected, the plane would have crashed into the water one or two seconds later anyway.  Hitting the water at over 100 knots of speed would have likely been a very bad experience, injuring if not killing the crew outright.  Only when relieved of more than 1,200 pounds of weight was the plane again flyable, though even that was a kind of an aerodynamic coincidence that the weight, balance, configuration, trim settings, etc., all added up to a plane that would fly itself.

LTJG Robert Rabuse went on to a full career in the Navy, commanding an S-3 squadron and later becoming an attorney and judge with the rank of a Captain.

As for the A-6E Intruder, its loss was just part of the normal training process, factored into the Navy’s plans and budgets as the regular “cost of doing business”.  Of course, when viewed from another aspect, millions of dollars of equipment crashed and sank into the water that day.

Was it wasted?  In a sense, not really.  However, it was a rather expensive training flight.

Bonus Video :: An A-6 Intruder Takes the Barrier

While on deployment during the immediate aftermath of Desert Shield / Desert Storm, an A-6 Intruder got into trouble with a mechanical problem — at night, in bad weather. Flown by Capt. Rand “Atlas” McNally, USMC, the A-6 Intruder crashes into the barrier successfully “trapping” a rather different way on the USS Ranger. The events came to pass on March 9, 1991. The CAG LSO talking the pilot down, CDR John “Bug” Roach, a legend in the US Navy, once again demonstrates the extraordinary professionalism that was his trademark. The video is nearly 20 minutes long (after the 15:00 minute point, it is just static). Notably, it includes the full instructions for the approach, as well as the post-landing shut down and recovery on deck. The plane and pilot came through it fine.

Sadly, “Bug” Roach was killed on October 2, 1991, while on an adversary flight in an A-4E Skyhawk off the coast of San Diego, California. CDR Roach suffered a catastrophic aircraft failure, losing both his engine and suffering from a failure of his ejection seat. During his career, he made more than 1,000 arrested landings during his flight career, which started in 1966. Throughout his time in the Navy, he never had a non-flying tour. He was and will always remain one of the greatest US Navy pilots in history.

From the Archives

The Cornfield Bomber — when an F-106 Delta went into a flat spin, the pilot had to eject.  The blast of the ejection, however, broke the spin and the plane, pilotless, flew away and into the distance, quite a bit farther than the Navy’s A-6E Intruder.

When Ernest Failloubaz climbed into the aeroplane, he had never flown before in his life.  Further, he had no flight instructor, nor was one available anywhere in all of Switzerland.  In fact, he and his compatriot, René Grandjean, were the first two aviators in the country.  What Failloubaz knew about piloting he had worked out on his own, in part as well when helping his compatriot Grandjean build the aeroplane.  Since February, they had been “ground testing” the aeroplane, running it back and forth across the grass as Failloubaz gained familiarity with the feeling of the controls.  The grass field was itself not very smooth and so, as they practiced, the aeroplane would bump and bounce along over the uneven field of l’Estivage, on the outskirts of Avenches.

If that wasn’t dicey enough, the aeroplane too was a best guess of what an aeroplane should be.  In fact, René Grandjean had built it based on just a single photograph of a Blériot that they had acquired while he was in Egypt a year earlier in 1909.  Excited at the prospect of making his own aeroplane, he had returned to Switzerland to begin building.  With just that one photo to guide him, Grandjean had pulled off a miracle, reverse engineering and building Switzerland’s first aeroplane.  He had done it quite literally from scratch.

Reputed to be a photograph of Grandjean’s first aeroplane with Failloubaz at the controls in 1910 — given the different configuration of the forward fuselage and the addition of the tail wheel, it seems more likely that this is Failloubaz in one of the Blériots that arrived at Avenches in late 1910.

On May 10, 1910 — today in aviation history — the pair of men, Switzerland’s first aviators, decided that their “ground testing” was complete.  Now it was time to fly.  Ernest Failloubaz gripped the controls as the engine was started.  It ran up and, as usual, the aeroplane started to roll.  As the speed built, Failloubaz experimented with the controls as he always did, but this time, he let the engine run longer.  As the plane built speed, it began to grow lighter, bouncing as it did over the grass.  Gently, he pulled back on the stick to lift the elevator.  The moment of truth had arrived — would the aeroplane fly after all?  Even if it did, would he be able to control it?  To turn it?  To land it?  He had confidence, that much was certain — but then again, as a youth of just 17 years old, of course he had confidence.  After all, what did he know at that young age of the consequences of failure?

Ernest Failloubaz with his trademark hat; whenever he turned it backwards, he intended to fly — it was his only “flying helmet”.

About Ernest Failloubaz

Ernest Failloubaz was an unlikely aviator.  He was quite nearly an orphan when at age four, his father died; then at age 10, his mother too passed away.  It had all happened quite suddenly.  Thereafter, he was raised by his aunt and grandmother, and he worked in the family bakery in the small town of Avenches, Switzerland.  Under those circumstances, he grew up quickly.  In his early teens, he started tinkering with bicycles.  By his mid-teens, he managed to get a motorcycle imported — quite probably, that motorbike was the first to arrive in Switzerland.

Failloubaz taught himself how to ride and soon was motoring around Avenches, with its population of just 1,800, while his grandmother held on, gripping his waist.  Decades later, residents would recall the scene of his motorcycle rides.  A short while later, he bought an automobile, though the type is lost in history — perhaps it was an early Bugatti some say.  Those who recall it remember that he had it painted red, probably so as this was one of the colors of the Swiss flag.  Naturally, he taught himself to drive.

A photo of Failloubaz and Grandjean, reputed to be with their aeroplane, on September 29, 1909 — this cannot be accurate, however, as the aircraft shown is a Blériot; most likely, this was taken at the October Swiss Aviation Meeting in 1910.

A year later, he and René Grandjean decided to build and fly an aeroplane — in France and England, pilots were flying all the time, so they vowed to become the first in their country to fly.  To do so, they also decided to build their own aeroplane.  It was there that the knowledge and craftsmanship of Grandjean came into play — it was he, more than Failloubaz, who built the plane, but it would be Failloubaz who would fly it.

About Grandjean and his Aeroplane

René Grandjean was 24 years old when he left his job as the driver for Omar Pasha Sultan Bey in Egypt and returned to Switzerland to try and build his aeroplane.  Born in Bellerive, Switzerland, he did his early schooling Paris before returning to assist his father in the family saw mill business.  Early on, he learned the skills of a mechanic, technician and wood craftsman, all of which would be essential later in his aviation career.  When he arrived back from Egypt, he met Ernest Failloubaz and the two men built their first plane together, though it was Grandjean who did the lion’s share of the work.

René Grandjean’s aeroplane “No.1″ at Bellerive in October 1909. The top-mounted tail required more work and strengthening. In February 1910, the modifications were completed and the aeroplane was moved to Avenches to start “ground testing”.

On l’Estivage field in Avenches, they built a hangar.  First at Bellerive and later in February 1910 there, day after day, the two men labored on the construction of the aeroplane.  Others joined in, including Charles Revelly, the young Gustave Lecoultre, who was the son of a local industrialist in Avenches and, for the metalwork, the blacksmith Bessard Simonet.  A mechanic named Vogel joins to assist.  Few believe in Grandjean’s vision, even if they help him build the machine.  Among them, however, Failloubaz remains confident in Grandjean’s abilities.  As the aeroplane nears completion, Grandjean realizes that the best pilot would be the one who weighs the least — the younger Lecoultre would do but has little experience compared to Failloubaz.  The decision is made — Failloubaz, the man who taught himself to drive a motorcycle and to drive a car, he will be the one to try.

The “No.1″ aeroplane five days after its first flight, photo taken on May 15, 1910. From right, Ernest Failloubaz (back to camera, head down), Gustave Lecoultre, the Mechanic Vogel (back to camera), Charles Revilli (standing by wing), René Grandjean (standing in cockpit), several unidentified local people as well as, under the tail, many local kids who watched the flight with admiration, and at far left, Otto Charmey, who would later be the first Swiss to fly as a passenger, going up on Failloubaz’s Dufaux 5 on January 12, 1911.

In October 1909, the aeroplane looked finally completed, but a flaw was discovered in the tail.  Failloubaz, despite his youth, offered the solution — applying his knowledge of how bicycles are built.  A spoke-like system is designed that supports the weight of the tail.  It would be February 1910 before they would begin the first “ground testing” with the melting of the snow.  Problems with the landing gear are solved through the help of Gustave Lecoultre.  In the following two and a half months, they would learn the handling of the machine on the ground, make adjustments to the engine, a make a few changes to the aeroplane itself based on what they learned driving it back and forth over the grass.

Failloubaz, his cap turned backwards (always a sign that he was about to fly, as many later recalled), sits in a Blériot, probably at Avenches in late 1910.

The First Flight in Switzerland

When Ernest Failloubaz took to the field that day on the morning of May 10, 1910, he had already developed some confidence in his abilities.  A short hop was all that was planned and Failloubaz felt ready for the task.  He hoped just that the aeroplane would make it fully off the ground, fly for a bit, and not land too hard.  As it happened, when he lifted off, the aeroplane flew smoothly, though somewhat weakly.  Once aloft, he pressed a bit forward a bit to keep it from climbing.  He kept it straight for a short while before cutting power and gracefully landing back on the rough field.  It was his first landing — flawless.

Ernest Failloubaz sits in his Dufaux 5 biplane, which he purchased from Armand Dufaux in 1911. The youthful Failloubaz was just 18 years old at the time.

By lunchtime, it seemed that everyone in Avenches knew of the feat.  Word spread quickly over lunch as the two men did nothing to hide their success — nor should they have!  Indeed, the English, French and even others from around the world were already taking up flying.  It seemed natural too that the Swiss should fly as well.  That very afternoon, they returned to fly once again.  As before, Failloubaz kept the aeroplane low and flew it straight on for a bit before cutting the power.  Once again, he landed it perfectly.  As astonishing as it sounds, Failloubaz was a natural pilot seemingly in every respect.  Others would later describe that he flew intuitively, making turns and climbs and dives as if he were a bird.  He would line up and land with the ease of a practiced aviator.

Grandjean’s “No.1″ aeroplane at Berne, summer 1910. The tail configuration has been changed to a low-mounted horizontal stabilizer. Note that the fabric covering the nose and forward fuselage has been removed and the fuel tank has been moved above and behind the engine for better gravity feeding during climbs.

Grandjean’s Crash

Over the five days that followed the first flight, the two men experimented with Grandjean’s design, Failloubaz always being at the controls.  It became apparent to Failloubaz that while the aeroplane flew, it didn’t fly very well.  Turns and climbs were not very easy and the underpowered contraption was also a bit overweight — its engine, an ENV, boasted just 40 hp.  A different aeroplane would be needed if he were to truly fly.  Nonetheless, René Grandjean wanted to fly too — and thus, on the fifth day, he made his first flight.  Though he took off, he quickly realized that the difficulties of flight were made to appear all too simple by the natural hand of his friend, Failloubaz.  At 25 meters, he pulls back too far on the “broomstick”, their term for the joystick, stalls the plane and noses over into a crash.  The aeroplane was damaged, though Grandjean was uninjured despite being thrown from the wreck.  It would take some time to fix it, but it would fly again.

In the end, Grandjean’s aeroplane had been a wonderful learning tool — and it was a first for Switzerland — but it quickly outlived its usefulness for Failloubaz, who dreamt of truly flying, turning and soaring through the air.  Others soon were learning to fly in Grandjean’s aeroplane — if one can call the short hops it did really flying.  The aeroplane served well for a time but then crashed again at the hand of Georges Cailler when it was taken to the Haute Savoie for an air meet in Viry.

Failloubaz with his new Demoiselle at Avenches, Summer 1910.

More Flights

In the meantime, Ernest Failloubaz traveled to Paris and purchased a Santos-Dumont Demoiselle, which he brought back to Avenches.  Daily thereafter, he flew the little plane, learning the art of piloting steadily and perfectly as he flew.  In October 1910, the pair and others who had been learning to fly undertook the first air meet in Swiss history — fittingly, it held at l’Estivage.  In just five months, Ernest Failloubaz and René Grandjean had started the aviation revolution in Switzerland.

Francois Durafour, chief flight instructor at Avenches, poses with one of the aeroplanes, c. June 1911.

By the summer of 1911, they opened a flight school.  Others had come — there were no shortage of students.  Other aeroplanes were built or purchased too and soon the field was alive with daily flights as many new pilots took to the air, men like Francois Durafour (who served as the chief flight instructor), Armand Dufaux (whose Dufaux biplanes became a common sight around the field at Avenches), Georges Caille, Paul Beck, Henry Kramer, Louis Gacon, Marcel Pasche, Paul Wyss and Marcel Lugrin.  These were the pioneers of Swiss aviation.

Grandjean stands before his “No.2″ monoplane with its 60 hp Oerlikon engine.

In 1912, Grandjean manufactured his second aeroplane, “No. 2″, which appeared more like an Antoinette in its appearance, though with an arrow fletching of sorts for a tail.  It featured a Swiss-built Oerlikon engine with 60 hp.  His “No. 3″, built a year later, was a “hydroavion”, a float plane, which he engineered onto twin floats of his own design and soon was attempting flights over the water.  Failloubaz would take it out and set several records.

Grandjean’s “No.3″ hydroavion.

Aftermath

The events started at Avenches by Ernest Failloubaz and René Grandjean would bring Switzerland into the new world of flight.  While the men would separate before the start of World War I and rarely afterward collaborate, they remained the grand men who started it all in their country.  It is hard to imagine a more unlikely beginning — a dream, a photograph, a project built on hope and little more, and a pilot who taught himself from scratch how to fly.  Perhaps it is fitting that this is how aviation began in the country of Switzerland — two men without outside assistance based on talent alone.  That is not just their story, but also the story of a nation that prides itself on its independence and ability to innovate, freely and on its own.

One More Bit of Aviation History

In all of his thousands of flights, Ernest Failloubaz only had one mishap — a hard landing at Cheyres when the wind picks up and he is forced to land his Dufaux 5 with Gustave Lecoultre as his passenger.  No damage was done.  The reason why he was so successful was not just that he was a naturally gifted pilot.  He was also meticulous and careful in everything he did.  Unlike others who started the engine and simply took off, he would take the time to do a preflight check before each flight — in fact, he may have been the first aviator in history to practice pre-flight checks!  His routine was well-practiced and conscientious.

First, he discussed with his mechanic the recent maintenance done, familiarizing himself with what was done and what was fixed, thus giving him knowledge of where problems might lie.  Then, he would check the controls, warping the wings, lifting the elevator and testing the rudders.  Once satisfied that everything worked properly and freely, he would have the mechanic swing the propeller to start the engine.  Even then, he would do a run-up, listening for a time to the sound of the engine at idle and at slight power, hearing any ringing or missing, warming it up.  Quite often, he would hear something and shut down the engine; some precautionary maintenance would follow — just to be sure.

Once the engine ran-up well, then he would check the controls a second time before signaling those present that he was ready to fly by turning his cap backwards, putting the bill down his back.  With that, he would take off.  In all of his flights, based on that routine, he alone among the early aviators had a perfect record.

From the Archives

First Over the Alps — read about Oskar Bider’s incredible flight in a Blériot over the Swiss Alps in a Bleriot XI-b on July 7, 1913.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

Whatever happened to Ernest Failloubaz?

“I achieved my greatest victory on May 9, 1918.  For some time, I longed for a triumph in a single 24 hour period, to down five opponents, which I felt would be so many that none other could exceed it.”  So began René Fonck’s recollection of that day, 95 years ago today in aviation history, when he finally had his chance.  In the morning, Two other pilots, Edwin C. Parsons and Frank Baylies, engaged in a competition that Fonck could not ignore, yet which did not suit him either.  While Fonck’s desire was to down at least five enemy aircraft in a single day, the two men instead wanted to wager a bottle of champagne on who could down the first aircraft of the day.  For them, the wager was also a challenge to Fonck’s authority and position as the squadron’s leading fighter pilot.  It was a dark wager too, made as an angry rejection of Fonck’s not very likable, often arrogant character.

SPAD S.XIII fighters of Les Cigognes, with which René Fonck flew.

That morning, however, a lingering drifting fog covered the aerodrome and surrounding area, grounding the men.  Seeing a brief thinning, Frank Baylies took off on patrol  Shortly thereafter, he returned to report that he had won the wager, having shot down a German Halberstadt CL.II reconnaissance plane.  Angrily, Fonck demanded that the bet should be more reflective their real skills — not who was first, but who was most.  Instead, he told them, the bottle should be awarded to the one who could bring down the most planes in a single day.  Reluctantly, they went along — and thus, amidst low hanging clouds, mist and fog, Fonck’s greatest day began.

René Fonck stands in front of his SPAD fighter plane. The symbol of his fighter group, Les Cigognes, is blazoned on the side of the fuselage.

Fonck’s History

Although the fog of the early morning kept the three men grounded for a time, apparently the German planes were aloft in clear skies above.  They were at work directing artillery fire against French soldiers in the trenches — and as all knew, the most deadly instrument of the Great War was artillery fire.  Unopposed, the German aircraft would cause many casualties.  Finally, at 10:45 am, René Fonck took off in his SPAD XII.  In his own words, which we’ve translated from the original French language text, what transpired was as follows:

Around 10:00 am, the fog began to dissipate and three quarters of an hour later, I could finally take off with Captain Battle and Lieutenant Fontaine.  Just over the front lines, we came upon a patrol consisting of a reconnaissance aircraft protected by a two-seat fighter plane.

 

Plans of the SPAD fighter.

By a pre-arranged hand gesture, I gave the signal to attack and with the first burst from my guns, I hit the enemy pilot.  Without a second thought, to avoid being hit by defensive fire, I turned into a rapid reversal followed by a slip.  This put my under the wing of the other Boche plane, whose gunner tried to respond, but it was already too late.  A second time, I opened fire and this second opponent tumbled down, even as a third plane escaped the attacks from my comrades.

Seeing me approach to fire, the third one thought me unable to pursue if he dove to the right, yet this error brought his end.  Following, I was about a second behind him and coming into a position to fire, so I immediately took advantage of my positioning.  His aircraft was shattered and fell in pieces; he had suffered the same fate as his compatriots.  The fight had lasted just 45 seconds.  The three two-seaters came down near our trenches and were found next to Grivesne, all within 400 meters of each other.

We were barely back on the ground when from all points of the horizon, the phones rang to confirm my triple kill.

Fonck poses in front of a SPAD.

The Second Sortie

After lunch, the men celebrated at the aerodrome for a time before word came that more German artillery spotters were aloft over the front lines again.  Fonck and two others ran to their planes and took — what transpired next is again related in his own words:

All around me, there was an explosion of enthusiasm, but there wasn’t a minute to lose, and at 5:30, I took off again with the Sergeant Brugère and Lieutenant Thouzelier.  In the skies, there were scattered clouds carried by the wind, forming a large screen behind which we could hide and quietly make our approach.

At 6:20 pm, I recognized a Boche plane flying above Montdidier.  A field of mist separated us.  I boldly flew through the mist which, like cotton wool, soon wrapped itself around me entirely.

 

Fonck in the cockpit of his SPAD during early 1918.

It is easy to kill the enemy when you surprise him, shooting the instant you come out of the cloud.  Leading him 30 meters, I surprised his observer who was at that moment looking over the side making adjustments.  A hail of bullets overtook the man.  Though I had lost sight of my companions, I wasn’t all that upset about it as I prefer to fly alone into the midst of the enemy without having to worry about covering the others.  Coordination requires us to get each other out of trouble and help when one falls into a position of disadvantage.  Even if I try to never fail in that duty, above all I still love my freedom to attack on my own — it is essential for success in my business.

 

A SPAD, the favored type of Les Cignoges and René Fonck.

Four Fokkers then appeared and right above them there were five Albatros planes as well.  One against nine, alone, my situation suddenly became perilous.  I hesitated, wondering whether to attack or slip away, but my desire to set a new record prevailed over whatever prudence I felt.  I chose to risk combat.  The Fokkers filed into a triangular formation and, at the higher altitudes where I found myself, I was quick to make my plan of attack.  I closed directly with my adversaries at a speed that was a little less than 240 km per hour and, slid myself between the two flights.  I reached the trailing Fokker as it monitored the Albatros planes.  At just 30 meters, I fired my first salvo at him from behind and saw immediately how he fell before me.

Warned by the crackling of my gun, the two closest Boche planes turned at the same time meet me, but I was traveling 8 meters in each passing second and they had no chance to finish turning into me.  I managed to pass between the two of them.  It took them 8 seconds to rejoin into their formation.  They had had enough as I had killed the leader of their patrol.

In the cockpit of his SPAD, a French commemorative postcard from mid-1918.

The Albatros Fighters Attack

Fonck’s attack had surprised the Fokkers and, having downed one, he had driven the others off.  Clearly, they were less experienced and, perhaps recognizing the speed of the attack and accuracy of Fonck’s fire, had chosen to depart the fight.  Yet there were still five Albatros fighter planes and they were above him, positioned to attack.  Fonck related what happened next:

Next, the Albatros fighters took their turn and dove on me.  At first, all were surprised by the boldness of my maneuvering, but now they were reevaluating.  I was at a disadvantage, on my back foot — or talons, so to speak — and I began spinning like a meteor.  I turned back and saw then as if drawn against the sky a grand arc of movement, a circle of enemies converging from all around me.  Yet I had the satisfaction of perceiving, at a distance the gap and with two quick bursts, I watched as one of their number fell in flames.  Then, turning away quickly, the distance separating us increased and soon, finding myself out of their range, I turned back toward my field.

I cannot describe the reception that awaited me.  There were endless ovations and I was carried along triumphantly by the men.  Later at the bar, it all seemed fantastic.  At 8:00 pm, my victories were confirmed.  This gave me great satisfaction, surpassing the number of victories I had set for myself to achieve in a single day.

Albert Lebrun (left), as Minister of the Blockade of Germany, in conversation with René Fonck in 1918. Source: Bibliothèque nationale de France

Afterward

René Fonck’s career as a fighter pilot was short — not because he was shot down or injured, but because, unlike the other great aces of France, he had started late in the war, flying for only the last year in combat.  Guynemer, by comparison, had flown from 1914 to the end.  Yet it was Fonck who ended the war as the leading ace with 75 confirmed victories.  His squadron was one of four within the famed Les Cigognes fighter group (these being SPA.3, SPA.26, SPA.73 and SPA.103) and of Escadrille SPA.103′s 111 claimed victories, he had accounted for all but 36.  His confirmed victories, however, were far fewer than those he claimed.  Unlike some who saw smoke and broke away to declare a kill, he was confident of his personal score — by his own reckoning, he had downed 142 German aircraft, surpassing even Germany’s famed Red Baron.

Diagram from the SPAD XII Pilot Operating Manual, 1918, showing the mounting of the 37 mm canon through the center of the engine.

His confidence in his score was due to the fact that he preferred a high speed ambush from which he took a deflection shot from point blank range, usually hitting the pilot.  He was an expert marksman and for a time he flew a SPAD XII that carried a single shot, hand-loaded 37mm Puteaux ”moteur-canon” firing through the engine shaft and out the propeller hub.  With that weapon, he shot down 11 of his opponents — using just one cannon round for each kill.  As for the rest, his extremely short bursts with his machine guns typically fired less than five rounds to achieve each kill.

By attacking quickly in a slashing pass, he rarely entered into a dogfight.  Using his superior eyesight, he could spot the enemy first and position himself for the most advantageous attack.  His tactics were to attack only on his terms and with a single pass to shoot down one or two enemy aircraft before he would dive away to safety, returning to his base.  This approach would later become the dominant method of many leading World War II aces.  As a result, over his entire career in combat, his aircraft was only hit once by enemy fire — and that was just a single bullet that had pierced its fabric harmlessly.

Fonck poses in front of a new, high-wing Nieuport in 1919, after the end of the war.

Final Thoughts

How many did he really shoot down?  We’ll never know, but one thing is certainly, his official total of 75 victories is far less than what he knew he had actually achieved.  His claims — nearly twice as many as the official tally — were made with confidence based on his tactics.  Those who fell behind German lines were not confirmed and many of those that fell over No Man’s Land were left unverified.

As for his own personal record of shooting down six enemy aircraft in a single day — on September 28, 1918, just four and a half months later, he would repeat that score.  Over St. Marie-a-Py, St. Souplet, Perthes-les-Hurles and Souain, he downed three Fokker D.VIIs and two Halberstadt C types as well as a DFW C.

Portrait of René Fonck.

To this day, René Fonck remains the leading Allied ace in all of air combat history.  Even if he was widely recognized as deadly, unmerciful and brilliant in the air, he was also his own worst enemy in the public eye, being arrogant and unforgiving.  He would lecture the others on combat tactics, his tone patronizing and superior.  Even though he was the greatest French combat pilot in history, it was other men like Guynemer and Nungesser, even if less successful, who enjoyed the admiration of the public and the popularity of the press.  They were the superstars of the air war, while he was ignored and spurned.

For Fonck, however, the question of popularity mattered some, but not as much as the knowledge of his own successes.  In the end, he was more than satisfied with himself.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

Fonck’s one error was his thought that no pilot could match his score of five shot down in a single day.  World War II would demonstrate that with increasingly deadly planes, so too the best pilots could achieve even greater successes.  What is the record for the most planes shot down by a pilot in a single 24 hour period?

The plane was purpose-built for the flight, extensively modified from a proven design of the Levasseur PL4 reconnaissance seaplane and redesignated as the Levasseur PL.8. Its huge bulk carried thousands of pounds of gasoline, enough to hopefully achieve a singular goal — to claim the Orteig Prize. That award offered the princely sum of $25,000 as an incentive to the aviator or aviators who could first link Paris and New York in a single flight, in either direction. The men who took up the challenge were Charles Nungesser and Francois Coli, two former combat pilots who were the second and third highest scoring French aces from the Great War of 1914-1918. Their plane, nicknamed “L’Oiseau Blanc”, or White Bird, represented the hopes of world peace in the form of the dove of peace. With high hopes, the men took off today in aviation history, on May 8, 1927.

They were last sighted leaving Ireland heading northwest out into the open Atlantic. What happened next remains one of aviation’s greatest mysteries. Put simply, they never arrived in New York and neither man, nor the plane, have been seen since. In short, they simply disappeared.

French postcard celebrating L’Oiseau Blanc, and the two pilos, Nungesser and Coli (left and right, respectively).

The Plane

Nungesser and Coli had carefully developed the plane in close coordination with the Pierre Levasseur Company in Paris. Personally working with the designers, the men made numerous changes to the existing PL.4 seaplane design. Principally, the fuselage was widened, allowing the pilots to sit side-by-side and enabling three huge fuel tanks carrying 1,056 gallons of gasoline to be mounted between the biplane wings behind the engine firewall. A single 460 hp W-12 Lorraine-Dietrich engine was installed (two engines only doubled the number of failures that might occur on such a long flight) after it had been bench-tested and “broken in” by running at low to medium power for 40 hours.

Numerous innovative features were developed for the airplane. The most important of these had to do with the landing gear and fuselage. The wheels were designed to fall away after take off, rather than retract or hang unneeded under the fuselage for the long flight across the Atlantic. The savings in drag enabled the plane to fly faster, carry more fuel and be lighter weight. For landing, the fuselage was fashioned into a flying boat hull so as to enable a water landing — it served also as its own life raft if the two aviators came down in the open ocean.

Fittingly, Charles Nungesser’s wartime personal insignia was painted on the rear of the fuselage — it was a skull and crossbones, flanked by a pair of candles and a coffin, all of which were emblazoned on a black heart. If the new technology of aviation was to spread the message of peace and hope, the thought was, who better to fly it than two former wartime pilots?

L’Oiseau Blanc runs up its motor, the two pilots, Nungesser and Coli, in the cockpit.

The Flight

When the men took off at 5:17 am on May 8, 1927 — today in aviation history — they had great difficulty at first. The plane was so heavily loaded that as it lifted off, it couldn’t quite fly. It settled back down on the runway at Le Bourget in Paris, before it took off again, this time slowly risng into the early morning air as the two ace pilots gingerly kept it up as the speed slowly increased. They managed a low and slow climb — it was the best that could be done as the crowds they left behind cheered madly.

They were next seen crossing the French cast and heading out across the English Channel. Four French Armée de l’Air pursuit planes flew in formation as an escort under Captain Venson. It was a powerful tribute, but once L’Oiseau Blanc crossed over the English Channel, they broke off and returned to their bases. Shortly afterward, a British submarine spotted and logged the passage of the plane overhead as it headed toward the English coast. It was then spotted and logged over Ireland before one last observer reported the plane’s passage northwest out into the Atlantic Ocean.

It was the last anyone saw of the plane — even to this day.

At Villacoublay, the PL.8 is wheeled back into its hangar after tests.

The Mystery

There are many competing theories concerning the fate of L’Oiseau Blanc. Critically, the plane, traveling the Great Circle route across the North Atlantic, was far to the north of the established sea lanes. If an engine problem had developed, the two aviators could have set it down in the water, though the condition of the waves might have made that difficult. Once alighted on the water, the waves would likely tear off the fuselage and tail. They might have floated awhile, but without ships in the water nearby, their rescue was essentially impossible. In any case, no fuselage “boat” was ever found.

Many people in Canada and Maine came forward at the time with reports of hearing an airplane engine overhead. Logging the times, it seems clear that they were running as what they assumed to be the airplane flew overhead and disappeared to the southwest, as if navigating toward New York. In fact, the two men had planned the trip exactly that way, having planned on culminating their flight with a landing on the Hudson River right at the base of the Statue of Liberty. In deference to the multiple reports of hearing the engine noise overhead, it seems that many could well be accurate — if not “sightings”, they were likely “hearings”.

The fine lines of the Levasseur PL.8 “L’Oiseau Blanc”.

Plotting the “hearings” gives some evidence that the plane was running desperately late, having likely been dogged by headwinds the entire way. If so, based on the times of the “hearings”, it seemed that they must have come down into the forests of rural Maine. Searches by many others in the years since, including by such men as author Clive Cussler, never turned up a single trace of the plane, however. Moreover, a careful review of many of the newspapers of the era reveals that many sightings were rumors that were built up into full-fledged false stories in hopes of selling newspapers.

One Parisian paper even fabricated the safe arrival of the two men in New York. The Parisian response was a complete loss of faith in the paper once it was shown to have been somewhat less than truthful and accurate. Ultimately, the reduction in sales resulted in the bankruptcy of that paper. The papers widely claimed that L’Oiseau Blanc had landed in the Atlantic Ocean — a theory that remains widely accepted even today. As the men had no weather reporting for the majority of their overwater trip, anything really could have happened. Had the plane’s fuselage floated as planned? Had the wings torn off in contrary seas? Had the fuselage swamped instead and sunk? Had they encountered contrary weather over the Atlantic?

Cockpit layout of L’Oiseau Blanc — how much of this might still be identifiable if found?

Aftermath

Charles Nungesser and Francois Coli were sorely missed in France. In the eyes of that country, they were two of the country’s greatest military pilots. The nation mourned their disappearance, hoping that some bit of news would reverse the news. But it was not to be. Two weeks later, Charles Lindbergh took off from New York and flew to Paris, taking the Orteig Prize. On arrival at Le Bourget, he was worried that the French would condemn his effort as it was coming so soon after the disappearance of L’Oiseau Blanc. He was wrong, of course, and the French celebrated him and his airplane, the Spirit of St. Louis, with wild abandon.

As for Nungesser and Coli, perhaps one day, an errant hiker will come across the remnants of the plane in the woods. The engine should be recognizable due to its three banks of four cylinders each in parallel (a so-called W-12, just as a V-8 is an engine of two banks of four cylinders shaped in a “V”). Or perhaps one day by random chance, a ship with sidescan sonar will spot the shape of the fuselage and wings on the sands deep underwater in the midst of the Atlantic.

Hopefully, the mystery of L’Oiseau Blanc will be one day solved. Maybe the two aviators did in fact manage to cross the Atlantic after all, even if they would have failed to qualify for the Orteig Prize, having fallen short of New York. It would have been an amazing feat.

The radar operator on the Bristol Beaufighter, Sergeant Rawnsley, focused on the AI — his only picture of the surrounding skies amidst the darkness of night.  Calmly, he called out instructions to his pilot, Squadron Leader John Cunningham, asking for a steady descent toward the target ahead.  The Stopley GCI had vectored them in, setting them up perfectly above and behind the German airplane.  He felt the plane accelerate slightly as Sqn/Ldr Cunningham carefully edged the control yoke forward to bring the plane’s nose down and edge closer toward the target.  If the German bomber didn’t change course, it would soon come into visual range and even now, Cunningham was scanning the skies ahead intently.  They would have to ensure that they weren’t overtaking at a too rapid pace or they might end up overrunning the target or worse, even colliding with it.

In the moonlight, they saw the German plane ahead.  Sqn/Ldr Cunningham slowed and carefully came up behind.  From behind, it looked to be a Heinkel He 111, another night bomber of the Luftwaffe.  The Germans were on a course to navigate between Cardiff and Bristol and were heading over the Bristol Channel.  Were they going beyond or dropping their bombs one of the nearer cities?  It didn’t matter, as the outcome would be the same now.  Seeking positive identification, Sqn/Ldr Cunningham began to line up his attack plan.

A Bristol Beaufighter in the same squadron as the plane that engaged that night.

Setting up the Attack

To prevent the Beaufighter from being silhouetted against the glistening, moonlit sea, Cunningham waited for his quarry to be over land.  As soon as it crossed the coast and was clear of the Bristol Channel, he moved in.  Ahead, the Heinkel’s blue exhaust flames were clearly visible and gave him an ideal focal point for holding formation.  With care, he performed his customary identification check.  He needed to be absolutely sure of the aircraft type — it would do no good to shoot down another Beaufighter.  He knew that such errors could happen easily at night and with the excitement of the chase.

Flying underneath, he looked up at the wing plan form and confirmed his target was a Heinkel He 111 bomber after all.  There was no doubt.  Never taking his eyes off of the bottom of the enemy plane, he pulled back on the throttles slightly.  Slowly, the Beaufighter fell back into trail as he carefully positioned himself for the attack.  Night fighter tactics differed sharply from those of the daytime boys in their Spitfires and Hurricanes.  They could get into a swirling dogfight, shooting at whatever targets passed before their guns, trying to make sense of the melee, pick a target and attack.  In the night, however, it was very different.  Stealth, patience and ambush were the best moves.  Further, you had to kill from the first shot — usually from so close that you couldn’t miss.  If you engaged from farther away, the enemy might be only lightly damaged and thus, he might turn away and flee into the cloaking darkness of midnight.  Even with luck, it would be difficult or even impossible to relocate him.

The unique shape of the Bristol Beaufighter, one of the preeminent night fighters of the war. Source: WWII aircraft identification cards.

The Attack Begins

Sqn/Ldr Cunningham checked with Sergeant Rawnsley a final time to make sure he was prepared.  He reconfirmed too that there were no other aircraft around.  Except for the German He 111, they were alone.  As described by Sergaent Rawnsley in his later book, “Night Fighter”, the encounter unfolded deliberately and slowly, despite the excitement of finding and engaging a German plane:

“We were right below our target, a great fat prima-donna of a Heinkel.  John started pulling up behind it and the long, long wait was even more agonising than usual.  But the enemy crew showed no reaction.  We were right behind and there came the final moment of tension with the sharp little lurches as John brought the sight to bear.  Still there was no response from the Heinkel.  Then came the blessed relief of the crash of the guns and the sudden surge upwards to get out of the way of the hurtling wreckage.  A wicked orange glow appeared inside the fuselage of the Heinkel and the wheels fell down in the most forlorn way.  As we flew alongside, watching, the glow burst through the skin and the flames took over.  The whole aircraft trembles and broke into a violent pitching and with a plume of flames streaming out behind it, the Heinkel went down in a headlong plunge to earth.”

A Heinkel He 111, one of Germany’s best medium bombers.

From the German Side

From the first sounds of the bullets impacting into his Heinkel, Pilot Oberfeldwebel Heinz Laschinski was in shock.  Moments earlier, he had been transferring fuel from the outer wing tanks to the inner ones, unsuspecting that the British airplane was already upon them.  When he heard a rattling of gunfire, he saw his observer, Heinz Schier, collapse next to him, obviously dead.  Seconds later, fuel spilled onto the cockpit floor.  In an instant, it ignited and the cockpit was engulfed in flames.  He shouted to the two other crew to bale out as he reached through the flames to grab the handles of his own escape hatch.  There was no saving the plane.  It was just a matter of survival — to get out before the plane exploded or he was burned alive.

He grasped the handles of the escape hatch and felt a stabbing pain.  Blinking through the fire, he saw his hands melting onto the handles.  He withdrew them and for an instant looked at his twisted, ruined fingers, as held them up before his eyes.  There was only one way out, however.  He reached up again and managed to unclip and slide the escape hatch back, burning his hands yet more.  He stood up through the inferno to climb into the cold rushing wind from the speed of the plane as it angled through the dark sky.  Even then, he couldn’t free himself.  His seat parachute caught on the exit hatch, trapping him half in the cockpit, half out.  He couldn’t leap clear.  As the flames were roaring at his feet and legs, in a panic he pulled the rip cord.

Whether he blacked out or blocked it out he would never know, but a second later he found himself drifting below the mass of his glowing plane, flaming as it careened onward toward its end.  Then his parachute was snapped open and jerked him to a stop.  The plane sped off into a fiery descent.  Then he passed out once again.

Bristol Beaufighter Mk IIF night fighter of No. 255 Squadron RAF at Hibaldstow, Lincolnshire, as seen on September 5, 1941, with its AI Mark IV interception radar. Source: Imperial War Museum

Survivors

Oberfeldwebel Heinz Laschinski came to lying on his back in a damp field.  In spite of his very painful burnt hands, he managed to release his parachute.  Years later in an interview with author Kenneth Wakefield, he told of how he had walked across a field until he came to a hedge.  Then he followed that to a gate.  There, he decided to hide his maps and pistol in a drainage pipe.  It was pointless to hide himself or try to evade — he was in England, an island nation and his wounds needed immediate care.  Through the gate, he walked along a lane to a farm house.  It was nearing midnight when he knocked on the door and woke the elderly residents inside.  In his best English, he asked them to call the police.  He could no longer feel the pain of his burns.  Exhausted, he collapsed onto the grass outside to await his fate.

Shortly afterward, the Home Guard, police and some local residents arrived with a number of vehicles.  Laschinski’s Heinkel had come down near Weston Zolyand and the closet hospital was at Bridgewater in Somerset.  He would be taken there to receive care for his wounds.  Once at the hospital, his hands were heavily bandaged.  He realized too that his face was badly burned.  It would be a long recovery.  In later years he remembered with gratitude the excellent treatment he received — even in wartime, the English provided the finest care.  He was in turn well liked at Bridgewater and at the RAF hospital at Locking in Weston Super Mare to which he was transferred a month later on June 10, 1941.

Life as a POW

When he had recovered sufficiently to be discharged, he was sent first to the POW staging area at Swindon.  From there, he was sent onward to a POW camp at Bury in Lancashire.  Kindly, the British had told him that two of his crew members had been found alive near the wreckage of his Heinkel, but it was only when he met up with his wireless operator, Oberfeldwebel Otto Willrich, that he found out more.

What he learned was that when Willrich had heard the order to bale out, he had climbed down into the ventral gunner’s position below the aircraft.  There, he had found Fritz Klemm’s body.  He had been killed by the guns of the Beaufighter — only one other, not two, had survived.  After leaving the aircraft, Willrich landed near a searchlight site between Durston and North Petherton, south of Bridgewater.  Almost immediately, he was taken prisoner.

As for their Heinkel He 111P, the aircraft had broken up in mid-air after the two men had escaped.  The majority of the wreckage had come down at Andersea Farm in West Zoyland at 11:30 pm.

Sqn/Ldr John Cunningham, who would go on to complete the war with a total of 20 victories over German aircraft.

Aftermath

A year later in 1942, Sopley mobile GCI was upgraded with large permanent buildings and the latest radar technology and support systems.  For the next 30 years there was continual development including the construction of an underground bunker.  Subsequently, in the post-war period, it emerged as a regional control facility.  What had started as a handful of mobile, truck-mounted radars, communications vans and control stations had evolved into a full-scale radar base.  Decades later, with the centralization of air traffic control, the unit was finally closed.  In September 1974, RAF Sopley was handed over to the Army.  Later, the site was put up for sale.  It was sold and removed from the Army’s installation list in 1993.

As for Heinz Lashinski, he grew a beard to cover his burnt face while he was in the hospitals undergoing burn treatments.  After the war, he returned to Germany in 1947 with hopes of returning to flying as a commercial pilot.  The long convalescence and the shattered state of the post-war German economy prevented him achieving his ambition, however.  Instead, he found employment with the German Post Office.  Finally, in the late 1970s, he made plans to visit England and meet the people who had helped and befriended him after he had been shot down.  Sadly, just two weeks before his planned visit, he fell ill and died.

RAF Sopley had received upgraded radar by the end of the war; in the background is the control center bunker. Source: Imperial War Museum

Looking back on the engagement that night — May 7, 1941, which was today in aviation history — the attack and downing of Heinz Lashinski’s Heinkel He 111P was just one in thousands of such stories that combine into the history of the air war in WWII as we know it today.  In a sense it was a special event because it was witnessed by the King of England.  In another sense, however, it is just another of the many stories of war that are tragic, terrible and rarely glorious, even if often heroic.  The scars of conflict are deep and memories are long.

We can only hope that we will never again experience a war of such terrible magnitude.  We should give thanks too for what these brave men and women did in those hard years.  They gave us the world that we enjoy today — one where we can fly in peace.

King George VI stood in the darkened “Starlights” caravan behind Squadron Leader Brown.  Together, they peered down at what seemed to be a fuzzy image on the radar’s cathode ray tube display.  From his position on the ground, Sqn/Ldr Brown relayed headings and altitudes directly to the Beaufighter R while the King listened in the speaker system behind.  He would guide it to within three miles, hoping to position it above and behind the target, a German night bomber.  As the Beaufighter closed to within two miles of the target, he verified with Sergeant Rawnsley, the radar operator on board the plane, that he had a solid radar fix on his on his Airborne Interception (AI) equipment then he handed off the interception.  If everything went properly, the rest of the interception would be done by the pilot and radar operator in flight.

Suddenly, Sqn/Ldr Brown realized that the Beaufighter was directly above their site — the Sopley Ground Control Interception (GCI) station.  He turned to the King and suggested they go outside to watch the interception.  Stepping out into the moonlit night, the two men lifted their eyes upward, searching for any sign of the two planes — the German plane and the pursuing Beaufighter piloted by Squadron Leader Cunningham.  A faint drone from the engines was all that could be heard — then they saw something that looked like a faint red glow.

Squadron Leader John Cunningham meets King George at RAF Middle Wallop that night. Source: Provided by Guy Ellis.

Earlier in the Night

There was little warning of the King’s visit to with 604 Squadron at RAF Middle Wallop on Wednesday, May 7, 1941.  Nonetheless, everyone managed to get the airfield and into a presentable state.  Accompanied by Sir Sholto Douglas, the King dined in the Officers Mess and then inspected and talked to the flight crews.  For a time, the King spoke with Squadron Leader John Cunningham and then as quoted in the 604 Squadron History, he “asked Sergeant Rawnsley his score and on being told nine he commented, ‘Nine eh? Will you get one for me tonight?’  Rawnsley very much overcome by the occasion, promised to do his best.  His Majesty then left to be shown around Starlight GCI at Sopley.”

It was 10:03 pm when Sqn/Ldr Cunningham and Sergeant Rawnsley boarded their Beaufighter Mk.IF (R2101 NG-R) and took off to patrol the English Channel.  Their aircraft was fitted with the Airborne Interception (AI) Mk IV radar, a system that had been introduced in late September 1940 and had served the RAF’s night fighter squadrons well.

Armed with four cannon and six machine guns and with a top speed of 320 mph, the Bristol Beaufighter was a formidable night fighter, made even more so when integrated into the innovative British Chain Home radar network that looked out to sea and warned of any approaching German aircraft.  The flaw with the radar network, however, was that it left a void inland.  Once a German plane crossed the line of coastal radars, it disappeared into the unmonitored heartland.  To address this gap, the Ground Control Intercept (GCI) radar system was developed based on a mobile system, the so-called “Starlight” caravans. The first mobile installation was established at Sopley in December 1940.

RAF Sopley’s Mobile GCI unit as seen from above on January 5, 1941. Sopley was the most effective GCI in Britain, ending the war with over 100 victories.

The Radar System

The GCI radar unit was based on an adapted Army Gun Laying tracker, known as a Type 8 Radar.  This was serviced by two aerials that were aligned onto a target by two airmen, known as Binders, who would pedal a stationary tandem that operated a mechanical linkage to turn the aerials based on instructions from the operator looking at the screen.  It was a crude system by later standards, but at the height of the early war period, it was the best there was.

Large Crossley trucks were used to mount the transmitter and receiver each connected to an aerial, while the operations room was housed in a Brockhouse trailer. In turn, this held the crew of three — a height finder operator, a fighter controller who sat in front of the Plan Position Indicator [PPI] scope, and a plotter.  Curtained off from the other crew, the plotter calculated aircraft speeds, headings and tracks of targets using a map and a Dalton computer.  Sopley was also equipped with Identification Friend or Foe (IFF) system that allowed quick identification of Allied aircraft.

The RAF Sopley Type 8 Mobile GCI Radar System, c. 1941.

Integrated Radar Coverage

The mobile unit did not stand on its own, however, as initial radar contacts were provided by the Chain High and Chain Low stations that looked across the English Channel for incoming German planes.  Contact information included the range, bearing, speed and height of the contact.  The GCIs accepted the transferred plot and took over as the enemy aircraft crossed the coastline — from that point onward, the job was in the hands of the RAF’s night fighter units.

A high degree of skill was required to co-ordinate height, course and speed data, particularly at night.  Squadron Leader Brown had with the help of Edward Bowen, a major contributor to the development of radar who personally developed the necessary control techniques.  Ultimately, he would become probably the most successful GCI controller of the war.

Scopes supporting the Type 8 radar at RAF Sopley.

Even with the extraordinary capabilities of the ground-based mobile GCI system, the real action typically culminated on board the night fighter.  Once brought within close range, the AI operator in flight would look through a leather visor at two luminous green cathode tubes, on which he could read the horizontal and vertical positions of his target.  Once in range, the echo that bounced off the enemy aircraft would appear as a blip on both screens.  The operator would call instructions to the pilot, bringing the plane into visual range – from there, it was the job of the pilot to shoot down the enemy.

With Sergeant Rawnsley calling instructions to Sqn/Ldr Cunningham, the two men navigated in behind the enemy aircraft — just what type of plane it was would be a mystery until they got within visual range.

A Luftwaffe He 111 as seen flying during 1941, from a sister squadron to the KG27 aircraft that was chased that night, this one being from KG26. Source: German Federal Archives

The View from the German Side

The town of Rennes in northern France served as the home of 7 Staffel Kampfgeschwader 27 (Boelcke), which was part of Luftlotte 3 within Fliegerkorps IV.  That night, one of the Staffel’s bombes, a Heinkel He 111P-2 (Werke Nr 1639 IG+DR), had taken off into the cold evening air.  On board were a crew of four — Pilot Oberfeldwebel Heinz Laschinski, Observer Feldwebel Heinz Shier, Wireless Operator Oberfeldwebel Otto Willrich and Flight Engineer Feldwebel Fritz Klemm.  As with many in the Staffel, the men were an experienced night bomber crew.

Laschinski had joined the Lufwaffe in 1934 and had then flown for Deutsche Luft Hansa before being recalled to the new Luftwaffe for service in Spain as part of the Condor Legion.  He served with distinction with 2nd Staffel Kampfgruppe 88 receiving amongst other awards the Spanish Cross with Swords, awarded for having taken part in combat missions against the Republican forces.  He was then assigned as a ‘blind flying’ instructor until in 1939 when he applied for transfer to a combat group.

A Heinkel He 111P with KG27, the exact type and squadron of the aircraft that was chased that night.

A Luftwaffe Night Raid

The mission that night was his 121st operational flight over Great Britain.  His target was the Liverpool docks.  After take off from Rennes, they had come across the English Channel at 4,000 metres (12,800 feet).  Once they had cleared the flak batteries on the south coast of England, Laschinski aimed his He 111 for the Bristol Channel, intending to fly between Cardiff and Bristol so as to avoid the aerial defences of both cities.

It was a clear night and he could see the reflection of the moonlight off the English Channel as he reached down and behind to his left and found the two fuel tank transfer controls.  He began to transfer fuel from the outer tanks to the inner ones. It wouldn’t be long before they would reach the Liverpool docks and, after having dropped their bomb load, they expected to return to Rennes, arriving in the early in the morning of May 7th.  At that moment, they had no idea that just two miles behind, an RAF Beaufighter was steadily approaching.  The German crewmen were always alert, however, scanning the darkness for a telltale flash of an exhaust fire or the silhouetting of an enemy hunter against the moon’s reflection off the water.

Continue to Part 2 =>

• For the darkness of night, a shadow falls across the Moon.
  
• There might be a good clue in the tail design.
  
• This came after the War to End All Ends.
  
• 9Ady — yes, that’s not a typo.
  

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The key challenges of air racing are ones of weight, profile, horsepower and aerodynamic streamlining.  In 1927, at the height of the international competition in the Schneider Trophy seaplace races, the British team tried a radical experiment.  The idea was to mount the newly designed nine-cylinder Bristol Mercury radial engine, as air-cooled engines had a better horsepower/weight ratio than water-cooled, inline.  Through the use of carefully designed aerodynamic fairings, the British hoped that the larger frontal profile of the radial could be streamlined into the fuselage, resulting in a lighter, more powerful and therefore faster racer.

So was born the revolutionary seaplane racing machine known as the Short Crusader which, on this date in aviation history, May 4, 1927, made its first flight.  Despite the promise of the design, the Short Crusader would never race a single contest.  Why and how that happened, however, is one of the tragedies of 1920s air racing history.

During engine run-ups, the Short Crusader shows off its sleek lines. Only one of the “helmets” is mounted on the cylinder heads in this photo, probably at Felixstowe Air Station, c. May 1927.

The Aircraft and Engine

Two British designers, Lieut.-Col. W. A. Bristow and W.G. Carter (the latter a former designer with the H. G. Hawker Engineering Co.), were independently tasked to develop the racing plane design by the Bristol Company, whose new radial engine was an extraordinary advancement over its past engine designs.  Though smaller and lighter than any previous radial, the new Bristol Mercury could theoretically produce as much as 960 hp, though the company derated it for flight safety reasons to 808 hp.  In response to the request, the two designers produced a stunningly streamlined concept.  Early on, however, they realized that an established manufacturing facility was needed to actually produce the plane.  Thus, in 1926, Short Brothers (Rochester & Bedford) Ltd. was approached with the project.  Having garnered British Government funding for a single racing prototype based on the design and promise of the new engine, Short Brothers considered the manufacturing deal a welcome contract.

By early 1927, the seaplane racer had taken form as a low wing monoplane with streamlined wires for support.  It had a medium airfoil wing and a fairly low wingspan for its size.  Manufactured of spruce frames and stringers overlaid with a thin veneer of mahogany, the Short Crusader was extremely light and strong.  The twin floats were designed especially for the Crusader, serving both as a fuel tank and for the traditional purposes of take off and landing from the water.  The Short Crusader’s light weight and high horsepower compared well with the other two planes of the racing team, the Supermarine S.5 and the Gloster IV, both equipped with the Napier Lion VIIB inline engine, which boasted up to 900 hp, though much heavier due to the water cooling system.

Ready to race, the Short Crusader with all of its cylinder head “helmets” in place, showing off a highly innovative, streamlined design.

The entire airplane and engine combined weighed less than earlier radial engines alone!  Empty, the Short Crusader came in at 1,938 pounds and, with fuel and loaded at race weight, it totaled to just 2,712 pounds, only slightly more than the Supermarine S.5 and Gloster IVB racers weighed empty!  For comparison, the S.5 weighed in at 2,680 pounds empty, giving it a fully loaded race weight o 3,242 pounds.  The Gloster IV weighed 2,613 pounds empty and at race weight with a full fuel load came in at 3,305 pounds.  As a result, both racers required more wing and, conversely, had to produce a lot more lift (and thus higher induced drag) to fly.  On paper, the Short Crusader promised to be the race leader.  The only remaining challenge was the engine’s large size, which produced excessive profile drag.

Front view of the Short Crusader; only the topmost “helmet” cylinder cover is installed on this view, probably at Felixstowe Air Station, c. May 1927.

Thus, the chief aeronautical problem had to do with the challenge of developing fairings that would both cover and streamline the cylinder heads, which protruded out of the full circumference of the nose of the plane.  This problem was made even more complex because the design had to ensure also that there was sufficient airflow over the cylinder heads for the air-cooled engine to avoid overheating at full power.  An innovative “helmet” design was developed that wrapped each cylinder head in a unique streamlining cap.  The term “helmets” was selected because each one appeared every bit like a Medieval jousting helmet with a pointed brow and eye slots for cylinder air cooling.  The top cylinder’s helmet extended into a long spine that reached the cockpit and then continued to gracefully taper into the vertical stabilizer and rudder.  Everything about the design was streamlined to the utmost.  The fuselage even tapered to a point at the end of the tail.  The Short Crusader’s design was revolutionary in all respects.

Bert Hinkler, the Australian test pilot and later record-setting air racer, who was the first pilot to fly the Short Crusader.

First Flights and Speed Trials

The first flight of the Short Crusader was completed by the Australian test pilot, Bert Hinkler.  At the time, he was a known name in aviation circles, but not yet famous as he would be just a year later.  Then, he would fly solo from England to Australia in record time, thereby catapulting himself into the public eye as a leading aviation pioneer and air racing pilot.  In the Short Crusader, he took off and flew the plane for a short time, landing to report that it handled smoothly and easily.  It was balanced, fast and gentle on the controls.  The wing design, elliptical with a smaller chord at the root, was unique and performed well.

Top plan view of the Short Crusader, showing the unique wing shape.

Critically, the plane had a tendency to “hunt” in yaw.  This was a problem that Hinkler had created himself when, having seen the original design, thought that the vertical stabilizer was too small and therefore demanded it be increased before he would fly it.  As it happened, the aeronautical engineers were right about their design.  Hinkler’s modification was subsequently replaced with the originally designed tail and the problem was solved.

The plane was then turned over to the RAF, which assigned it to its dedicated Schneider Trophy racing team, the RAF High Speed Flight.  Throughout the summer, the Short Crusader was put through its paces in familiarization flights and time trials at Felixstowe Air Station.  All of the racing pilots reported that the plane was stable and easy to fly.  They found it maneuverable in the turns and fast on the straights — however, time trials showed it to be consistently slower than both the Supermarine S.5 and, surprisingly, slower even than the biplane Gloster IV!

Some of the team that brought the Short Crusader from design to racing machine — from left, Major Abell of the Bristol Co.; Mr. W. G. Carter and Lieut.-Col. W. A. Bristow, the two designers of the airraft; Squadron Leader Slatter, chief pilot of the RAF High Speed Flight; Mr. Oswald Short, manufacturer at Short Brothers with Mr. Gouge, obscured behind him and the designer who created the floats; and two of the RAF High Speed Flight pilots, F/O H. M. Schofield and t. H. Moon. Source: Flight, August 18, 1927

The Schneider Cup Race

The British arrived at the Lido, off the coast of Venice, in grand style with four Royal Navy destroyers and HMS Hermes.  The planes were unloaded and prepared for the competition.  Due to the unexpected slower speed of the Short Crusader in its time trials, the RAF racing team had elected to bring the plane primarily for practice and familiarization flights.  Only in the event that the other racers failed or crashed would the Short Crusader make a showing.  Thus, the plane was one of the first to be prepared for flight.  It was uncrated and assembled hurriedly so that the RAF High Speed Flight could get started practicing the course.

The course would be off the beach at the Lido, starting quite near the seaplane station.  The racers were to take off and fly a counter-clockwise set of seven laps of 50 kilometers in length each.  The first leg of the triangular course was 11.4 km long with an obtuse angled turn into a 13.86 km leg that then reversed sharply for the final side of the irregularly shaped triangle, at 24.74 km in length.  Thus, the total length of the course, on completion of the seven laps, was 350 km.

Flying Officer Harry M. Schofield in his RAF uniform.

The first practice flight to be flown was by  the High Speed Flight’s Flying Officer Harry M. Schofield.  As Schofield lifted off, he kept the nose down and built up the speed to about 150 mph, keeping it just a couple of feet over the tops of the low waves.  As he pulled back to start a curving climb out to the right, however, the Short Crusader banked instead to the left.  Schofield reacted by pulling the stick farther over to the right, the correct reaction and one that came as second nature to a pilot of his experience.  What he didn’t know was that the aileron control cables had been incorrectly assembled.  They were crossed.  Instead of correcting the roll to the left, his right aileron input rolled the plane further to the left.  In the instant afterward, uncomprehendingly, he sharply rammed the stick over more to try to bring the wings level.  This only sharpened the roll to the left, of course.  Almost instantly, the plane rolled inverted and struck the water.

It was all over in less than a second.  On hitting the water, the fuselage split in twain right at the cockpit, throwing Schofield completely out.  The plane shattered apart as it came to a stop with a huge splash.  Totally destroyed, the engine and heavier components sank while the wooden parts floated.  A motorboat in the area sped to the scene and pulled Schofield out of the water.  Incredibly, he was bruised and half-drowned but otherwise unharmed.

The other two competitors that went to Venice for the Schneider Trophy races — in the foreground, the Gloster IV and behind, the Supermarine S.5.

Aftermath

The accident ended the Short Crusader’s short life as an experimental seaplane racer.  Its design had showed great promise, even if the plane hadn’t been able to compete in the Schneider Trophy races of 1927.  The RAF team would select the Gloster IVB with its geared engine and narrower span biplane wings, as well as two of the Supermarine S.5s to compete in the 1927 race.  As it would happen, the British prevailed that year, marking the beginning of the ascendency of the latest all-metal monoplane racer designed by R. J. Mitchell.

Flying Officer Harry M. Schofield would go on to write a book about learning to fly, hoping to parlay his fame as a member of the RAF High Speed Flight into fame of a different, though related sort as an author.

The victory with the Supermarine S.5 would bring the Schneider Trophy races to Calshot in England where the next generation of the Supermarine plane, the S.6, would take the prize as well.  Finally, the Supermarine S.6B would win a third time in 1931, bringing the Schneider Trophy to Great Britain for all time to come and ending the seaplane races forever.  The S.6B would not be the final iteration of the design series, however, as many of the lessons learned were applied into a later aircraft — the Supermarine Spitfire, Britain’s most famous plane that, along with the Hawker Hurricane, would bring victory in the Battle of Britain in 1940.  Interestingly, the elliptical wing of the Short Crusader was carried forward, in a modified form, into the final design of the Spitfire.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

Other than the elliptical wing, were the other aerodynamic lessons learned from the Short Crusader applied to subsequent British fighter planes?  If so, which?

The commanding general of the Alaskan Air Command, Major General William D. Old, USAF, squared off in front of his new Special Projects Officer, Lt. Col. William Pershing Benedict, USAF, who had joined the command just a month earlier.  The General wanted to know, can it be done, to fly and land a plane on the North Pole?  Lt. Col. Benedict, a California boy, looked at his commanding officer in the eye and replied, “As long as you give me everything I want and the people I want, I can do it.”  The general nodded — the reputation of the Air Force was at stake, after all, since the Navy had just tried and failed with one of its P2-V Neptune aircraft.  At the end of March 1952, a US Navy plane crashed and had to be abandoned at T-3.

A flight to be first to land at the Pole would fit the bill, that was sure enough — though even Maj. Gen. Old wasn’t sure it could be done.  Without blinking, he gave Lt. Col. Benedict the authority he needed, classified the project and code-named it, “Operation Oil Drum”, a suitably unsuitable name that would camouflage the actual purpose of the mission.  If it failed, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying — except that Lt. Col. Benedict had no intention of failing.

Lt. Colonel Joseph O. Fletcher, USAF, wearing a ski mask in the harsh Arctic conditions, c. March 1952, probably at T-3 “Fletcher’s Ice Island”.

Preparations and Flight Planning

The first task before Lt. Col. Benedict was to choose his copilot, the man who would help him plan and fly the operation.  In the entire USAF, there was no better choice than Lt. Col. Joseph O. Fletcher, a pilot and meteorologist who, only a month before in March 1952, had established T-3, what became known as “Fletcher’s Ice Island”.  It was a floating ice base manned by USAF personnel near the North Pole.  To set it up, Fletcher had flown there and made a landing on the ice.  Subsequently, it remained occupied for another eight years as it drifted around the Arctic, providing for the Strategic Air Command much needed weather reporting over the Pole in the era before satellites — a requirement since SAC’s war plan had heavy bombers flying polar routes into the Soviet Union to drop their nuclear bombs at the start of World War III.

A US Navy Douglas R4D-5L (the Naval variant of the DC-3/C-47 Dakota) that was used in Antarctic research flights; the US Navy was unable to “beat the Air Force” to the Pole, however, it did extensive work in Antarctica. Photo Credit: US Navy

Both Benedict and Fletcher were experts with the C-47 Dakota, having had extensive experience flying the type during the war and afterward.  Fletcher’s ice landing at T-3 had been accomplished with a C-47 that had been fitted with a special set of wheeled skis — the plane could take off on a regular runway, then land on the ice and vice versa.  As flight crew, the men together selected a range of expert personnel who had experience in Arctic and cold weather operations.  These included:

• 1Lt. Herbert Thompson, navigator, 58th Strategic (Weather) Reconnaissance Squadron, Eielson AFB
• MSgt. Edison T. Blair, recorder, Headquarters, Alaskan Air Command
• SSgt. Harold Turner, engineer, 5039th Base Flight Squadron
• A1C Robert L. Wishard, radio operator, 5039th Base Flight Squadron, Elmendorf AFB
• A2C. David R. Dobson, Alaska Air Command photographer
• Fritz Ahl, Alaskan bush pilot, McGrath, Alaska
• Dr. Albert P. Crary, geophysicist, West Newton, Massachusetts
• Robert Cotell, assistant to Dr. Crary, Cambridge, Massachusetts

In the event of an emergency, the men staged a second ski-equipped C-47 Dakota to stand by on T-3 “Fletcher’s Ice Island” which at the time was 100 miles from the Pole.  Capt. Lew Erhart, USAF, with a full crew of search and rescue personnel on board from the 10th Air Rescue Squadron out of Elmendorf AFB, Alaska, would be be in constant radio contact with the plane, ready to fly out if needed.  In the event of a problem, the rescue plane would be only one hour away.

Nine of the ten men who, as part of Operation Oil Drum, landed at the North Pole. The oil drum marked the exact spot of the North Pole. The tenth man, an Alaskan Air Command photographer, Airman Second Class David R. Dobson, took the photograph above. Photo Credit: A2C David R. Dobson

The Flight

As it happened, Operation Oil Drum had a first failure — the plane was forced to turn back after mechanical problems.  Having effected repairs, they tried again on May 3, 1952 — today in aviation history.  That day, the ski-equipped C-47 Dakota took off and flew north.  The navigator, 1Lt. Herbert Thompson, took multiple sightings as they flew, correcting the course and leading them to precisely to the North Pole.

From there, it was a matter of selecting a landing spot that was flat enough for the C-47.  They orbited and found one near the Pole, lined up and made a perfect landing.  They taxied up to within perhaps 30 feet of their destination, climbed out and walked to the Pole.  The ten men on the flight were the first Americans to have stood there at the “top of the world”.  Fittingly, they placed an empty oil drum at the precise spot that marked geographic north and erected two flags — an American flag and a USAF unit banner.  The team remained at the North Pole for over three hours.  While there, they collected ice samples, recorded weather data and winds and then returned to the plane.  They climbed back aboard and took off, radioing to the rescue plane a report that all had gone well:  “Expedition instructions carried out.  No sweat.”

A USAF C-47 on Arctic duty, fitted with wheeled skis, which are clearly visible in this photograph.

Aftermath

The USAF made good use of the flight, achieving the public relations goals by putting the service into the newspapers while at the same time upstaging the US Navy.  In the wake of the flight, USAF Arctic operations would continue to expand.  Though the USAF would dominate Arctic news for a time, a six years later the US Navy would seize the interest of the world on Arctic matters with it own, incomparable feat.  In 1958, the Navy’s nuclear submarine, the USS Nautilus (SSN-571), would sail under the North Pole, making an 1,830 mile journey from California to Greenland.  As for the USAF, it had nothing to match the Navy’s achievement.

The US Navy Douglas R4D-5L that was abandoned during Operation Ski Jump II in March 1952. Here, the aircraft is undergoing maintenance before recovery by the Soviets (the men in the photo are Soviet). Photo Credit: Unknown Soviet Photographer

The USAF learned later that the Soviets had beat them to the North Pole and landed there in 1948, four years prior to Benedict’s and Fletcher’s flight.  On April 23, 1948, Aleksandr Kuznetsov and 23 crew landed near the North Pole and, much like was done in Operation Oil Drum, walked the remaining short distance to the Pole.  A few years after the Americans abandoned T-3 “Fletcher’s Ice Island”, the Soviets arrived and recovered the downed US Navy plane, repaired it, flew it out and put it to work in the Arctic.  Six months later, it crashed again and was abandoned in situ.

Even today, claims of who did what and who owns which rights in the Arctic are disputed — ultimately, it didn’t matter who arrived at the North Pole first, what mattered more was who has the mineral and oil right under the ice cap.  And then there is the question of Wrangel Island — but that’s another story….

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

Why do historians believe that Lt. Colonels Benedict and Fletcher and Dr. Albert Crary were the first Americans to stand on the North Pole when there are at least two other journeys earlier, including the Byrd Expedition?

By extraordinary luck, that one SA-2 missile fired by Voronov’s SA-2 missile battery tracked true.  It exploded in the wake of the American U-2C spy plane.  The blast force tore the fragile wings from the fuselage and the stricken plane began a spinning descent toward the ground below.  In the cockpit, the CIA’s best, most experienced pilot, Francis Gary Powers, found himself pinned against the instrument panel, watching the ground spinning around outside the cockpit.  He couldn’t free himself to bail out.  He had no idea what had happened either.  He knew all too well, however, that it would be impossible to recover his U-2 from its spin.  His only thought was to bail out.

Six years afterward, in 1966, Francis Gary Powers poses with Kelly Johnson beside one of the new generation of CIA U-2 spy planes. Photo Credit: USAF

As the Soviet operators watched on their radar scopes, the dot that was the American plane began to shimmer and blink — only later would they recognize that this was the result of the falling pieces of the plane as the tumbling caused the radar signals to be reflected from different angles.  The radar operators in the sector called out the descending altitudes, expecting that the one missile that had been fired had missed the American plane.  Their interpretation of the signal was that the plane had started evasive maneuvers, diving to a lower altitude as it released chaff.  They also concluded that the plane had turned on some sort of jamming system that made the target shimmer and blink on and off on their screens.  At another SAM site, another three missiles were fired at the target which, having come lower, was now in range.

More Interceptors Launch

In the meantime, two flights of two MiG-19 fighters were launched into the air.  The pilots in those squadrons hadn’t been on holiday and were able to get to their planes and take off.  The MiG-19, however, couldn’t hope to reach the normal altitude of the American plane, but now, with reports over the GCI of the descent of the American, they could accomplish their mission.  As they climbed upward, they were given vectors to the target and ordered to engage.

The Soviet MiG-19 “Farmer”, the country’s main fighter at the time. Source: DoD

One of the three missiles fired exploded near the tumbling fuselage of the U-2 spy plane.  The force of that blast threw Francis Gary Powers backward in his seat, luckily freeing him from his earlier position pinned to the instrument panel.  Scrambling, he climbed out of the cockpit and attempted to leap clear of the falling wreckage.  In the rush to get out, however, he had failed to disconnect his oxygen hose.  The hose held firm as he was whipped against the side of his spinning plane’s fuselage.  Buffeted by the wind as he fell, he tried desperately to free himself.  Finally, the oxygen hose broke and he was thrown clear.  Once at a lower altitude, his parachute automatically deployed.  He began the long descent into the heart of the Soviet Union — a descent that would end in capture.  He and the remains of his airplane came down near Degtyarka, just west of Sverdlovsk.

Air Defense Efforts Continue

On the ground, the Soviets had no idea that they had been successful and that Francis Gary Powers’ U-2 had already been shot down.  As the first pair of MiG-19s approached the rapidly descending radar contact (the falling debris), the pilots found no target to intercept.  One of the pair of the planes, Capt. Boris Ayvazyan, with his wingman, Senior Lt. Sergei Safronov, spotted some pieces of something in the distance as they flew past a nearly mach speed.  They presumed what they had seen to be chaff or some other device dropped from the American plane to fool the ground-based radar systems.  They watched too as yet another pair of SA-2 missiles exploded harmlessly in the sky above, far in the distance.

Shortly afterward, the GCI officers were reporting that the American plane was speeding away at lower altitude — and that now it was two airplanes.  Confusing reports clouded the radio frequency and the GCI ordered the second pair of MiGs to intercept.  As it turned out, the second pair of MiGs were tracking the first two MiGs that had just flown by the descending radar return of the stricken U-2.  In the meantime, phantom radar reports began to crop up as excited operators called out anything they saw on their scopes.  The operators were stunned that the American plane seemingly appeared and disappeared as if at random.  In fact, they were fooled by their own system and false, transient signals.  In the excitement, they fired missile after missile at the phantom targets, hoping to score a hit.

A Soviet MiG-19 “Farmer”, with four Kaliningrad K-5 air-to-air missiles. Photo Credit: DoD

Friendly Fire

As all this was happening, the second pair of MiG pilots realized that they were being vectored to intercept the first pair — all four planes were from the same squadron.  Choosing to not disobey orders, they followed GCI instructions anyway, reporting as they went that no “enemy planes” were seen.  Finally, low on fuel, the two pairs of MiGs were ordered back to their base.  As Capt. Ayvazyan approached his base, he rolled his MiG upside and “hotdogged” it down in a split-S to show off.  His wingman, Senior. Lt. Safronov, chose to do a normal approach, as per orders.  As it happened, that would be a bad choice.  It was the Soviets’ last mistake of the day.

An SA-2 missile site, seeing the two “American planes” flying at a lower altitude, watched as one of them disappeared — Capt. Ayvazyan’s split-S resulted in his radar reflection dropping off their scopes.  While both airplanes were equipped with IFF, which should have let the SA-2 operators know that they were Soviet, in fact the ground crews at their base had not entered the new IFF codes for the month of May yet — it was a holiday after all — and thus, the that planes showed up on the radar scopes registered as hostile.  With a single target clearly identified, the commander of the SA-2 site ordered the launch of yet another volley of missiles.  This time, amidst cheering and calls over the radio to report their success, they scored a perfect hit.  Unknowingly, they had just downed the MiG-19 flown by Senior Lt. Safronov.

A U-2 pilot in his pressure suit being helped as he sits astride the cockpit. Photo Credit: USAF Museum

Aftermath

In the entire engagement, the Soviets had fired a total of 14 SA-2 missiles — all but that one first missile fired by Voronov were targeted at phantoms or friendly planes.  Capt. Mentyukov would land his Su-9 interceptor and climb down to live another day — he would see the birth of his baby in the months afterward.  Capt. Ayvazyan would land as well, reporting that he had observed the SA-2 hit the plane flown by Senior Lt. Safronov.  As for Safronov, he would bail out but would perish from the injuries sustained from the missile impact.

After things settled down, search teams were deployed to find the debris from the American plane and locate its pilot.  As it happened, Francis Gary Powers had been picked up by some common Soviet citizens, rural farmers who mistook him for a Bulgarian pilot.  When Marshal Biryuzov heard about the fiasco, 14 missiles fired, the failed interception by an unprepared pilot in an unarmed plane, the shooting down of a Soviet MiG in a “friendly fire” incident, he knew immediately that the success achieved would be drowned out the news of the air defense disaster that had taken place.

Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev is shown pieces from the downed U-2C spy plane.

Cover Up

In typical Soviet style, he had the answer.  Thus, Marshal Biryuzov dictated for the record that the events of that day had never happened.  Instead, he relayed for all to hear and understand that what “had happened” was to be recorded in another way, a way that would make everyone a hero.  The record of what he said is preserved and was written up years later by the son of Nikita Khrushchev, though at the time, it was buried deeply and hidden.  This is what we now know that Marshal Biryuzov had ordered as a cover-up, rewriting history for the benefit of all involved and, perhaps most of all, for himself:

“This is what happened.  The intruder only brushed the edge of the missile range.  We expected that and sent a T-3 (Su-9 Fishpot) to intercept it.  No — better a pair of T-3s.  There were two of them.  They had already reached the target when it entered missile range.  At its extreme limit.  It was decided to launch.  The interceptor was ordered to leave the firing area, but only shouted in reply:  ‘I am attacking.’  Two missiles were launched, as called for. The planes were so close together that they could not be distinguished from the ground.  Signals on the radar merged.  Therefore one missile hit the spy plane, while the other one went after our plane.  Unfortunately, it also hit the target.  What was the lieutenant’s name….  Yes, the Lieutenant died a hero.  And that’s the end of the story.”

As it happened, Marshal Biryuzov’s story suited everyone up and down the chain of command.  The Soviet Premier never found out the real events of that day.  It was a great victory, after all, and the American spy plane had been downed.  As for Senior Lt. Safronov, posthumously, he was awarded a medal as a “Hero of the Soviet Union.”

As for the rest, about the trial of Francis Gary Powers, his eventual release, and the CIA’s answer to the U-2 downing — that is another story.

<= Back to Part 1

Today’s Link of Interest

Download the U-2 “Utility Flight Handbook”, previously classified SECRET/NOFORN — Copy #7, from March 1, 1959 (18 MB).

It was May Day in 1960, 53 years ago today in aviation history when the Soviets celebrated their national holiday.  Military parades marched through Moscow’s main square in front of the Kremlin while the leadership looked on.  It was a day off for workers and even the military.  Unbeknownst to the Soviet planners in the hours before the holiday was to start, a CIA U-2C reconnaissance plane had been prepared at Peshawar, Pakistan.  It was to fly a critical mission, the most ambitious yet attempted.  The pilot, Francis Gary Powers, and a back up pilot, Bob Ericson, had been shuttled in for the mission.

Nothing would go right that day — for either the Soviets or the Americans.  By midday, the U-2C would be shot down and Powers would be captured.  As for the Soviets, despite the success achieved, they would have a cover-up on their hands.  In shooting down the U-2C, almost everything went wrong.  The air defense operation had been a comedy of errors and, despite the acclaim they would receive, one of their pilots was dead, shot down in a friendly fire incident, and the victorious SA-2 unit had nearly killed themselves by accident during the engagement.  Ultimately, except for the one pilot killed that day, they had just gotten lucky.

A heavily retouched photograph of CIA pilot Francis Gary Powers with a model of a later version of a U-2, c.1965. Source: CIA

The U-2 Flight

When Francis Gary Powers took off in the morning hours from Peshawar, Pakistan, he was flying a mission that had already been delayed twice due to weather.  The original aircraft shipped to Peshawar, the U-2C Article 358,  had been shipped back to Turkey’s Incirlik AB.  A second U-2C plane, known as Article 360, and carrying tail number 56–6693, had been brought in — it was fitted with the more powerful J-75 engine, giving it higher altitude capabilities.  Fuel had been ferried in on board a C-124 and the mission brief had been completed in complete secrecy.  The operation was so secret that even the host government of Pakistan wasn’t sure what the USAF and CIA were doing at the base at Peshawar.

Francis Gary Powers himself was the most experienced U-2 pilot in the program.  Prior to this flight, he had flown 27 operational missions in U-2s, including one that flown over China, one over the USSR and six along the Soviet border.  He had been in the program since 1956 and was the perfect choice for the mission given his breadth of experience in the plane.  For the mission, his aircraft was fitted with a B-model camera and carried, among other classified equipment on board, a System-VI ELINT unit which collected data about enemy radars and communications en route.

CIA U-2 spy plane. Photo Credit: CIA

The mission that day was planned to fly over and photograph the full range of high priority targets within the Soviet Union.  First, after having climbed to altitude while flying toward and over Afghanistan, the U-2C would fly over the Soviet Union’s six ICBM sites — all that the Soviets had at the time — with two being at Baikonur Cosmodrome and four at Plesetsk Cosmodrome.  The flight would then continue northwest and overfly the town of Chelyabinsk-65, where a Soviet nuclear reactor was operating, producing plutonium.  By measuring temperatures of the nuclear power plant’s exhaust gases, the US hoped to be able to estimate plutonium production levels, which in turn would give America an estimate at the rate the Soviets were building their atomic weapons arsenal.  Then, it would fly over Sverdlovsk, Kirov, Yur’ya, Plesetsk, Severodvinsk, Kandalksha, and the Russian naval base at Murmansk. Finally, with the intelligence mission completed, the U-2C would turn west and descend to land at Bodo, Norway.

To ensure the flight’s safety, a course had been plotted the flew by the new Soviet surface to air (SAM) missile sites and kept the plane at 70,000 feet of altitude, far above the best altitudes that US intelligence said could be achieved by the best high altitude fighter-interceptor the Soviets had, the Sukhoi Su-9, which NATO code-named the “Fishpot”.

Marshal S. S. Biryuzov, Chief of the Air Defense and Hero of the Soviet Union, as shown in 1967, featured on a commemorative Russian postage stamp.

The Soviet Response

Meanwhile, on the Soviet side, Marshal S. S. Biryuzov, Commander-in-Chief of the Air Defense Forces, was on edge.  CIA overflights with the U-2 had been taking place with some frequency, having started over western Europe, but then expanding to flights that crossed the very heart of the Soviet Union.  No less than Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev himself had been on the phone with the Marshal, demanding that the flights be shot down.  He would settle at nothing but positive results — and failure in the Soviet system was not a fate that Marshal Biryuzov wished to contemplate.  His ears still stung with the terms used, he recalled Khrushchev’s words:  “Shame!  The country is giving air defense everything it needs, and still you cannot shoot down a subsonic aircraft!”

Now, it was May Day and Marshal Biryuzov was dismayed to hear that another American spy plane was approaching.  At least one bit of good news was that it was easier to track the incoming American plane because so few other aircraft were flying on the holiday.  Knowing the special significance of the day and considering what a failure on this day — of all days — would mean, he ordered his missile defense forces and his high altitude interceptors to launch.  Despite his best efforts, however, what followed was a string of Soviet screw ups, the first of which happened from the first moment his order went out.  With the May Day holiday, it turned out that the bulk of the Soviet Air Force and missile defense units were off duty for the holiday.  Critically, not a single one of the Su-9 Fishpot pilots could be found.  Further, the Su-9 fighter planes weren’t even armed with missiles.  Though in retrospect, that made perfect sense since the units he was calling to instant action were in the interior of the country.  No war was on the horizon, it was a holiday, so why should they be standing at readiness?  At the moment, however, it was maddening.

A Sukhoi Su-9 “Fishpot”

Finally, a single Soviet Su-9 pilot at an airbase near Sverdlovsk was located.  His name was Captain Igor Mentyukov.  When he was found by panicked base personnel, he was in his dress uniform waiting at a bus stop just outside the base, on the way to see his pregnant wife and mother for a holiday picnic.  Brought hastily back to operations, the pilot explained that he wasn’t even in flight dress.  With the speed of the approaching high altitude plane, he had to confirm that it would be impossible to get into his pressure suit, to the plane, get it armed and ready for launch before the American would have passed by.  Word was relayed up to Marshal Biryuzov that there wasn’t time — in response, he ordered that the pilot take off anyway and ram the American spy plane if he could get to it.

First Interception

As Capt. Mentyukov put on just his helmet, he considered what the flight would be like in his dress uniform, without the benefit of the high altitude pressure suit.  He just hoped that the plane’s pressurization would not fail — if it did, he would certainly perish, his blood would boil at the altitudes he would be flying.  Considering his orders, he knew too that if he was successful, this would be his last flight — ramming another plane at 65,000 feet (the altitude the Soviets had thought the U-2C was flying) would mean that he would either day on impact or be thrown into the thin, low pressure atmosphere and die.

The very aircraft that Francis Gary Powers flew that day, just six month earlier having belly landed into a small civilian airfield in Japan, saved by the skilled hand of CIA pilot Tom Crull. Article 360 was known within the CIA pilot ranks as a hangar queen due to the many problems it routinely had.

Yet the orders were clear — and from the Air Marshal himself.  He wondered what the target must be.  It might be a bomber armed with a nuclear weapon, he thought, and thus, it had fallen on him to do his duty to save the Rodina, the Motherland of Russia.  As he ran to the flight line, he called to the others to take care of his mother, his wife and their unborn child.  Flipping the switches, he lit the engine and pushed the power forward aiming down the runway, he pulled off into an emergency take off and climb.  Taking vectors from the Ground Control Intercept officer (GCI), he was vectored directly behind it in a tail chase.  Soon he was at maximum altitude, still well below the U-2C’s height, but closing rapidly in full afterburner.  The plane was doing nearly 1,300 mph.

Though he wasn’t high enough, the Soviets had developed a few tricks to solve that problem.  In tests, they had developed a zoom climb procedure that enabled their Su-9 fighters to go above their absolute ceiling — but could they really fly higher than 65,000 feet?  The pilot would climb to the maximum height, accelerate in full afterburner to maximum speed and then point the nose down to accelerate even faster in a shallow dive.  Then, with a sharp pull-up, the plane would rocket upward in a zoom climb well above its maximum ceiling.  Momentum and thrust alone would carry the plane into the thin air higher up, where his wings and control surfaces had no effect.  If everything worked right, the theory went, a pilot could get to the altitude of the American airplanes and get a missile shot off before falling back to a controllable altitude.

The Tyuratam SS-6 missile site, one of the Soviet rocket pads that were photographed on U-2 missions out of Peshawar, Pakistan. This site was the first to be photographed by Powers that day. Source: CIA

As Capt. Mentyukov accelerated to maximum speed, he knew that his mission to ram the American was even more unlikely to succeed.  He would have to zoom up and, at the peak altitude he could attain, somehow collide with the American plane, yet do so without any control over the airplane itself in that high, thin air.  GCI declared the target to be dead ahead at a range of 15.5 miles.  He was in full afterburner and began the zoom climb sequence, switching on the radar to acquire the target.  Instead, he was stunned to find the radar inoperative.

There he was, not even in a pressure suit, at the top of the aircraft’s ceiling, with no missiles on his rails and he couldn’t even get a radar fix on the target to ram it!  The GCI stepped in with continuing instructions, watching slowly on their scopes far below as the two dots merged into one.  It didn’t take long at nearly 1,300 mph.  The speed of the American plane was less than half his own.  The closing speed equated to nearly 1,000 feet per second.

Soviet Su-9 “Fishbed” high altitude interceptors of the type flown that day on the ramming mission. Source: DoD

Even spotting the American plane with those closing speeds would be nearly impossible.  The GCI called out heading corrections as Capt. Mentyukov zoomed nearly vertically aiming blindly at the point in space where the other aircraft should be.  Somewhere above him, against the blackness of the high altitude sky, the American plane was flying made it nearly invisible, except from above as seen against the sunlight Earth below.

As the plane peaked, for a brief instant, he saw it, the thin-winged long fuselage of the U-2C spy plane — it was unlike any plane he had ever encountered before.  Incredibly, he had zoomed past it and was now harmlessly above it as he flashed past.  As his Su-9 fighter plane fell off the zoom and tumbled back toward lower, thicker air, he glanced up, catching another glimpse of the plane, which he thought might have been in a turn.  Then, he shut off the afterburner and, critically low on fuel, took back control of the plane, pulled out of the dive and took a heading for Sverdlovsk.  He had done his best — if the Americans were about to drop an atomic bomb on Russia, he had failed to protect his country.

The U-2′s cockpit used traditional dials and a large “driftsight” telescope to help the pilot see the landscape below. To navigate, pilots would look into the driftsight and correct their course as they flew — that day, the U-2C’s autopilot had failed and Powers was navigating by reference to ground landmarks. Source: USAF Museum

In later years, Capt. Mentyukov would claim that maybe his wake turbulence had downed the U-2 spy plane, not the later missile fire — he was wrong, however, as the U-2C continued on for some time longer, flying perfectly under control before it was again engaged.  Francis Gary Powers, the American pilot, never even saw Capt. Mentyukov’s Su-9 fighter, as most probably he was looking through the scope at the ground below when the Su-9 flashed past close by and just above him.

SA-2 Missile Fire and MiG-19 Flights

The next phase of the engagement involved a series of launches from Soviet SA-2 SAM missile sites.  Soviet air defense radars and early warning systems were lit up with reflections from the high flying U-2C.  The Soviet missile teams could see the plane, at least intermittently as it passed from one sector to another, sometimes disappearing in the gaps in radar coverage.  One by one, they passed off radar contacts to each other as the plane proceeded deeper and deeper into Soviet territory, but could they shoot it down?  The target was at 70,000 feet and the best the SA-2 could achieve was about 85,000 feet.  To do that, however, meant that the missile had to fly straight up — even a few miles off the center point of the “dome of coverage” meant that the SA-2′s top altitude would be lower than the American plane.

An SA-2 on display at Nellis AFB. Source: USAF

The Soviet Air Defense forces waited for the American plane to cross into one of the engagement zones, a narrow high altitude “footprint” which a missile could reach as it neared its highest altitudes.  Again and again, they were stymied as the U-2C pilot approached a zone, but then turned away each time, seemingly at the last moment.  It was as if the Americans were toying with the Soviet systems, as if they knew exactly where the Soviet SA-2 launch sites were located.  In the aftermath of the events that day, Marshal Biryuzov would later consider whether a spy in the Kremlin or on his staff had been cooperating with the Americans, but for now, he had to just wait and listen to the reports come in as the American plane leisurely turned a little to the left and right to dodge its way through the gaps in his air defense network.  Finally, the American plane approached the engagement zone of the site commanded by Major Mikhail Voronov.

Maj. Voronov watched on the scopes as the high altitude intruder closed, but then was dismayed too as the plane turned away at the last moment.  “Target is moving away”, he radioed.  Then, incredibly, he observed as the American plane turned back onto its original course — by fluke of chance, the CIA mission planner had not known of Maj. Voronov’s SAM site and, as such, had not plotted a course to avoid it.

Soviet SA-2 surface to air missiles, one launching — the type that downed the U-2C flown by Powers.

The Russian SAM commander leaned forward intently as the American intruder came to the edge of his engagement zone and then crossed inside.  “Fire two missiles!” he ordered.  His ground crew, cognizant of launch failure rates from their training, instead chose to fire three.  Incredibly, two of the three SA-2s didn’t leave the launchers.  The fail safe system had engaged.  Their own missile control van was parked in the launch trajectory and the system, recognizing that, had shut down the launch.  Had it not done so, Maj. Voronov and his radar operators would have been killed.  Voronov cursed the word, “Failure”, as only a single missile soared upward, somehow flying perfectly toward the U-2C and Francis Gary Powers.

Continue to Part 2 =>

Brig. Gen. Vladimir Kokkinaki and his copilot, Major Mikhail Kh. Gordienko, had set out from Moscow on April 28, 1939, in the Russian prototype Ilyushin TsKB-30 twin-engined bomber on an international mission.  Though the aircraft was a bomber by design, their flight was one of peace.  Nonetheless, it wouldn’t be long before World War II would begin in Europe with the invasion of Poland.  Yet now, their plane, christened the “Moskva” and painted in bright red, was to set new records and show the world that Russia was a modern, powerful and capable nation.  Their flight was expected to be a 24 hour, non-stop journey, taking the plane far to the north of the usual commercial aerial routes, cutting the distance by flying closer to the Arctic.  If successful, it would land them in the history books, pioneer a new northern “Great Circle” route to span the distance from Europe to the USA, and, above all, arrive at New York’s Floyd Bennett Field in time to highlight Russian’s participation in the 1939 World’s Fair, “The Land of Tomorrow” held that year in New York City.

The two men were more than 20 hours into their flight when weather conditions began to deteriorate.  Flying higher in hopes of penetrating the clouds and storms that formed a wall ahead, the two men went onto oxygen.  They were exhausted too, but soldiered on for the Rodina, Stalin’s Russia.  BG Kokkinaki was already a “Hero of the Soviet Union” and he knew that this flight would undoubtedly establish him in the pantheon of the most favored Russian pilots in history.  It seemed, however, that the weather over eastern Canada, south of Labrador, was conspiring against him.  Surely, he would prevail, he considered, as the plane entered the clouds.

Russian photo illustration of Brig. Gen. Vladimir K. Kokkinaki, standing before the nose of the TsKB-30 “Moskva”.

The Plan

For weeks beforehand, the two men had prepared for the flight, carefully charting an innovative flight plan for a non-stop journey that would take advantage of the curvature of the Earth to shorten the distance between Moscow and New York.  This was the Great Circle Route, which meant that the men would fly at the very edges of the Arctic, across the top of the globe, taking advantage of the Spring weather.  Their exact route was to fly from Moscow to Novgorod, USSR; then Helsinki, Finland; Trondheim, Norway; Reykjavik, Iceland; Cape Farewell, Greenland (also known as Uummannarsuaq); Labrador, Canada; and then to arrive at New York City’s Floyd Bennett Field on Long Island.

BG Kokkinaki was no stranger to long distance flying.  Earlier, he had flown the very same plane on a record-setting flight with copilot A. M. Berdyanskij.  Together, the men had made it from Moscow to Spassk-Dalny in Primorsky Krai, Russia, a point that was in the southeasternmost corner of the USSR, nearly bordering with the northeast corner of China.  That flight had been a non-stop affair of 24 hours and 36 minutes, covering a total distance of 4,710 miles.  For most of the flying, the men had been on oxygen as they had averaged an altitude of 23,000 feet.  New York would be farther away, to be sure, but BG Kokkinaki knew he was up to the challenge.

The Moskva is prepared for a long distance mission.

The Plane

The plane that the pair intended on using was the prototype of Russia’s latest bomber design from the Ilyushin Design Bureau.  It was known as the TsKB-30 “Moskva”, and it was painted a bright red.  In bold white Cyrillic lettering underneath the wing, the word, “MOSKVA” was spelled out for all to see.  The plane sported two engines, both license-built Gnome-Rhône Mistral Major 14Kdrs radials that had been manufactured by Tumansky.  Properly tuned and at altitude, each engine could produce as much as 760 hp.  This gave the plane a cruising speed of over 200 mph.

The TsKB-30 was derived from an earlier wooden prototype known as the TsKB-26.  In that very airplane, BG Kokkinaki had performed the world’s first loop in a twin-engine airplane, having done so in front of no less than Stalin himself.  That had more than demonstrated the plane’s power, maneuverability and ruggedness.  The TsKB-30, however, was an improvement over the earlier -26 prototype.  This newer plane was all-metal and had included various modifications learned from the -26 design.  Ultimately, the TsKB-30 design would be designated the DB-3, which would become one of the USSR’s key medium bombers of World War II.  In terms of performance, arguably it was the fastest, most powerful, longest range bomber in any nation’s air force.  Even more impressive, it could carry a bomb load of 2,200 pounds.

The prototype TsKB-30 carried no armor or weapons and thus was the ideal plane to herald the Soviet banner abroad for the World’s Fair.  It would be a mission of peace, but also one that was designed to demonstrate Russia’s new-found military prowess.  Indeed, there could be no better demonstration of Stalin’s ascendency as a world leader than the USSR’s pavilion at the World’s Fair.  That forum allowed the USSR to show its technological greatness and this was aptly demonstrated at the expansive Russian Pavilion.  Inside, the Pavilionoffered a full-sized replica of the Moscow Metro’s Mayakovskaya station, complete with finely reproduced mosaics and marble floors.

The Mayakovskaya Metro Station in Moscow, Russia. Photo Credit: Bjørn Christian Tørrissen

In fact, the Mayakovskaya station that made New York’s subways appear dull and utilitarian.  Designed and assembled by Alexey Dushkin, one of the USSR’s leading architects, the entire Metro stop was reproduced in New York for the World’s Fari.  Stainless steel and rhodonite columns lined the gallery of granite and marble flooring while ceiling mosaics were recessed above the columns, depicting idealized Soviet scenes of workers, farmers and revolutionaries.  The station design was the very heart of Stalin’s vision of the New Soviet Man.

Likewise, the Ilyushin TsKB-30 was the idealized vision of Stalin’s future air force and, fittingly, BG Kokkinaki and his copilot Maj. Gordienko were the ideal Soviet military aviators, the perfect ambassadors of the new USSR, a country that had emerged from the trying times of the 1920s and 1930s as a world power.

Soviet propaganda photo of Brig. Gen. Vladimir Kokkinaki, standing in front of one of the Moskva’s engines.

The Flight

For the first 20 hours after take off, until the two pilots reached Canada, everything about the flight and the TsKB-30 had been perfect.  Yet as they passed Labrador, they were astonished to see that the storm clouds ahead completely blocked their route.  The bases of the clouds were nearly touching the land below while the tops towered above the maximum altitude that their airplane could fly.  Knowing that a crowd had been assembled at Floyd Bennett Field — there were even to be twelve schoolgirls with flowers — they pressed on, hoping to punch through the weather and fly into clearer air farther south.  The two men attempted to communicate by radio but found little more than static over the HF sets as their response.  In short order, they were into the clouds and flying on instruments.  At 27,000 feet, both men were on oxygen.

The going was rough.  Turbulence and winds buffeted the aircraft.  Adverse headwinds slowed their progress.  Without radio navigational aids and with no visual references, they were dead reckoning.  After several hours in the clouds, often unable to hold a heading, they were no longer sure of their position.  He realized too that the static over the HF was an indication of a radio antenna failure since the radio direction finding gear had also failed.  Then, unexpectedly, BG Kokkinaki passed out.  Perhaps it was an oxygen system failure, perhaps it was exhaustion mixed with stress, but Maj. Gordienko was alone with the task of flying the plane.  Quickly, he discerned that he had no choice in the matter.  Sundown was fast approaching as rain lashed the plane.  Unable to revive BG Kokkinaki, he descended through the clouds, hoping to find a field to land in far below.  His best guess was that he was somewhere over eastern Canada.

The lighthouse on Miscou Island, Canada, as it appeared in 1933. Source: Agence Parcs Canada

When he broke out at low altitude, he found himself over the water.  Shortly afterward, he was relieved to find a small island.  He circled it closely, looking for a field that might be suitable for a landing.  Also, he scanned away from the island looking for other land, hoping to see something else in the distance.  He saw too that there was a lighthouse on the island, which implied it was occupied, though he could see few dwellings.  If he left this one spot in the midst of the ocean to probe farther to the west, would he find land or more open sea?  Without confidence in his location, it would be guesswork and, if he was wrong, he might not even be able to find the island again after dark.  Moreover, even if he found land farther to the west, would he arrive after sunset and, in the darkness, be unable to land anyway?

The Crash Landing

Maj. Gordienko considered his options.  Even now at lower altitudes and without the need for supplementary oxygen, BG Kokkinaki would not regain consciousness.  Carefully circling in the grey mist, he made a final survey and chose the best field for a crash landing.  There would be no use of the landing gear given the rough terrain below.  The plane would be damaged but what choice had he?  As the sun set and dusk extended over the fields, he reduced power, dropped the flaps and made as slow an approach as was possible.

French-Canadian villagers on Miscou Island handle the wing of the Moskva after its crash-landing.

The plane hit the first uneven slope of the rough fields in a belly landing and immediately relaunched itself back into the air.  Keeping control, Maj. Gordienko resettled the plane back onto the earth and held on as it slid agonizingly to a stop.  Quickly shutting off all of the systems, he was surprised to see that BG Kokkinaki had regained consciousness.  Confused and blinking through the crisis, BG Kokkinaki joined Maj. Gordienko in the evacuation of the airplane.  Soon afterward, a French-Canadian villager approached and greeted them.  Exchanging pleasantries, neither quite understanding the other due to language difficulties, they eventually established that they had landed on Miscou Island, on the very north-easternmost tip of the Canadian province of New Brunswick.

The island was remote enough that there would be no repairs possible and no continuing onward.  The Moskva had seen its final flight.  In addition, it would be some time before they could even get off the island.  The best they could do was use the telegraph at the lighthouse and communicate that they had at least come down safely.  The crash landing had taken place at sundown today in aviation history, on April 29, 1939.

The USSR Pavilion at the 1939 World’s Fair in New York.

Aftermath

The flight of the Moskva at the hands of Brig. Gen. Vladimir Kokkinaki and Major Mikhail Kh. Gordienko was a great achievement, even if it was ultimately unsuccessful.  Having mapped a northerly, Great Circle route from Moscow to New York, the pair had pioneered a new corridor for future air traffic — and indeed, that same route is still in use today.  Further, even in failing, they had flown nearly 5,000 miles in 22 hours and 56 minutes, averaging 216 mph.

When they reached New York City some weeks later, they were welcomed as heroes nonetheless.  The vast majority of New Yorkers recognized that the flight had been to the extremes of maximum range and performance.  That it had ultimately failed had more to do with the weather than anything else.  In fact, the pilots reported that they had two hours of fuel on board at the time of their crash landing.  It was ill-luck that brought them down in the end, but it was a truly daring flight nonetheless.

As for the USSR’s pavilion at the 1939 World’s Fair, ultimately, it won the Grand Prize as the finest built, best designed and most amazing pavilion in the entire exposition.  The mission of the Moskva, though it had just spanned from Moscow to Miscou, had been a successful.  Russia’s World’s Fair exhibition was entirely a success.  The most important thing too was that Stalin was suitably pleased.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

What happened to the crash landed wreck of the TsKB-30 “Moskva” at Miscou Island?

The Flight Data Recorder, most would say, traces its lineage to the first efforts of two Frenchmen, François Hussenot and Paul Beaudouin, who created their revolutionary “HB” device in 1939.  The HB used photographic processes, in which an eight meter long, 88 mm wide film recorded the progression of altitude, speed and other flight data onto film.  The film was changed periodically since, once exposed, it could not record additional data.  Another early design was created by Len Harrison and Vic Husband in the early 1940s, whose apparatus record flight data and control positioning onto copper tape, which could therefore survive a crash.

Both reports on the origins of the Flight Data Recorder are wrong, however.  The first true flight data recorder dates not to the late 1930s or early 1940s, but rather decades earlier to a man whose contributions to aviation are all but forgotten — the Englishmen Mr. George M. Dyott.  His aeroplane, known as the Dyott Monoplane, debuted in April 1913, 100 years years ago in aviation history.  Surprisingly, it carried the world’s first Flight Data Recorder, a device of his invention.

George Dyott stands up in the cockpit of his 1913 Monoplane, his name emblazoned in white on the sides of the fuselage and on the wings. Source: P. Lewis

The First Flight Data Recorder

As historical records clearly show — even if they’ve been largely missed by others — Dyott’s first device wasn’t experimental, but rather was offered as standard equipment on Mr. George M. Dyott’s monoplane in 1913.  The existence of the device is beyond question — it was not just an idea “on paper”, but rather was installed and operational on all of Dyott’s monoplanes.

“A view showing the aluminium covering of the front part of the fuselage removed, allowing a thorough inspection of engine and controls.” Source: Flight (for caption and photo)

Even the publication Flight, the newsletter of the Royal Aero Club, contained an announcement about the device, which they credited to Mr. Dyott as his own invention.  Their entry from the April 26, 1913, newsletter provides a complete description of the device’s operating principles:

In addition to the usual instruments carried, i.e., revolution indicator and altimeter, this machine is fitted with an instrument of Mr. Dyott’s own invention.  It is a graphic recorder which shows all the different movements of the control levers.  The chart is divided into three parts:  Warp, Elevator and Rudder.  As the drum revolves, three pointers draw the three different graphs, so that in a straight flight, during which the control levers were not moved at all, the pointers would draw three straight lines, but as soon as the course was altered the pointer connected to the rudder would make a wavy line, and as the warp is used in conjunction with the rudder, the warp pointer would draw a corresponding curve.  This instrument should prove of great service, and furnish some very interesting data for comparing the different ways in which different pilots control the same machine.

Thus, as incredible as it might seem, by tracking the movements of the three axis control inputs, the original Dyott invention has much in common with later flight recorders, just as those developed in the 1940s!

Plans for the Dyott Monoplane of 1913. Source: Flight, April 26, 1913

Dyott’s Monoplane

As for Dyott’s Monoplane, it included other innovations as well his Flight Data Recorder, though he didn’t call his invention that, though exactly what he named it is unclear.  The overall design and plan form conformed the latest standards and expectations, similar in appearance to a Morane, Blériot or Deperdussin.  The engine was a 50 hp, seven cylinder Gnome radial, a popular power plant of the day.  Based on the size of the fuel and oil tanks, the pilot could expect a three hour endurance — another innovation in Dyott’s design was the addition of a secondary fuel tank, located behind the pilot’s seat.

Diagram of the flight controls, cables and rocker arms of the Dyott control system. Source: Flight, April 26, 1913

To address the widely discussed and troublesome issue of elevator wire chafing that plagued other aircraft designs of the time (e.g., the wires from the stick to the tail had to cross or control inputs would not be correctly applied), Dyott developed a unique system involving a single wire from the control stick to a rocker arm that likewise attached to the aviator’s own seat.  This allowed leverage to manipulate the elevator without the need to cross the wires.

Diagram of the instrument panel and control layout. Source: Flight, April 26, 1913

The layout of the cockpit and instrument panel, though simple by modern standards, was carefully considered and organized in a way that would impress later instrument panel designers.  Engine controls and instrumentation were co-located on the left side, with levers to allow the pilot to control the fuel and air flow into the carburetor while referencing an RPM indicator, as a vertical glass tube gave visual reference to the oil level in the tank.  The magnetic compass was at the center of the panel.  To the right were the altimeter, the fuel glass and the “tell-tale glass” as well as an “inclinometer”.  A joystick with rudder pedals, as seen in modern control systems, were positioned in front of the seat while a fuel cut-off switch was located on the left side of the joystick to enable chopping the engine for descents and landings, easily found without the pilot having to glance down at the panel during the concentrated periods of the final approach to landing.

The Dyott Monoplane is wheeled out at Hendon in the Spring of 1913. Source: P. Lewis

Final Thoughts

Despite all of its innovative characteristics, George Dyott’s monoplane didn’t exactly take England by storm.  Though his design was appreciated for its merits, it flew a bit slowly, featuring a top speed of about 75 mph.  Ultimately, he had to take it to America to find buyers.  Even then, his monoplane design didn’t become as popular as the other competing aircraft types of the day.  When the Great War began in 1914, Dyott’s monoplane saw little service — instead he concentrated on developing a large, twin-engine bomber for use by the Royal Navy, which he introduced in 1916.  With three crew, four bomb bays and a biplane configuration, that design was also quite innovative.

Dyott’s monoplane in military markings at the outset of the Great War in 1914.

Most critically, he pioneered the concept of the “flying fortress”, putting no fewer than five Lewis machine guns on the plane, pointing in all directions for defense.  Two guns were mounted for the nose gunner, two fired through side ports on the fuselage (one on each side) and one was fitted to a rear-gunner station behind the wing.

Armament on the Dyott Bomber. Source: H. King

Sadly, this design was doomed also from the start since the British Government only allowed Dyott to fit the plane with lesser powered, heavier, less reliable engines, retaining the best engines for the more common and popular aircraft that it sought to procure for the war effort.  Instead, for the Dyott Bomber a pair of 120hp Beardmore six-cylinder, water-cooled, in-line engines were used, leaving it dramatically under-powered.  Later, these were upgraded to 230 hp versions, but even then the plane never left the testing fields, finally being scrapped in 1918/1919 at the end of the war.

The Dyott Bomber of 1916. Source: F. Manson

Ultimately, George Dyott proved to be a very capable and innovative designer — even visionary in many respects.  Many of his ideas were years ahead of the standard of his day, though few recognized it at the time.  One can only imagine how much the world could have benefited from his Flight Data Recorder during those early years, as it would have given accident investigators far more insight into what really happened in the wake of each crash.  When the Flight Data Recorder was developed in the first years of World War II, it is quite likely that little or no reference was made to Mr. Dyott’s device — thus, the FDR would suffer the fate of having been invented twice!

From the Archives

100 Years Ago :: Flying in Mexico — read about George M. Dyott’s extraordinary adventures flying in Mexico, complete with a photo of the man himself!

Today’s Aviation Research Question

As we cannot find one, does anyone have a photograph or diagram of Mr. Dyott’s data recording device?

Since 1911, the Pommery Cup prize had been standing, a twice yearly competition with a large prize of 7,500 francs given each six months until the last competition in the Fall of 1913.  Thus, two prizes were awarded each in 1911, 1912 and then 1913.  A total of 50,000 francs were given away, with the final competition being the largest purse — 12,500 francs!  The rules were simple enough, at least on the face of it, being that, as reported by Flight, “It was stipulated that to qualify flights must be made in a straight line, in one day, and at a speed of not less than 50 kiloms. an hour.”  The prizes were awarded for the periods ending April 30 and October 31 in each year.  Not surprisingly, as the final weeks of each prize period approached, the number of competitors making attempts picked up.

Thus, 100 years ago today in aviation history, the Pommery Cup prize of Spring 1913 was on the line.  After this, the fifth running of the competition, the big finale of the Pommery Cup would be awarded in the Fall, with the full size Pommery Cup being given to the final victor.  And if Pierre Daucourt and Edmond Audemars had anything to do with it, it would be one of them that would be the victor.  With just days left to the end of the prize period for the Spring 1913 period, the two set out, hoping to span the distance from Paris, France, to Berlin, Germany.  Only one would make it — but would either win?

Edmond Audemars, the Swiss pilot with his stylish driving cap and matching suit — a fine competitor in 1913 for the fifth Pommery Cup.

Edmond Audemars Begins his Flight

In the early hours of the morning, at 5:15 am, the Swiss pilot Edmond Audemars prepared his Morane monoplane at Villacoublay.  Across Paris, though he did not now it, the first preparations were also underway at Pierre Daucourt’s hangar at Châteaufort, where a Borel monoplane was being readied for his flight.  The weather had dawned with a glorious perfection that lead both men to conclude that today was the day.  Berlin was a far distance away and some expected it was too great to achieve in a single day of flying, even if one’s aeroplane performed perfectly.  As it happened, Audemars off first.  Both intended to take off soon after dawn so as to maximize their time aloft and, barring any unforeseen weather or problems, reach Berlin by nightfall.

First, Audemars made a fast trip toward Mexieres, France, covering a distance of 210 kilometers in just 1 hour and 25 minutes.  He took the time there to check over the engine, refuel and put in fresh oil.  At 7:30 am, he launched once more.  His next stop, if all worked out, would be in Germany.

Pierre Daucourt in his flying helmet, a French aviator of extraordinary abilities. Source: French Postcard

Pierre Daucourt Sets Out

Just fifteen minutes after Edmond Audemars had departed Villacoublay, Pierre Daucourt wheeled his Borel out onto the grass field at the Borel school’s aerodrome located at Châteaufort, Seine-et-Oise, near Paris.  The engine was started and with a cheerful wave to his friends, he took off — the time was 5:30 am.  At first, he set out in same direction as the other’s Morane, though he did know of the other’s departure, nor would he have expected to catch him even if he did.  Instead, Daucourt steered 220 km to Maubeuge and then turned slightly to navigate another 120 km to Ans Aerodrome at Liege, Belgium.  He landed there at 7:40 am, having covered 340 km in 2 hours and 34 minutes.  Clearly, Audemars’ Morane was a faster aircraft, though it wasn’t the mission to arrive first after all, but to go farthest.

As later computations would show, Daucourt’s Borel was averaging a ground speed of 133 km/hr — not a bad speed for a Gnome-powered 50 hp aeroplane.  Comparatively, Edmond Audemars’ Morane was a swift, having averaged a ground speed of 148 km/hr.   Both had proceeded from Paris, and both veered north over Belgium.

Edmond Audemars in his flying helmet and goggles.

Edmond Audemars Forges On

Audemars started out again from Mexieres with a take-off at 7:30 am.  He flew over the forests of the Ardennes at 1,800 meters of altitude, aiming to cross over in Germany and achieve Wanne in Westphalia by late morning.  Yet with just 100 kilometers remaining, the winds picked up and he found himself suddenly fighting to make forward progress.  The Morane seemed to be nearly standing still in the skies, though Audemars could see that he was making some progress, though painfully slow.  Four hours after departing, he finally landed at Wanne, Westphalia, Germany, at 11:30 am.

He elected to wait for a time to see if the winds abated.  Instead, after lunch, he noted that the winds were rather increasing.  Nonetheless, the Pommery Cup was on the line — he knew that he had to make a go of it.  He fueled and took off, making a spiral climb to altitude, hoping that he would find a level where the winds were lessened.  After ten minutes, he returned to land.  He would abandon his attempt for the day.  Instead, he decided to relaunch in the morning, fly to Berlin and then perhaps continue on further.  The weather would decide his journey, he reasoned.

Daucourt’s Borel monoplane.

Pierre Daucourt Relaunches

Farther to the south and an hour later, Pierre Daucourt too faced the wind, though it was not as bad as that seen by Audemars.  As Daucourt prepared to depart from Liege, Belgium, he made sure his fuel tank was filled and his oil checked.  At 9:30 am, he lifted off, aiming to cross into Germany and locate Hanover.  Despite the wind, he managed it perfectly, landing there on the horse racing track at 1:45 pm.  Looking back, this last leg had seen his ground speed reduced to just 82 km/hr — the headwind had knocked off a stunning 51 km/hr from his forward speed.  Again, he checked over his plane and refueled.  Berlin was within reach — yet the winds bothered him.

Daucourt too waited for awhile, watching the winds and considering his options just as Audemars was doing at that very time 200 km to the southeast, on the ground at Wanne, Germany.  Where Audemars would judge the wind too much, Daucourt chose to depart, despite that his was the slower aeroplane.  He had paused for nearly two hours and during that time he adjudged that the conditions would not improve.  If he were to wait much longer, Berlin would be out of reach before nightfall.  Even with the headwinds, he worked out that he should be there within two hours; if there was a problem with the plane, he would have at least an hour and a half to land, sort it out and take back off to finish before dark.

Johannisthal airfield, Berlin, as it appeared during the “Rund um Berlin” (Around Berlin) race that took place that same year, on September 30, 1913.

With the Pommery Cup prize beckoning, Pierre Daucourt bravely set out from Hanover at 3:38 pm, flying into the teeth of a fierce headwind.  Turbulence threw his plane up and down as much as 150 meters in altitude as his Borel rocked and was buffeted as he flew along.  It took nearly three hours to reach the Johannisthal grounds at Berlin, safely landing at 6:33 pm.  On this last leg, his forward speed over the 260 km distance had been just 89 km/hr.  It had been a battle, no doubt, but he had made it.

Plans for the Borel monoplane that Delacourt flew that day.

On arrival, he was pleased to find that the Imperial German Aero Club awaited him — Major von Tschudi and top officials were there to greet his arrival and offer him dinner.  As he would later figure it, he had covered the full distance of 895 km in 7 hours and 40 minutes of flight time — thus, he had averaged 116 km/hr.  His flying time for the distance of 895 kiloms. was 7 hours 40 minutes.  As he ate dinner, the sun set a bit less than two hours later (official sunset was at 8:24 pm).  Word arrived too from the airfield that there was no news of Edmond Audemars.

Edmond Audemars in the cockpit of his airplane, adjusting his flying helmet.

Audemars’ Disappointment

Where Daucourt had forged on into raging headwinds, Edmond Audemars had elected to stop at Wanne, still 450 km short of his goal of reaching Berlin.  He choose to stop for the night and so, disappointed at the prospect, turned in to get some sleep.  The following morning, arriving at the airfield at Wanne, Edmond Audemars was disappointed to find that the winds showed no sign of abating.  With a heavy heart, he canceled his attempt.  He waited there until the winds tapered off and a couple of days later returned to Villacoublay to hear the news that Daucourt had forged on and made it all the way.

A French postcard celebrates Daucourt’s flight.

The Pommery Cup Prize Won?

With the Pommery Cup and 7,500 francs on the line, the pilots waited for word of any others who might make the journey before the end of April.  Just days remained until the prize winner would be decided.  As it stood, with his flight covering Paris to Berlin, 895 kms in total, Pierre Daucourt was the leading candidate for the prize.  He rested comfortably, enjoying the moment as the flying world awaited news of whether any other would make a final go of it.

Pierre Daucourt would soon learn that another pilot was preparing another attempt — and thus, it seemed the decision of the fifth and next to last Pommery Cup was yet to be finalized.

– To be Continued –

One More Bit of Aviation History

The first four competitions preceding the flights above, were described as follows in a November 1913 issue of Flight (annotations added for dates, where needed for clarity, in parenthesis):

The first contest ended on April 30th, 1911, and was won by Jules Vedrines, by his flight on a Morane-Borel from Paris to Poitiers, 336 kiloms.  On a similar machine he won the second section (October 1911), flying from Paris to Angouleme, 400 kiloms.  In the first half of 1912 (April 1912), Bedel, on a Morane-Borel, was the winner, going from Villacoublay to Biarritz, 645.281 kiloms., while Daucourt, on a Borel, won the second prize in 1912 (October 1912) with his trip from Valenciennes to Biarritz, 852 kiloms.

Thus, Pierre Daucourt was no stranger to the Pommery Cup, having won the prize of 7,500 francs just six months before on the very same aeroplane.  With that price came not only the money but also a miniature version of the Pommery Cup itself — he imagined having two of those on his shelf, plus winning the final one and earning the full-sized trophy at the end in the sixth competition, which was to culminate in October 1913.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

What ever became of Pierre Daucourt?

From the first minutes with the launch Operation Rügen, the bombs began to rain down indiscriminately on the small Basque town of Guernica.  No effort was made to avoid civilian areas — in fact, the deadly intent of the Luftwaffe’s Condor Legion was to utterly destroy the town itself and kill the majority of its inhabitants.  The date was April 26, 1937 — today in aviation history — and Spain was embroiled in a civil war, pitting Republican Forces against the Nationalist Forces of Franco, with the aid of the German Luftwaffe and the Italian Aviazione Legionaria.  The attack on Guernica established that the Luftwaffe was unfettered from the shackles of arms limitations codified in the Armistice that had ended World War I.  Moreover, it demonstrated to the world the true destructive potential of a new generation of air power.  Indeed, the events at Guernica cast a dark shadow that presaged the coming horrors of World War II, a war that was but two years in the future.

A Condor Legion Messerschmitt Bf 109B fighter in Spain.

The Attack

To support the operation, the Luftwaffe’s Condor Legion and the Italians deployed only a few dozen aircraft, though these attacked in six consecutive waves, beginning at 4:30 pm.  The first wave involved a single Dornier Do 17 that dropped twelve 50kg bombs.  The Italians performed the second wave with three SM.79s from the Corpo Truppe Volontarie.  These dropped another 12 bombs each.  The third wave was flown by a single Heinkel He 111, which was accompanied by five Fiat C.R. 32 fighters from the Aviazione Legionaria.  Then the fourth and fifth waves were performed by two German Heinkel 111 bombers in each.  The fifth wave completed its attacks at 6:30 pm.  At that point, The damage was extensive — but it was just the beginning that day for Guernica, on April 26, 1937.

A Condor Legion Dornier Do 17, the type used in the first wave.

The sixth wave followed over the next 15 minutes, ending at 6:45 pm, and would prove to be the most devastating.  These last planes came in multiple V-formations of three Ju 52 trimotor bombers each.  These were the bomber versions of a German airliner design that during WWII would be more widely known as a cargo and paratroop transporter.  The Ju 52s simply flew across the town’s center from south to north, dropping their bombs from line abreast formation — this was a first test of the new type of terror attack called carpet bombing, relying on a mix of 250 kg bombs and the Luftwaffe’s new ECB1 incendiaries.  Simultaneously, Messerschmitt Bf 109B and Fiat fighters provided escort and engaged in extensive strafing of the civilian populations on the roads.  This completed the campaign planned for the day.

The Ruins of Guernica. Photo Credit: German Federal Archives

Casualties and Damage

In the wake of the attack, news reports varied widely about the true number of casualties inflicted.  For many years, the number was set at approximately 1,600 killed and 800 wounded.  Propagandists sought to present higher or lower casualty figures, twisting the numbers in the way that favored their cause.  The Germans made claim to perhaps 300 killed.  The Franco Government, years later, would put the figure as low as 12 dead (this was claimed in 1970!), demonstrating the widely divergent approaches to describing the events.

One of the Condor Legion’s Messerschmitt Bf 109B fighters — most likely one of those involved in strafing at Guernica.

Certainly, many were killed — undoubtedly hundreds.  As it was, civilians fleeing in panic on the roads leading from the town were strafed mercilessly.  Dozens, if not even more than 100 were killed just there.  Based on careful research, it is now widely accepted that at least 300 to 500 died at Guernica.  As well, nearly three quarters of the town was destroyed, much of it burned from the incendiary bombs.  Later too, this would be a matter of dispute — not the scale of the destruction, but rather who had done it.  The Nationalists would claim that fleeing Republican soldiers had deliberately torched the town — a bald-faced lie, but one that was not without precedent in any case, as that had happened at other villages in the past year.

Junkers Ju 52 bombers, the real killers at Guernica, coming in waves of three planes, as shown in the photograph, to carpet bomb the town.

Records showed that the Condor Legion dropped an astonishing 99,207 pounds of bombs into the town’s center that day.  The damage inflicted, as one might imagine, was beyond any expectation.  Modern warfare had made its debut — and it was terrifying.  April 26 was a Monday, which was the weekly market day in Guernica, and thus, farmers and others from the surrounding area had gathered in the downtown square, shopping and meeting with one another.  The town’s population that day had swelled to probably around 10,000 as a result — most were in the open in the center of the downtown area when the bombs began to fall.

Ground crews of the Condor Legion prepare fuel and bombs for loading onto Heinkel He 111, in background, while in Spain.

Terror Bombing

Although the attacks had been the first “carpet bombing” raids meant to terrorize the population, it wasn’t until many years later at the post-war trial of Hermann Göring that this would be admitted.  The Nationalist Government had ordered the bombing and the Germans had used Guernica to test their new theories of terror bombing raids, introducing carpet bombing.  Guernica was practice against a small, undefended target amidst a larger war.

Two of the Fiat C.R. 32 biplane fighters of the type that participated in the attacks on Guernica. Photo Credit: Simone Fibbia, the Fiat of his father, Guido Fibbia in 1938 over Spain

The success of the Condor Legion at Guernica would influence the later attacks by the Luftwaffe on Warsaw and many other towns and cities in the East, as well as initially in the attacks on France and the Low Countries.  The terror bombings of the Battle of Britain and later terror weapons that rained down across the south of England in 1943 to 1945 were derivative of the lessons learned at Guernica.  The only difference would be one of scale — a few hundred killed vs. tens of thousands later on.

Pablo Picasso’s famous painting, “Guernica”, depicting the aftermath of the terror bombing. Photo Credit: Papamanila

Final Words

The Luftwaffe’s official policy stated that terror bombings were generally counterproductive, since they could reduce the effectiveness of the propaganda war and turn the population against the German advance.  That policy had been in place prior to the attacks on Guernica, but the Condor Legion had done the raid anyway.  The results were carefully evaluated and categorized into formal reports, which in turn guided Luftwaffe training and tactics.  While Guernica’s destruction was extraordinary, it would pale in comparison to the mass destruction that followed.

Later air forces throughout World War II and beyond would learn the lessons of war from this one day — carpet bombing tactics would be employed not just by the Germans, but as well by the US, the British, the Soviets, the Italians, and the Japanese, among others.  The shadow of Guernica was a long one indeed.

Belgium’s top balloon-busting ace, Willy Coppens, would drop down from on high, his Hanriot HD-1 fighter plane swooping in toward his favorite target — a German artillery observation balloon, the type known as a “sausage” or “dragon”.  Time and again, his deadly fire would hit the German balloons, igniting their gas bags into an inferno of hydrogen.  Then, as fast as he had come, he would veer away and back across the lines while German anti-aircraft artillery would fire pointlessly in his wake.  In the summer of 1918, he knocked down dozens of balloons and became the recognized master of the art, a skill known on both sides of the lines.

If anything, his plane was unmistakable since he had it painted in blue and emblazoned the fuselage sides with the symbol of a thistle sprig wearing a top hat.  Recognizing the deadly killer as he came, again and again, the Germans finally decided that he had to be taken down.  Carefully, they developed a plan.  They would pack a balloon with explosives and winch it into the skies, then wait for him to come.  When he did, they would wait until he was near enough, making his attack pass, and then they would trigger the bomb, destroying not only the unmanned decoy balloon but killing Coppens as well.

Everything was prepared.  The Germans put the balloon into the skies — and they waited, certain that this time, they would get him.

Willy Coppens with his Hanriot HD-1, summer 1918.

The Greatest Balloon Expert

Willy Coppens was unmatched in his skill downing German “kite-balloons”.  His Hanriot HD-1 was specially equipped for the task, its usual light armament was replaced with a British 11 mm Vickers machine gun, giving him firing power that was the key to his success.  As Coppens himself later recounted, “I was to find the 11 mm Vickers an invaluable acquisition.  I had it mounted on Hanriot No. 17, and kept Hanriot No. 24 fitted with an ordinary machine gun.”

To ensure victory against the hydrogen-filled balloons, he would load up on incendiary ammunition and head to the front lines, always following reports of where German artillery “sausages” were deployed.  If he could shoot them down, the German artillery firing at Allied trenches would be less accurate, resulting in fewer ground soldiers dying.  It was hard work, however, as the balloons were ringed with more and more anti-aircraft artillery for defense.

German “sausage” balloon is prepared for launching, c.1918.

Speed and a surprise attack was the best approach.  Coppens’ higher firepower enabled him to achieve success where others often failed.  He described one of his attacks as follows:  “I [...] crossed the lines rather too high, in the neighbourhood of 9,000 feet, from which level I dived at the balloon, and I approached my target at a greatly excessive, terrifying speed — much more than any 125 m.p.h.”  At such speeds, the German AAA fire was less accurate, as they would usually improperly lead the plane enough to hit and their bullets would pass harmlessly in Coppens’ wake.  In addition, by flying in quickly, he was in range for less time, further reducing his risk of getting hit.

While assignments to balloon busting missions were dreaded by the other pilots, Coppens willingly volunteered for the job, even taking on the low altitude balloons which were the most difficult as the accuracy of the AAA defending fire was the most deadly.  On one day, he downed three balloons — writing about it later with a certain nonchalance, he related, “On June 30, I obtained my eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth victories, over, respectively, Bovekerke (at 6.30 a.m.), Gheluvelt (at 8.30 a.m.), and Passchendaele (8.34 a.m.).”

Hanriot HD-2 (an advanced model of the HD-1)

Innovative Tactics and Tricks

It seemed too that sometimes Coppens was playing with the Germans, as if purposefully antagonizing them with his creativity and innovative tactics.  Once, for instance, when the Germans put a machine gun in the balloon’s basket to fire back, he realized it while closing.  Instead of prosecuting the attack, he darted upward and landed on top of the balloon, safely out of sight of the gunner and the AAA emplacements below.  What could they do?  None dared fire through the balloon to try to shoot him down, but they knew his plane was there.

For a time, Coppens waited there, having shut down his Hanriot’s engine as the plane sat precariously on the top of the balloon’s fabric.  Finally, thinking that maybe their enemy’s engine was hit and inoperative, the German ground crew winched the balloon down in hopes of capturing him.  Once again, they were tricked when he quickly started his engine and slid off the top of the balloon to speed safely away, leaving the gunners on the ground in shock.

The Hanriot HD-1 — with its thistle marking on the side.

The Germans’ Deadly Trick

By the beginning of August 1918, Coppens had amassed 21 confirmed kills — just two were other airplanes.  Nineteen German kite-balloons were lost to Coppens’ deadly attacks, making artillery spotting in his sector in the north one of the most dangerous operations at the time.  Their plan was diabolical. The Germans elected to pack the basket of a balloon with explosives and reel it up.  For good measure, they ordered their artillery to begin firing at the distant trenches.  Reports would certainly reach the Belgian pilot and they knew he would come.

They did not wait long.  On the morning of August 3, 1918, Coppens flew in, making his usual surprise attack.  On the ground, the crews waiting and watched as he closed.  He opened fire and almost at once the balloon began to sag, then it caught fire.  As he broke off, passing close by, they pulled the trigger.  The explosion was deafening and devastating.  Incredibly, the blue Hanriot flew out the other side of the explosion, damaged, but not downed.  Coppens was uninjured and returned to his base — wiser and more cagey than ever.

A German balloon rises up to take position overseeing the front lines.

The Final Mission

By October 1918, Coppens score had risen to 36 confirmed kills.  Just three of his kills were German airplanes, the rest, a staggering 33 in total, were balloons.  On October 14, Coppens flew his final mission.  He would down his first balloon that day at Praatbos, his 37th and final kill.  He was already Belgium’s leading ace with more kills than the next five aces from his country if added up together.  Not finished for the day, he turned then toward another reported balloon sighting, at nearby Torhout.  Spotting it, he climbed to altitude and began his attack, flying through a hail of AAA fire.

In the end, it was just a lowly ground gunner who scored a hit.  Many pilots will attest that for each, a silver bullet has been made — the one lucky shot that will hit when all others miss.  In the case of Willy Coppens, a silver bullet really wasn’t required.  Given the volume of gunfire he endured while making every attack, it was something of a miracle that he had survived so long.  As it was that final day, the bullet that hit him didn’t kill him.  It struck his leg, shattering his tibia and severing the main artery.  Bleeding profusely, alone in the cockpit (the fighter pilot’s story is one of a single seat pursuit plane, after all), he did his best to stop the bleeding while he pointed the nose of his Hanriot back across the lines.  He came down at Diksmuide in a crash landing, barely conscious.  Friendly forces carried him to a hospital where they had to amputate his leg.  A month later, the Great War ended while he was still recovering.

King Albert I of Belgium decorates the flying ace Willy Coppens.

Aftermath

From his first kill on April 25, 1918 (today in aviation history!), to his last on October 14, 1918, Willy Coppens had downed 34 balloons and three aircraft — an average of six per month.  It was an astonishing record and, after the war, he was asked to write his experiences, capturing the full story of his service and daring balloon-busting career.  First, however, he recovered and learned to hobble around on an artificial leg.  Honored as a hero, he was knighted by the King of Belgium — the name he took on with his knighthood expanded to Major Chevalier (his titles) Willy Omer Francois Jean Coppens de Houthulst.  The “de Houthulst” part was added with the knighthood; fittingly it was the name of a small forested area that he regularly overflew on his way to the front lines.  The rank, “Major” was his officership from the war and the word, “Chevalier” is French for “knight” or “sir”.

Willy Coppens poses with his aircraft.

Then, through the 1920s, he served as an Air Attache for the Belgian foreign ministry.  During that time, he continued flying and even set a record parachute jump.  In 1933, finally his book, “Days on the Wing”, was published by the Aviation Book Club in London.  Later, in the 1970s, it was republished in a newer edition and renamed “Flying in Flanders”.

He retired to Switzerland in 1940 and watched as the Nazis invaded Belgium and France, overwhelming and occupying much of Europe.  From his home in Switzerland, he undertook an ongoing campaign of organizing and assisting the Belgian resistance.  At the end of the war, with Belgium once again free, he retired once again, married and lived out the rest of his life in peace.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

Who were the next top five aces from Belgium during World War I and how many victories did each have?

Find Willy Coppens’ Book

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At the end of the war, the US Army Air Forces made surplus a wide range of aircraft.  Among the most prominent were the Douglas C-47 Dakotas, military versions of the Douglas DC-3 airliner, a proven aircraft for commercial air passenger transport from before the war.  As thousands were retired from the military, they became the backbone of virtually every airline in the USA and even many overseas.  In addition, they formed the foundation of a hot start-up sector which took advantage of the tens of thousands of former military pilots who were entering civilian life and looking for jobs.  In the rough and tumble times that immediately followed the war, one operator based in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, emerged with perhaps the most radical idea for a new service — to employ not only C-47s but also military surplus gliders to carry freight when towed behind their regular airliners, which ideally would carry ticketed passengers in scheduled and chartered service.

Thus, today in aviation history, on April 24, 1946, Winged Cargo Inc. made its first flight.  This is their story — an innovative strategy for improving competitiveness in a crowded field of new airline start ups that had its ups and, after a short while, its downs as well.

A C-47 with a Waco glider in tow.

First Flight and Start Up

Wing Cargo’s first flight was from Philadelphia to Miami, Florida, took place on April 24, 1946.  After stopping there for a day of rest, the flight continued on to Havana, Cuba, to deliver its first cargo loads.  The arline’s C-47 had been converted to seat passengers, but for this first flight carried none, only taking in tow one of cargo gliders that was packed with 7,500 pounds of freight.  The operation required pilots in the C-47 “towships” and glider pilots in the CG-4A gliders who would keep the glider steady during the two, then be ready to drop off their tow line when they arrived over the destination airfield — or even farm field!  Ideally, this allowed the airline to deliver the cargo to a rural destination en route while the airliner continued on to drop off its passengers at a major airport elsewhere.  Together, as projected by the airline’s owners, the combined revenue from the freight operations and passenger ticket sales would make Winged Cargo a profitable and highly competitive venture.

From left to right, Capt. Freddie Dollenberg, and Major Harrison Overturf, and General Kenneth Walker in the South West Pacific. Dollenberg and Overturf were General Walker’s Aides.

The airline’s president and founder was Col. Fred P. Dollenberg, USAAF (Ret.), a former USAAF hero from the China-Burma-India theatre (CBI) and an ace with 17 kills (Japanese Zero fighters credited as downed by gunners on his plane) and five ships sunk during the war.  For the airline’s first flight, Col. Dollenberg personally flew one of the airline’s three C-47s and glider combos.  Behind was towed a converted US Army Waco CG-4A cargo glider.  On board the plane as Col. Dollenberg’s crew were James B. Gleason, who was one of the directors and shareholders of the operation, and S. G. Friedman, who was the brother of Winged Cargo’s Puerto Rico based company representative.  On the glider, two others were employed — John J. Martin and Paul M. Augin, both former Army pilots who had flown combat glider operations during the war in Europe.  The company predicted that Puerto Rico would become a major destination and aimed primarily to serve the east coast of the USA, connecting to the islands of the Caribbean.

Others involved in the airline that day, but not flying, were a key investor (and former glider pilot), Raymond W. Baldwin, Jr., and Ray Hoersch, a former glider pilot who had served in Operation Market Garden, and was also commander of Wing 12 of the National WWII Glider Pilots Association, as well as Johnny Martin, who served as the airline’s chief glider pilot.  Another at the top of the organization was Col. John Sheridan, a former congressman (D-PA) from Philadelphia who had later served with Gen. Carl A. Spaatz.  At Winged Cargo Inc., Sheridan helped launch the operation and served as its chairman of the board and general counsel.

Meanwhile, a second C-47 took off with the glider in tow to pick up a load of canned soups for delivery from the factory to a faraway distributor.  As Col. Dollenberg told the press during his layover in Miami, “The real future for commercial gliders lies in short hops of 400 to 500 miles.”  He also predicted that the future for towship-glider operations would “great.”

One of the Waco CGA-4 gliders used by Winged Cargo Inc., with its prospective cargo — a cow! — as the airline primarily served rural areas since the air traffic congestion at major airports disallowed sequenced arrivals of glider freight flights.

Record Setting Flights

Winged Cargo would soon prove the capabilities of their gliders, making a record-setting 900 mile over water tow that started in Puerto Rico and spanned the Caribbean to Nassau in the Bahamas.  From there, they flew directly up the east coast of the USA to Newark, New Jersey, where they delivered their cargo.  It appeared that glider towing operations brought advantages in both weight carrying capacity and cubic size of the cargo loads, in large part due to the fact that another set of wings (on the glider) added considerable lift for heavier loads.

In another record-setting flight, Col. Dollenberg and Johnny Martin flew a load of cargo from Philadelphia to Georgia, dropped off the glider, landed, packed in another load, and took back off to return to Reading, Pennsylvania.  There, they dropped off the second cargo load of the day — tomato plants, which were “in the ground before dark”, thus demonstrating the validity of glider freight operations to serve rural and farming needs.  In a single day, from morning to night, they had flown 1,600 miles.  In the first months of the operation, despite the hope to carry passengers, only cargo was moved in the gliders.  By the end of the year, however, they had launched the passenger charter service, hoping to add scheduled flights and regular ticket sales thereafter.

Wartime glider work with a C-47 picking up a CG-4A glider.

So What Happened?

Things came crashing down — quite literally — when on December 16, 1946, after just eight months of operations, one of the company’s C-47s disappeared when en route from Kingston, Jamaica, to San José, Costa Rica.  The plane, a C-47A-15-DL with registration number N88876, was carrying two crew and five passengers — apparently Jamaican farm workers as the company had landed a contract to transport labor throughout the region by air at the time, thus entering the passenger transportation market as planned.  No glider was in tow when the crash happened.

In the wake of the crash, one of the largest search and rescue operations ever mounted in the region was mobilized, including assets from the Army, Navy and USCG.  After three days, however, the search had turned up no sign of the plane.  A rumor had it that the plane had come down in the jungles in Costa Rica, but that was later disproved.  Ultimately, the plane and the passengers were never found.  All were presumed to have been killed in the crash.  Exactly what happened to the plane remains a mystery to this very day.

After that, the airline soldiered on for some months.  By mid-1947, it was flying mainly passenger operations — many of which were flown by Col. Dollenberg himself, who had a propensity for bringing his three year old son, Eric, on flights.  For the remainder of 1947, there are few news reports to be found concerning the airline or any further glider-based cargo flights.  With dwindling revenues and suffering from the loss of one of its three C-47s, the airline was on the rocks.  In November 1947, the Aeronautics Board filed action against the airline, seeking to halt its operations before operations became unsafe.  Finally, in December 1947, with support of the courts, the CAB issued an order to the airline to cease all commercial passenger flights, which spelled the end of the company.

Playing on his reputation as an “air ace”, Col. Dollenberg composed advertising campaigns promoting his new business. Ultimately, that business model would fail as well.

Col. Dollenberg moved on to form U.S. Igniter Corporation, and when that went bankrupt, later he founded a similar venture called Lectra, Inc.  Both were manufacturers of fuel igniters for automobiles, which remained his business for the next nearly two decades.  Though his company made claim to have the ideal replacement for spark plugs in automobiles, the marketing hype apparently didn’t match the performance of the product.  A series of lawsuits followed, including from investors and shareholders.  In May of 1965, Fred Dollenberg, at just age 49, would succumb to cancer — it was a sad end to a visionary airline founder and World War II hero.

When Ensign Marion F. Jackson, Jr., USNR, and Aviation Machinist’s Mate 1c Willis D. Atchison, USN, took off that day from their temporary base at RNAS Hatston, a British airfield located near Kirkwall on Mainland Island in Scotland’s Orkneys, they expected a routine flight in their Vought SB2U-2 Vindicator.  Scouting Seventy-One (VS-71) and Scouting Seventy-Two (VS-72) were assigned to the US Navy aircraft carrier USS Wasp (CV-7), but had been left in the Orkneys while the Wasp’s battle group set out for Malta, departing on April 14, 1942.  Instead of the Vindicators, the USS Wasp’s decks and hangar bay were loaded with 47 Supermarine Spitfires, all meant to be delivered to the beseiged Mediterranean outpost of Malta as reinforcements to stand against the ongoing Axis onslaught.

In fact, on departing from Hampton Roads, Virginia, for its Atlantic duty, among other squadrons, the USS Wasp carried a complement of  two scouting squadrons:  VS-71 and VS-72.  VS-71 was equipped with seven SB2U-1′s, ten SB2U-2′s, and three TBD-1′s.  VS-72 was equipped with sixteen SB2U’s (both -1 and -2 variants).  It also carried a full complement of Grumman F4F-4 Wildcats, which were retained for the voyage to Malta so as to provide Combat Air Patrol coverage.  In addition, the USS Wasp left behind the TBD-1 Devastators from Torpedo Squadron VT-7.

The line up of VS-71 and VS-72 aircraft at RNAS Hatston in April 1942.

The Loss of of a Vought SB2U-2 Vindicator

While left behind in the Orkneys, the men and aircraft of VS-71 performed coastal patrol missions and flew a variety of training flights.  Thus, on April 23, 1942 — today in aviation history — Ens. Marion Jackson and Aviation Machinist’s Mate Willis Atchison took off in their Vought SB2U-2 Vindicator for a training flight.  Sadly, their mission ended in a terrible crash that killed both men.  According to the well-researched records of John Baugher, who referenced the VS-71 squadron records, the plane came down in a peat bog and struck so violently that it was buried deep near Invergordon at Allt on Tor Scotland en route to Tain and Inverness.

A close-up within a larger photograph that appeared in LIFE Magazine — at left, the very plane that disappeared is undergoing final construction at the Vought factory in Hartford, CT. (Note: this image is used for non-commercial purposes and given its newsworthy content as completing research in the recovery of a US Navy airman formerly thought MIA, this constitutes fair use).

While Atchison’s body was recovered and received a proper burial with full military honors, attempts to find the body of Ens. Jackson were unsuccessful.  Finally, the searchers gave up digging, recognizing that the impact was so great and the body buried so deep that, at least at that time, it was considered too difficult to accomplish.  For a long time, there remained a question — was his body still buried there in the bog, one of many men who remain on the lists of those “Missing in Action”?

Two U.S. Navy Douglas TBD-1 Devastator from Torpedo Squadron VT-7 before taking off from the Royal Naval Air Station Hatston in April 1942. Photo Credit: Lt. R. G. G. Coote, RN, in the records of the Imperial War Museum

None Left Behind

As Deputy Secretary of Defense Ashton B. Carter stated on September 21, 2012, in a speech to recognize last year’s National POW/MIA Recognition Day, “…just as they committed themselves to this country, so this country will never tire and never rest until each and every one of them is returned home.  The Department of Defense and this country make that commitment to each service member and to their family.  In the Department of Defense we have over 600 staff devoted to the more than 80,000 American service members who remain unaccounted for from the wars of the past century.”

In fact, it is widely known that the Pentagon’s POW/MIA office is deeply involved in the recovery of US soldiers, sailors and airmen lost in the Vietnam War.  Less widely known is that the dedicated personnel of there continue to search for, locate, recover and identify remains of MIAs from almost ALL of America’s past wars, actively seeking to locate those who were declared KIA/MIA during World Wars I and II, and during the Korean War, for instance, and even seeking to recover and identify bodies lost in wars and conflicts prior to that.  The principle is extraordinary — nobody will be left behind.

Fuelling two Vought SB2U Vindicator scout bombers in a remote corner of the airfield at Royal Naval Air Station Hatston. Photo Credit: Lt. R. G. G. Coote, RN, via the Imperial War Museum

Tracing the Men

In the official War Department publication “State Summary of War Casualties, US Navy 1946″ (Florida and Tennessee editions) the following entries fully identify these men and addresses — and the wife of one of the men:

• JACKSON, Marion Francis, Jr., Ensign, USNR. Father:  Mr. Marion Francis Jackson, Sr., Sewanee (note that he taught at Sewanee Military Academy in 1938 and then entered the US Navy and underwent pilot training).
• ATCHISON, Willis Dudly, Aviation Machinist’s Mate lc, USN. Wife:  Mrs. Willis D. Atchison, 121 W. Government St., Pensacola, Florida
  According to FindaGrave.com, “The body of his telegraphist/gunner, Willis Dudly Atchison, was recovered and is now buried at Pfeiffer Cemetery, West Pensacola, Florida.”

One of the USS Wasp’s Grumman J2F Ducks, leaving its hangar, watched by US and British sailors at Royal Naval Air Station Hatston, c. April 1942. Photo Credit: Lt. R. G. G. Coote, RN, via the Imperial War Museum

Recovery and Mystery Solved

Although initially, we could find no record in the press of Ens. Marion Jackson’s body having been previously recovered and repatriated for a proper burial, ultimately, we were able to determine that indeed the Pentagon had done so.  We can report now that in 1965, the body of Ensign Mario F. Jackson, Jr., was recovered and repatriated from deep in the bog in Scotland.  While his father, Marion F. Jackson, Sr., had passed away in 1962, three years prior to the recovery of his son’s body, his mother, Eva Pryor Jackson, was alive at the time.  She lived on until 1975.

Today, you can visit Ens. Mario Jackson’s grave in the University of the South Cemetery in Sewanee, Franklin County, Tennessee.  It is important to note that Jackson-Myers Air Field at Sewanee, Tennessee, was named in his honor and memory.

As well, we wish to salute the good work of the Pentagon’s POW/MIA Office over the years.  Your work is appreciated — thank you.

U.S. Navy Culinary Specialist 1st Class Richard Cravens, left, and Operations Specialist 2nd Class James Darden, right, prepare to raise a POW/MIA flag during morning Colors at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam, Hawaii, Aug. 4, 2010. Photo Credit: Mass Communication Specialist 2nd Class Robert Stirrup, USN

One More Bit of Aviation History

During their weeks at RNAS Hatston, VS-71 suffered a number of losses while undertaking patrol and training missions.  A complete list follows:

• March 27, 1942 — VF-71 SB2U Bu Nr. 1362 — ENS. Edwin S. Petway & Radioman (identity not yet researched)
• April 15, 1942 — VF-71 SB2U Bu Nr. 1364 — Lt Jg John F. Dunn & RM2 Roderick D. Scattergood (captured by the Germans)
• April 23, 1942 — VF-71 SB2U Bu Nr. 1363 — ENS. Marion F. Jackson, Jr. & Aviation Machinist Mate Wilis D. Atchison
• May 5, 1942 — VF-71 SB2U Bu Nr. 1370 — ENS. James F. Thompson & Radioman (identity not yet researched)

It is important to honor the sacrifices of these brave Naval aviators who, during a war that brought much of the world to conflict, sacrificed so much in service of their country.  It is also important that we take this time and moment to thank all veterans for their service.  Despite the challenges and ongoing conflicts that remain even to the present, it is because of your dedication and good work that we live in a safer world today.  Thank you.

Damer Leslie Allen and Denys Corbett Wilson were two Irishmen who were among the first pilots in the early days of aviation.  In 1912, both were flying regularly at Hendon and knew each other well.  Both men flew Blériot XI monoplanes and had many shared experiences.  Thus, it was not unexpected that in April 1912, the two men decided it was time to make a first successful crossing from England (or Wales) to Ireland.  In September 1910, Robert Loraine, an Englishman, had made the flight but had fallen into the water just 200 feet short of the beach.  It was still considered a success but two things were wrong — first, Loraine not only hadn’t successfully landed on the beach, in fact he had crashed into the water; and second, he was an Englishman after all!  Thus, the two Irishmen decided that the record would be attained first and foremost properly and second, by a man of proper Irish blood.

Yet where two men left Hendon in their Blériots on April 17, 1912, making their way to the coast to prepare for the crossing, only would make it and completed the journey today in aviation history, on April 22, 1912.  As for the other, he would disappear without a trace.

D. L. Allen tunes up his Blériot at Hendon a few days before departing to attempt a successful crossing to Ireland. Source: Flight, April 26, 1912

Preparing the Flights

Of the two men, Corbett Wilson, seemed the unlikely candidate to make it successfully.  While D. L. Allen had arrived in Wales and was ready to depart on the morning of April 18 — and indeed, he did depart that very day – Corbett Wilson suffered engine trouble and was forced down before even departing across the sea.  In fact, he had two crash landings on the way to the coast and was delayed while he awaited the arrival of his mechanic (it was subsequently discovered that the engine had the wrong grade of castor oil).

Corbett Wilson prepares to fly his Blériot across to Ireland.

Both pilots were fairly inexperienced, though it can hardly be said that their plane’s weren’t fragile and unreliable.  Thus, the news of D. L. Allen’s disappearance did not dissuade him and so, on the morning of April 22, at 5:37 am, he set out for his flight, as reported in Flight, the newsletter of the Royal Aero Club, which covered the details a week later in its April 26, 1912, edition:

Now that well over a week has passed since Mr. D. Leslie Allen set out from Holyhead at about seven o’clock in the morning of Thursday of last week, to cross the Irish Channel, and no news of his whereabouts have come to hand, it certainly seems that it is our sad lot to mourn another British life, sacrificed — we think again quite unnecessarily — in the practising of the sport.  It was on the previous day, the Wednesday, that he with Mr. Corbett Wilson, set out from Hendon to fly in company to Dublin.  There was no wager between them as to who should get there first, as has been generally seated. They simply had a feeling that they would like to visit their native island by the new method of locomotion, and they both started off in friendly rivalry to fly there together.

Portrait of Damer Leslie Allen in the cockpit of his Blériot. Source: Flight, April 26, 1912

Damer Leslie Allen’s Disappearance

It is worth noting that for some weeks after the flight, many thought that the two men had bet one another some money as to which would successfully make the trip first.  That turned out not to be the case and it seems that whatever happened to D. L. Allen, it wasn’t from a rush to be first that caused his problems.  Most likely, the best technology of the day, a Blériot monoplane, had simply failed him.

At that time it was thought by those at the aerodrome that the flight was an unusually risky one for such comparatively inexperienced pilots to attempt.  Further, so hastily had the trip been arranged that no precautions were made against the possibility of having to descend in the sea.  They both left Hendon soon after half-past three p.m. on Wednesday, and Allen, following the London and Northwestern Railway line, arrived at Chester about half-past six in the evening, after landing some ten miles the other side of Crewe to ascertain his whereabouts, Corbett Wilson landed the same evening at Almeley, about fifteen miles northwards of Hereford.

Just after six on the following morning Allen started from Chester and passing over Holyhead an hour afterwards, flew out to sea.  He has not been seen or heard of since.  His friend, Corbett Wilson, left Almeley at half-past four that afternoon and was forced to land some few miles further on at Colva in Radnorshire.

Corbett Wilson’s Bleriot X1 ended up in the hedge with a broken propeller at the end of his successful crossing to Ireland. Photo Credit: Corbett Wilson

Corbett Wilson Has a Go

It wouldn’t be until Sunday, April 22, that Corbett Wilson would finally be ready to go.  His flight, as reported, happened as follows:

On Sunday morning early he set off again and this time reached Fishguard, leaving again at six o’clock on the following morning  Monday, and flying across St. George’s Channel in the direction of Wexford.  One hour and forty minutes was occupied in crossing the Channel and a landing was made at Crane, two miles from Enniscorthy, the trip being the first occasion that the strip of water separating Ireland from the main land has been entirely crossed by aeroplane.  It will be remembered that Mr. Loraine’s attempt in 1910 failed by some 300 yards.

It should be mentioned that Corbett Wilson’s Blériot 100 minutes of flight across included 30 minutes in heavy rain — and one must imagine him in an open cockpit fabric covered biplane flying through heavy rain over the water, without instruments to truly understand how challenging the journey was.  At the end, exhausted, he selected the wrong field and ended up unable to stop before the field “ran out”.  He crashed his Blériot into a hedge, but walked away triumphant.

Vivian Hewitt, the Welsh aviator who flew across to Ireland just a week later.

A Welshman Repeats the Feat

Not to be outdone, or perhaps just to make the flight for the experience and adventure of it, the famous Welsh aviator, Vivian Hewitt, set out a week later to also fly across to Ireland.  His preparations were thus duly reported:

Mr. Vivian Hewitt also has the intention of attempting the crossing to Ireland, but his route is to be from Holyhead to Dublin across the Irish Sea.  At the time of writing he is waiting at Holyhead for favourable weather.  He left Rhyl at 5 a.m. on Sunday morning and after remaining up for an hour and twenty minutes was forced to land at Plas in Anglesey.  His flight was made at an average of quite 5,000 ft., for he says he could distinctly see over Snowdon.  The wind was boisterous in the extreme and he testifies to the fact that had he remained up much longer he would undoubtedly have been ill, so much was he tossed about.  The section from Plas to Holyhead was flown on Monday morning, starting from the former place at about 9.30.  Mr. Vivian Hewitt has his machine in Lord Sheffield’s grounds and will continue his flight as soon as conditions prove favourable.

As the weather allowed, Hewitt did make the flight and was successful, completing it on the very day that Flight issued its newsletter — on April 26, 1912.  He set out from Holyhead and landed at Dublin’s Phoenix Park, essentially without incident.

As for Damer Leslie Allen, no trace of his plane or body were ever found.

• Just whose roundel insignia is that — French, British, something else?
  
• Are those Americans in uniform walking around the plane?
  
• Developed for very special, truly strategic, military mission.
  
• No bomb bay, no weapons and no cargo hold?  What was it for then?
  

So do you know what this aircraft is?

Post a REPLY below with your best guess!

Click here to check out last week’s What’s That?

The news reports carried word of a flight across the Arctic that had departed nearly a week earlier, on April 15 and 16, 1928.  Five days after departure, still the flyers were not yet safe.  As the day broke on April 21, 1928 — today in aviation history — the men, who had been forced down on the ice amidst worsening weather, made a go of it.  After nearly not getting off, they flew out and shortly afterward arrived at Spitsbergen.  Their flight had connected Point Barrow, Alaska, with the northern island of Norway.  The two men, an Australian named Hubert Wilkins and an American named Carl Ben Eielson were skilled Arctic voyagers and so, despite the challenge, they had fared well.  Still, their first message out was confusing, as relayed through Svalbard to the flight’s sponsors, it had read:

Traversed course outlines one.  Account bad weather.  Arrived 20 1/2 hours.  Flying time, five days from Barrow.  No foxes seen.

Foxes in the Arctic?  A lot of people wondered at that.  Yet the flight had been the first to traverse the Arctic, traversing 2,200 miles of ice, and that was amazing enough, with or without any “foxes”.

The two men pose with their Lockheed Vega.

The Daring Flyers

Capt. Hubert Wilkins and Lt. Carl Ben Eielson were two former military officers.  The first, an Australian, was a privately trained pilot from 1910 who was also veteran of the combats at Ypres.  The latter was American a pilot from the US Army Air Corps who hadn’t finished training when the Great War ended in November 1918.  Both were experienced in cold weather flying and Arctic expeditions.  Eielson, born of Norwegian parents who had settled in North Dakota, had been the first man to fly the air mail in Alaska, shortening a 20 day dogsled delivery route to four hours of flight time.  That was something of a local revolution as it also meant that for the first time many inland towns and villages were connected to the rest of Alaska by faster, easier and more affordable means.

Likewise, Hubert Wilkins was a proven Arctic expedition photographer and veteran of many journeys to the frozen north.  Critically, he had helped pioneer the art of aerial photography, working with Gaumont Studios and having made his first trip into the farthest reaches of the north in 1913 with the Vilhjalmur Stefansson Canadian Arctic Expedition.  As well, he had participated on the Shackleton-Rowett Expedition of 1921–22, charting Antarctica with Sir Ernest Shackleton — that voyage was the last such journey by the great man himself.

The planned route of the flight, staying about 300 miles south of the North Pole to cut through the “Blind Spot of the Arctic”. Source: Flight, April 26, 1928

Searching for Graham Land

The goal of their flight from Point Barrow to Spitsbergen was to search for a previously uncharted land that was rumored to exist somewhere in the Arctic, perhaps near the North Pole.  This was the so-called “Graham Land”.  Tales told of a land of snow and mountains, though many were concerned that if such mountains had existed, surely one of the previous Arctic expeditions would have spotted them looming in the distance.  Such a land could exist, others reasoned, but if it did, it would have to be flat and with only low hills.  From the air, it would be easy to make out such features, many felt, as the break up of the ice along the Arctic Shelf would reveal rocky shores.  Windswept hills could be pinpointed by the black rocks that would stick through the snow drifts.  If Graham Land were to be found, it would be best done by air.

To make the flight, the two men used a Lockheed Vega with a 220 hp Wright Whirlwind engine.  The Vega was an established record-setter with excellent reliability.  It also featured an enclosed cabin, an important aspect for flights over the far northern reaches of the Arctic.  Inside the high wing monoplane, the fuselage was large enough to carry the two men, plus emergency supplies and gear, as well as enough fuel in main tanks to fly nearly a day without stopping.

The two aviators — Eielson on the left and Wilkins on the right.

The Perilous Flight

On April 16, 1928, using a newly prepared airstrip, the two men departed Point Barrow, Alaska.  They took off into a headwind on an airstrip cleared by local Eskimos.  A week earlier, they had used a different airstrip, but suffered a broken ski while trying to get off in a crosswind.  With repairs made, this time they got off well.  The weather was good and they were hoping to enjoy the Arctic Springtime, expecting that it would help them avoid storms.  Their plan was not a direct flight across the North Pole, but rather to edge around to the right, farther south, and thereby navigate through what was then known as the “Blind Spot of the Arctic”, a region that had been previously unexplored.  If Graham Land existed, the best chance for it — maybe even the last chance — would be there.

Once airborne, hour after hour, the men droned along in the Lockheed Vega.  As they flew, they scanned the distance to both sides of the plane in hopes of spotting some outcrop or rocky protrusion.  For navigation, given that the magnetic variation would leave their regular compass too inaccurate, they relied on sun shots that they would take with an RAF issue Mk. V bubble sextant.  They flew at 6,000 feet to ensure that they had good visibility, yet not too high to miss anything.  About ten hours into the flight, they were approximately 300 miles south of the North Pole.  At about thirteen hours into the journey, they spotted their first mountains.  Yet these were not the hoped for Graham Land, but rather the mountains they saw out to the right of the plane were to the south, in the distance and exactly where they knew them to be.  These were the northernmost mountains of Greenland.

The two men with their Lockheed Vega — the perfect plane for the Arctic flight.

Bad Weather Closes In

At that point, they had flown approximately 1,200 miles straight across the “Blind Spot”.  Thehey had not seen anything except water, icebergs and the ice shelf.  At that point, their exploratory work was essentially done.  The remaining 1,000 miles to Spitsbergen were the well-charted waters north of Greenland, north of Iceland and north of Ireland and Scotland.  They continued on, hoping to land at Spitsbergen as planned, which was then about 8 hours distant.  The weather, however, steadily worsened as they flew on.  Finally, just short of their goal, they could go no further.  The plane was flying through a raging blizzard.  They were close to Green Harbor, but it didn’t matter, they would have to put down on one of the islands nearby.

They found one, then lost it in the low visibility, then found it again.  Amidst the blizzard, Eielson managed a perfect landing — the winds were so strong that the plane stopped in just 30 feet.  Quickly, Eielson drained the oil before it could freeze inside the engine — a lesson he had learned from his time flying in Alaska.  They hoped to wait a day or so before continuing on.  It didn’t work out that way, however.

Sheltering on Deadman’s Island, Eielson at left is in his Alaska parka while Wilkins sports a Norwegian overcoat.

For the next five days, amidst winds, blowing snow and storms, they sheltered with the plane, which they had tied down securely.  Ominously, they later found out the small island that they had been on was name, “Dead Man’s Island”.  They were well-equipped for the conditions, however, and did not suffer too badly.  Both men were, after all, veterans of the Arctic.  Finally, on April 21, the weather lightened up somewhat, permitting a take off.  All they could do was hope that they would make it.  It seemed that if they didn’t try, they might be there for many days longer as the weather seemed unpredictably dangerous.  They were always cognizant that a bad gust could damage the plane, forcing them to try to hike out.

As it happened, they took off with some difficulty, the plane having a hard time getting airborne in the drifting snow, but soon they navigated their way to Spitsbergen.  The landing at Green Harbor was uneventful and the two men, exhausted from the ordeal, dismounted from the Lockheed Vega for some well-earned rest — and a bit of warming up by the fire.

While visiting von Hindenburg in Berlin in June 1928, the aviators have their photo taken. From left, US Ambassador Schurman, Captain Wilkins, a representative of the British Embassy, and Lieutenant Eielson. Source: German Federal Archives

Aftermath

Over the next few days, word of their exploration by air made it out.  Early headlines screamed of the adventure, a flight that connected Alaska and Norway over the Arctic, how the flyers had been forced down for five days en route.  Later articles, such as the one that ran in Flight on April 26, 1928, carried details of the search for Graham Land and their experiences in the flight itself.  The Royal Geographic Society’s chairman, Sir Charles Close, sent a congratulatory message to the two men — after all, Hubert Wilkins was a member of the Society.  It read:

The Council of the Royal Geographical Society warmly congratulate you and Eielson on the remarkable feat of navigation and airmanship over the unexplored Arctic.

As for the “foxes”, it was later revealed to have been code to convey a secretive message to the sponsors of the journey.  Had the men reported seeing “black foxes”, the sponsors were to know that Graham Land had been found and charted as a mountainous island.  Had they reported instead, “blue foxes”, that would have meant that the land had been spotted and that it was flat or featuring just low hills.  As it was, the message, “no foxes”, brought a finality to the journey of discovery.  Though disappointed, the sponsors of the flight from the American Geographical Society came away knowing that they had resolved at least one of the mysteries of the Arctic — Graham Land was a myth.

From the Archives

The Fate of the Örnen — read about another aviation exploration to the Arctic, undertaken by balloon in 1897.  Unlike the flight of Wilkins and Eielson, this earlier voyage of discovery did not turn out as well.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

Carl Ben Eielson’s name has been honored by the US Air Force — in what way?

It was ninety-nine years ago that the second Schneider Cup seaplane races were held off the shores of Monaco.  The year before, Marcel Prévost had won in a Deperdussin monoplane.  In 1914, England wasn’t considered much of a contender, as European aircraft manufacturers were viewed by most to be far superior in their design and manufacturing expertise.  Yet Thomas Sopwith had a new airplane, the Sopwith Tabloid.  A land plane, it put in times that were competitive with the best there was — in fact, it bested the rather slow, winning average speed of 61 mph put in by the Prévost when he had won the year before.  The new Sopwith’s potential was obvious.  With a more powerful engine and the addition of floats, it could be a contender.  Hoping to give the plane the boost it needed, Thomas Sopwith went to Paris and returned with a 100 hp engine to mount on the plane, replacing its existing one of 80 hp.  A float system was designed as well.  The fast land plane became, in a snap, a seaplane racer.  Yet could the race be won against the fastest planes of Continental Europe?

With the single float newly sawed in twain, the Sopwith Tabloid is prepared for launching in the Thames River.

Testing and Last Minutes Changes

We just weeks left before the race the modified Sopwith Tabloid seaplane racer was put into the water (a river) for its first test flights. C. Howard Pixton was to be the test pilot, even if he was just getting over a virus that had kept him abed for some time.  He mounted the plane, lodged himself into the cockpit and waited as it was pushed into the water.  The engine was started and the Tabloid was turned toward the sea so that he could begin the takeoff run.  As soon as the throttle was advanced, however, the aircraft simply flipped over onto its side from the torque, summarily ejecting Pixton out of the cockpit and into the water.  Although he was rescued quickly, the plane remained adrift in the river until the following morning when a rope could be attached.  It was dragged to the shore, heavily damaged and waterlogged.  A major rebuild would be required, with time lacking.  As well a different set of floats, more stable than the existing single, wide center float, would have to be crafted.

C. Howard Pixton, as featured on a “Turf” Cigarettes collector card. Source: New York Public Library

Back at the Sopwith works, the engineers and mechanics labored hard to get the seaplane back into shape and ready for the races.  They were able to repair the water damage but no time remained to redesign and manufacture another float system.  An innovative solution was decided on — really the only option — and the existing wide center float was simply sawed in half and mounted as a pair.  A tail tip float was added to help ensure stability on the water.  The next time the engine was run-up the plane wouldn’t flip over again.  Only briefly tested in a run at Glovers Island, the plane was then packed onto a ship for a quick voyage down to Monaco, arriving just days before the race.

Thomas Sopwith took no chances, accompanying the plane with his expert mechanic,Victor Mahl, to ensure that the engine was tuned perfectly for the race.  As in the test flights, the pilot was to be Howard Pixton.  The team was ready, even if their plane was still an uncertain gamble.

The Sopwith Tabloid is pushed into the water at Monaco.

Drama Before the Race

On arrival in Monaco, the team discovered that the competition had come in force.  Three Nieuport monoplanes had arrived — two flown by the Frenchmen, Gabriel Espanet and Pierre Levasseur, and one by an American named C. T. Weymann.  There was a Deperdussin flown by another American named Thaw, and an Franco-British Aviation (F.B.A.) Flying Boat flown by a Swiss pilot named Ernst Burri.  Roland Garros and Lord John Carbery arrived with Morane-Saulnier machines.  Finally, a German pilot named Victor Stöffler rounded out the pack.

The day before the race, both the German pilot and Lord Carbery wrecked their machines while testing.  All was not well with the Sopwith Tabloid either, however, as it was found that the plane’s propeller was too shallow in pitch, resulting in the engine over-revving.  A hurried change was effected and a new propeller with a smaller diameter and coarser pitch was mounted.  This solved the problem of the over-revving but left the team uncertain as to what the actual performance of the plane would be the following day on the race course.

The Tabloid flies its laps over the water at Monaco, Howard Pixton at the controls.

The Schneider Cup Race

On race day, April 20, 1914 — today in aviation history — the planes took off one by one.  The Schneider Cup wasn’t a race in the traditional sense of the word but rather a set of time trials where the planes would do their best to finish in the shortest amount of time over a long course.  In 1914, this involved a 28 lap course, with each lap being 10 km long.  It wasn’t a straight course either or a triangle of bouys, rather there were multiple turns.  The shortest leg was just 260 yards long and the longest was about 3 1/2 km.  The tightest turn was at Cap Martin which reversed the racers’ course by 165°.  To prove the seaworthiness of the aircraft, every racer had to land on the water twice during the first lap.

Levasseur and Espanet were first off at 8:00 am — the very minute the official race began.  They put up their best single lap times of 9 minutes, 17 seconds and 8 minutes, 55 3/5 seconds, respectively.  The Swiss pilot Ernst Burri followed in the F.B.A., though he had trouble getting off the water.  He logged a respectable 6 minutes, 17 4/5 seconds in his best lap, setting the time to beat.

The F.B.A. Flying Boat and Ernst Burri, who finished wth the second best time at Monaco.

Pixton was next in the Sopwith Tabloid.  With the newly mounted coarser pitch prop, he was off the water in only 60 feet.  Even with the two compulsory landings in the first lap, he logged an incredible 4 minutes, 27 3/5 seconds.  The other pilots waiting to start were stunned.  As the laps ticked by, the two Frenchmen and the Swiss watched as the Sopwith Tabloid overtook them and sped off ahead.  Lap after lap, they realized that Pixton had the better plane, yet they soldiered on, hoping that his engine wouldn’t hold out — in 1914, engine failures were common, particularly at races, where the tuning was at the highest and the throttle was left wide open.

As it happened, it wasn’t the Sopwith that had an engine failure.  Neither Espanet or Levasseur finished the mandated 28 laps.  Many of the other pilots that had been waiting to fly, simply threw in the towel, recognizing as the hours went by and the laps steadily mounted that the Sopwith Tabloid was just too fast.  Only Burri put up a full 28 laps.  His time was 3 hours, 24 minutes and 12 seconds.  Pixton in his Sopwith Tabloid finished an hour earlier with a complete course time of 2 hours, 9 minutes and 10 seconds, even though he flew two extra laps for total of 300 km!  His average speed was 92 mph — it wasn’t just a race-winning time but also a new world record.

Lord John Carbery taxis out in his Morane for a practice run prior to the race.

Aftermath

Whereas before the race France had been considered the best aircraft manufacturer in the world, with the Sopwith Tabloid’s world record speed and performance, Europe was forced to recognize that the underdog aviators and manufacturers of Britain had finally caught up.  In a single day of competition, England had proven to Europe that it was their equal — and more.  Just a few short months later, on July 28, the Great War would break out, involving all of Europe in a world war.  As the four years of war that followed would show, Sopwith and his designs would prove themselves to be equal with the best there was.  As history would soon demonstrate the Schneider Cup victory of 1914 was only the beginning.

In the midst of flying the full 28 laps, Howard Pixton gains on Ernst Burri, overtaking him (yet again) over the course of the more than two hours that both men flew together in the air. Source: Flight

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

C. Howard Pixton was the race winner at the Schneider Cup of 1914 — what became of him thereafter?

Maurice Chevillard was a French aviator who passed some time in 1913 in England.  Others were content in easing their uncertain machines around the aerodrome, seeking speed records or flying long distance flights.  Some sought to make a living by flying paid exhibitions or flying passengers in chartered airplanes.  Yet Chevillard pursued a different course.  Almost single handed, he developed the field of aerobatics, presaging today’s airshow routines with his unique style, which centered on what he called the “Chute de Côté”.  It wasn’t long before he was traveling around Europe.  In 1913 alone, he flew in France, England, Norway, Denmark and Sweden — wherever he could demonstrate his skills and earn a bit of money in the process.  He was, as the Norwegians declared, the world’s first “Mesterflyver” (Norwegian for “Master Flyer”).

His daring seemingly knew no limits — except for one thing, he flew a Farman MF.7 Longhorn biplane with just an 80 hp engine.  It was a type that others considered underpowered, heavy and yet fragile enough to warrant at least some care in a tight banking turn.  How did he do aerobatics in it?  It was quite simple really, he just flew the plane within its limits….  And of course, he commonly flew with a passenger behind him in the tandem cockpit.

Maurice Chevillard in his aeroplane, a Farman MF.7 Longhorn, c.1913. Source: Library of Congress

The Birth of the Airshow

Today, airshow routines offer a wide range of maneuvers that include everything from loops and rolls, to Cuban eights, hammerhead stalls, and even the coveted Lomcevak where the plane flips tail over nose in a low altitude, fully-developed accelerated stall.  Precision is king and the aircraft are designed to do what seems to be the impossible.  They fly upside down, right-side up, climb vertically, twist and skid, stall and slip in every direction, seemingly at the flick of the control stick.  The modern aerobatics pilot has it all, including a choice of airplanes like the Extra 300 and the Sukhoi 26, among others.

Maurice Chevillard, however, just had his Farman “bus” and his talent for flying — he became the airplane as he flew, rather than sat in it and delivered control inputs to the outside airplane, hoping that it worked out right.  In effect, for Chevillard, mentally his outstretched arms were akin to the aeroplane’s wings, his fingertips the ailerons and wingtips, the tilt of his head was the nose of his “bus”, which he could tilt up or down as he willed it.  This natural touch withthe machine allowed him to press to the limits, yet not overstress the wings.  He might have gone to a vertical bank, but he did not pull the stick back into a 9G turn, rather, he let the nose fall away and gently recovered after a brief vertical, but slow speed dive with the power off.

At Juvisy on November 7, 1913, Maurice Chevillard prepares for another record breaking flight — he performed five consecutive loops that day.

The Chute de Côté

Today, we are lucky to have a detailed description of his Chute de Côté, as it was written up 100 years ago today by another pilot who identified himself just as “A. J.”  His description recounted his experience as a passenger sitting behind Chevillard as he threw the plane about the sky seemingly with careless ease:

We started with a very rapid ascent — in itself a grand sensation — and made a wide left-hand circle until we were over the shilling enclosure.  Then — I held on tight!  But I need not have troubled, for it was only just as the biplane commenced to bank that I felt a very slight tendency to leave my seat (I had the services of a safety belt) and after this it felt as though someone were holding me down on my seat.  This was a little unexpected — as everything had happened so quickly that I had not had time to realise that centrifugal force would keep me in situ — so I held on.

 

A brilliantly designed poster advertising M. Chevillard’s upcoming airshow in Norway in 1913.

Higher and higher went the right side until nearly vertical and almost simultaneously we began to dive.  During this first dive I looked straight ahead.  There, near the horizon, was the Welsh Harp water, then suddenly the whole horizon line — Welsh Harp and all — tilted over to the right, until almost vertical instead of horizontal, and then the whole ground and the “vertical horizon” seemed to swing sideways to the right for all the world like a table-cloth slipping over the edge of a slippery table.  By this time I was looking straight on top of those immediately below, although I was still sitting in my normal position, looking forward.

Thus we dived till about 100 ft. or so from the ground, which approached with startling rapidity, when we flattened out and commenced to climb again.  As we made our way across the aerodrome I was looking to the right at a train on the railway, when Chevillard made a sharp, banked, left-hand turn.  The ground flattened itself out, and finally disappeared from view, so I turned quickly to the left, and found the ground “swivelling” up on that side.  The result of this quick movement on my part was a weird sensation like that experienced by many when they “fall” in their dreams.

Chevillard performs at Hendon, London, England, in April 1913. Source: Flight, April 19, 1913

Chevillard’s Technique

The writer also detailed Chevillard’s own description of how to perform the Chute de Côté, even including instructions on how to move the stick, when to take off and add power and so forth — it is almost enough to make us want to go up and try a few ourselves:

And Chevillard?  Well, he sat there in front of me, almost motionless the whole time, and it was with the greatest difficulty that I noticed at any time what he did in the way of controlling the machine, so I will not attempt to explain how he does the trick from actual observations, but give his own explanation.  First of all he generally switches off the engine; then he banks the machine over by bringing the control lever sharply over to the left, following up this movement, almost simultaneously, by pushing the lever forward.  The machine then begins to dive, and he immediately returns the control lever to its normal position, at the same time bringing the rudder over with his left foot, banking and diving the machine still further.  By this time he usually switches on again.  At the same time that he puts the rudder over, he brings the control lever right back, raising the elevator.  Here is the most interesting moment of the dive, for we are brought face to face with conditions similar to those experienced by the late Lieut. Parke when he made his famous dive in the Avro enclosed biplane.  I do not intend to go further in this matter, but leave it to my readers to argue it out for themselves, and get lots of fun out of it — I did at the time.

Maurice Chevillard and his Farman performing in Norway in 1913.

Final Thoughts

Photographic evidence shows that the Farman would end up in a perfectly nose down, vertical dive after each Chute de Côté, from which he would recover with gentle back pressure on the stick.  Typically, he performed these maneuvers at least than 500 feet of altitude, demonstrating his true mastery of low level aerobatics.

One suspects that he would be a popular airshow performer even today — well, at least if he brought his Farman!

* Note:  The write ups from “A. J.” appeared in Flight, the newsletter of the Royal Aero Club in England in their April 19, 1913, issue — exactly 100 years ago today in aviation history.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

What became of Maurice Chevillard?

Seventy one years ago today in aviation history, on April 18, 1942, sixteen B-25B Mitchell bombers, each with a five man crew, took off from the decks of the US Navy aircraft carrier Hornet and made their way over 600 miles to Japan where they bombed and strafed a series of assigned military targets.  A mix of 500 pound general purpose bombs and smaller incendiaries were used in the Raid.  The damage inflicted was materially light, however, but the morale boost to America was critically important at that time, coming on the heels of nothing but bad news since the Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor four and a half months earlier.

Usually, it is there that the analysis of the importance of the Doolittle Raid concludes, defining it as a tactical surprise that had the strategic benefit of invigorating Americans with a new hope of victory.  But what if that conclusion is incorrect?  What if the Doolittle Raid actually did have wider, unrecognized strategic impact?  We believe that it did and welcome you to consider an alternative understanding of history, one that is fully backed by the evidence and facts at hand.

The Instabilities of History

The truths that historians hold firmly have both validity and yet at the same time, they can be self-limiting and curtail wider understandings.  First and foremost, historians build on the knowledge of others, adding to and refining our understandings.  Some events, like Pearl Harbor, the Doolittle Raid, the Battle of Midway, the invasion of France on D-Day, are studied so extensively that, after all these years, the landscape becomes fixed.  The facts are known, cataloged and examined — they do not change — although we can choose to place our emphasis on the known events in varying ways.  In other words, there are facts that are known and widely repeated and there are facts that are known but rarely considered to have wider implications and impacts.  History is therefore constructed not solely based on the facts, i.e., what actually happened, but rather on our perceptions of events.

In constructing our accepted views of history, we become so fixated in a single truth that we are led to ignore alternate interpretations of events.  This is particularly true of the Doolittle Raid.  Certainly, many make claim that the raid was largely symbolic, even if unquestionably heroic.  They base their viewon the conclusion that the Doolittle Raid had little or no effect on the larger scale of warfare that followed, its individual engagements, strategies, battles and outcomes — it was a tactical raid, with limited or even no strategic impact.

It is that set of assumptions that we seek to challenge.  Ultimately, we believe too that the facts are there to support an alternative interpretation of history that finally does full justice to the extraordinary accomplishments of the Doolittle Raiders.

Contextualizing Alternative Interpretations

In this short article, we stake claim that the Doolittle Raid did have a far greater strategic impact on the war in the Pacific than most realize.  As well, we highlight that some assumptions about the impacts of the events themselves are taken as “common knowledge” and are often repeated, even if they are incorrectly contextualized.  Among these, the following “surprises” both point to how the impact of events is often misunderstood and improperly contextualized, leading us wrongly to discount the strategic importance of the Raid:

1. Common Understanding:  The Doolittle Raid came as a complete surprise to the Japanese.
   Actual Fact:  Through intelligence operations and code breaking, the Japanese knew that the American task force that carried out the raid was “on the loose” in the Pacific Ocean.  The Japanese military suspected that some sort of raid on the Japanese home islands was a serious possibility.  The Japanese deployed picket ships to detect and warn of the approach of any American task force so as to aid in intercepting and destroying the American task force.  One of these ships, the No.23 Nitto Maru spotted the task force and radioed a warning back to Japan — it was thereafter sunk by USS Nashville, but ended up forcing the Doolittle Raiders to take off 10 hours earlier and 170 miles farther away from Japan than planned.  Likewise, the advance notice of the planned attack resulted in the IJN’s Second Fleet, which included five aircraft carriers, having delayed a planned port call for scheduled maintenance and refit so as to find, pursue and destroy the American fleet.  Instead, even as the Hornet and the American task force sailed west toward Japan, the Second Fleet was heading east hoping both to stop the aerial attack and to destroy the American task force.  Both missions failed.




2. Common Understanding:  The Doolittle Raid caused light and rather inconsequential damage to Japan, which was quickly repaired.
   Actual Fact:  At least one of the targets hit, a light aircraft carrier that was under construction at Yokohama called the Ry?h?, was hit by a 500 lb bomb and several incendiaries.  While the damage was repaired, it did delay the carrier’s readiness slightly, and the ship finally joined the IJN fleet in December 1942; had it been available earlier, it could have played a larger role in the engagements of the summer and autumn months of 1942, though whether the ship would have been brought into service that much earlier remains an open question.




3. Common Understanding:  The strategic costs to the Japanese associated with Doolittle Raid were nominal and did little to affect the wider conflict of the war in the Pacific.
   Actual Fact:  In the wake of the Doolittle Raid, the Japanese military committed a huge volume of resources, manpower and intelligence assets to address matters in China directly relating to the American attack.  A mass scale hunt for the American airmen who took part was undertaken, which also involved thousands of Japanese soldiers in carrying out an extensive retaliation and retribution campaign on China’s citizens.  Over 250,000 Chinese were slaughtered in the process, chemical warfare attacks were undertaken on populated areas, and the entire network of airfields within China which could have served the Americans (though they could have also served the Japanese!) were torn up to help prevent a recurrence of the Raid.  That effort required massive logistics support and a huge volume of manpower as well as the use of much-needed war materiel, resources, ammunition, fuel and other equipment that could have been put to better use in the wider war.






4. Common Understanding:  The Japanese were unprepared for air raids on Japan itself and thus the attacks came as a shock to the people of Japan.
   Actual Fact:  The shock was felt, but rather mostly at a military command level.  Mistakes had been made in predicting American military moves and defending against the attacks.  The political leadership lost some faith in the promises of the Japanese military leadership.  As for the Japanese people, in actual fact, at the time they were regularly drilled in civil air defense, taking cover in bomb shelters during routine exercises, even if the senior officials believed that the mainland was probably out of reach of attack.  The very morning of the Doolittle Raid, some locations that were attacked had already carried out a civil air defense exercise!  The Japanese people thereafter did not lose faith in their government, but rather demanded that more be done to defend the home islands.  They felt that the previously practiced air defense drills were justified, but demanded that more resources be committed to defense as a result.




5. Common Understanding:  In terms of strategic decision making as it related to the wider war in the Pacific, the Doolittle Raid did not influence Japanese political or military leaders to alter their plans and courses of action, except to perhaps reinforce the home islands for better defense in the event of another American raid.
   Actual Fact:  The Doolittle Raid and subsequent failure of the IJN Second Fleet to find, engage and successfully defeat the American carrier task force had much wider implications.  Politically, the Imperial Japanese Navy was placed in a position of having to engage and succeed against the Americans in the near term.  The public and political view that if American land-based bombers could attack Tokyo then Japan was more vulnerable than many had believed was matched by the Japanese military’s own assessment that such vulnerabilities were not going to be easily reduced.  This created a strong incentive to act swiftly and boldly.  Thus, the ultimate outcome of the Doolittle Raid turned out to be of extraordinary supreme strategic importance — forced into stronger action in the wake of the American attack, Admiral Yamamoto made the key decision to move ahead quickly with a more robust attack on Midway Island.  That decision received broad support, perhaps in large part justified and enabled by the changed political and military landscape created by the Doolittle Raid itself.

Conclusion

Each of the five points raised above shed new light on the real strategic impact of the Doolittle Raid.  Above all, the decision by Admiral Yamamoto due to the Raid to proceed immediately with an attack against Midway had the greatest strategic impact.  The events that followed in the Battle of Midway are considered to have been the “turning of the tide” of the war in the Pacific.  That view is not strictly an American one, as many Japanese senior officers also recognized that with the losses suffered things had changed in the war, irrecoverably putting a complete and absolute victory in the Pacific permanently out of reach.  From that point onward, the role of the Japanese military shifted steadily to defense, with the leadership hoping that if enough losses could be inflicted against the Americans and her Allies, their advance could be curtailed and a settlement reached that could save at least some of Japan’s gains.

In the aftermath of the Doolittle Raid, Lt Col Doolittle worried that he would return to disgrace and a court martial.  His view was not unjustified — all sixteen of his aircraft were lost; of the 80 airmen who flew in the Raid, eleven were captured and/or killed; and the other airmen of his unit were scattered, never to be reformed.  Yet as we know, Jimmy Doolittle was welcomed instead as a returning hero, elevated two ranks to Brigadier General and awarded the Medal of Honor.  All of his men (some posthumously) received the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Army’s second highest award for valor in combat.

In the final analysis, it seems that his Medal of Honor was not only well-deserved, but, given the later ramifications and true strategic impact of the Doolittle Raid, perhaps Jimmy Doolittle should have earned that Medal of Honor with an Oak Leaf Cluster.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

In the Doolittle Raid, one of the B-25B Mitchell bombers (#40-2242 of the 95th Bomb Squadron) after dropping its bombs on Tokyo, was so low on fuel that its pilot, Capt. Edward J. York, made a decision to turn to the northwest instead of proceeding to China.  He landed at Vladivostok in the Soviet Union.  The Soviets, who were allied with the US in the war in Europe, interned both the plane and crew.  While the crew was eventually repatriated, the B-25B was not — what happened to the plane?

IIt was 100 years ago this week that a detailed report was published regarding two episodes where hapless aviators had found themselves, by trick of ill-winds, suddenly upside down in midair.  In both cases, somehow, against all odds, despite in one of the cases having not even been belted in, they survived.  Of the two stories — one concerning the French military pilot, Capt. Aubry, and the other concerned Capt. H. R. P. Reynolds of the Royal Flying Corps — it is the latter that truly deserves to be preserved and published again today.  The story relates a hair-raising experience that Capt. Reynolds hoped he would never again have to experience.

In all likelihood, he was the first aviator to survive upside down flight.  Sadly, it did not end well.

View from the cockpit of a Bristol Biplane, perhaps the same one that was flown by Capt. Reynolds, as it flies low over the rows of tents at an altitude of perhaps 200 feet at Hamilton Camp on Salisbury Plain — note the plane’s shadow at bottom right. The tents belong to the 4th Cavalry Brigade. Source: Flight

A Near-Death Experience

The report appeared in the April 12, 1913 issue of Flight, the newsletter of the Royal Aero Club and is quoted here at length — beginning with the words, “Capt. Reynolds, who, so far as we know, was the first to experience this sort of accident and to live to tell the tale, very kindly gave us his own description of what exactly took place….”

A Howard Wright Biplane, this one flown by then Lt. H.R.P. Reynolds during the Daily Mail Circuit of Britain Race in 1911. Source: Flight

For the record, Captain Herbert Ramsay Playford Reynolds, originally of the Royal Engineers, was certified as a pilot on June 6, 1911 — he held certificate #92.  His firsthand account of his terrifying flight follows:

“I started from Oxford on the morning of August 19th, 1911, and flew along the line towards Cambridge, where I encountered a misty atmosphere and thought it well to descend.  I came down close to Launton station.  That evening, soon after 7 o’clock, I started again.  It was warm and fine, but rather suggestive of thunder; the air was perfectly still.  I scarcely had occasion to move the control lever at all until I got to Bletchley, where it began to get rather bumpy.  At first, I thought nothing of this; but suddenly it got much worse, and I came to the conclusion it was time to descend.  A big black thundercloud was coming up on my right front; it did not look reassuring, and there was good landing ground below.

“At this time I was flying about 1,700 feet altitude by my aneroid, which had been set at Oxford in the morning.  I began a glide, but, almost directly I had switched off, the tail of the machine was suddenly wrenched upwards as if it had been hit from below, and I saw the elevator go down perpendicularly below me.  I was not strapped in, and I suppose I caught hold of the uprights at my side, for the next thing I realised was that I was lying in a heap on what ordinarily is the under surface of the top plane.  The machine in fact was upside down.  I stood up, held on and waited.  The machine just floated about, gliding from side to side like a piece of paper falling.  Then it over-swung itself, so to speak, and went down more or less vertically sideways until it righted itself momentarily the right way up.

 

Diagram and plan for the Bristol Biplane, aka Boxkite. Source: Flight

“Then it went down tail first, turned over upside down again, and restarted the old floating motion.  We were still some way from the ground, and look what seemed like a longtime in reaching it.  I looked round somewhat hurriedly, the tail was still there, and I could see nothing wrong.  As we got close to the ground the machine was doing long swings from side to side, and I made up my mind that the only thing to do was to try and jump clear of the wreckage before the crash.  In the last swing we slid down, I think, about thirty feet, and hit the ground pretty hard.  Fortunately I hung on practically to the end, and, according to those who were looking on, I did not jump till about ten feet from the ground.  Something hit me on the head and scratched it very slightly, but what it was I did not know, for I was in too much of a hurry to get away from the machine to enquire at that time.

 

The Bristol Aviation School in England. Source: Flight

“The next morning I went out to it, and found one of the rods which held up the left extension lying by the engine and the right wing tip.  The propeller was undamaged, the elevator and the tail were practically unhurt, while the undercarriage, being uppermost, was untouched.  The machine on which this happened was an ordinary Bristol biplane with a 50-h.p. Gnome.

“I was told that just before I smashed there had been two or three ‘whirlwinds,’ as the people called them, in Bletchley, and that one of these had stripped the leaves off a tree. Very possibly this was my friend.”

The aftermath of the Capt. Reynolds’ crash in his Bristol biplane — it was this very plane in which he became the first aviator to fly upside down, albeit not in control.

Thoughts and Considerations

Evaluating the story, it seems that Capt. Reynolds experienced a violent vertical sheer from the nearby thunderhead which tossed the plane into a stall.  With him out of the cockpit and the plane out of control, he clung to it while it went through various inverted and upright falling leaf maneuvers on its own.  It appears that it never exited a fully developed stall but yet did not spin either, perhaps due to his own weight offsetting the center of balance — one can never know.

Perhaps the craziest part of the story is his decision to leap from the plane when it was low to the ground.  It seems incredible that he survived that jump without a broken leg or hip, but he did.  No doubt the lightweight airframe of his Bristol biplane contributed to the slow rate of descent, certainly slow enough that he survived.

Bentfield Hucks and his Blériot XI, “The Tornado”, in which he first performed a loop and inverted flight, seen here c. 1914.

Final Word

Interestingly enough, in a much later newspaper article (London Times, November 6, 1918), it was claimed that the first Englishman to fly upside down was Bentfield Charles Hucks, who was certified to fly just a week before Capt. Reynolds.  He was also reported to have been the first to perform a loop (so perhaps the upside down flight was at the top of the loop?).  On careful consideration, it seems that both men may hold the honor of being the first to fly upside down — in the case of Capt. Reynolds, it was unintended; while in the case of Bentfield Hucks, it was by plan.

Harriet Quimby’s flight had been carefully planned.  The challenge was nothing less than matching the famous flight of Louis Blériot from 1909 by taking a plane across the English Channel.  If successful, she would become the first woman to make the crossing on her own, as the pilot.  She planned on taking off from Dover, England, and landing on the beach at Hardelot-Plage, Pas-de-Calais.  It was almost exactly the reverse course flown by Louis Blériot himself.  The similarities didn’t end there — even her plane was essentially the same type.  The flight across was a distance of 25 miles and, with an airplane that traveled at perhaps 30 mph at best, she knew it would take an hour.  It was a distance and flight time that she had flown before in America — so long as nothing went wrong, she would land in France in time for a nice breakfast.

As it happened, everything worked exactly as planned, except that the media totally ignored her record-breaking flight.  Why was that?  Was it because she was a woman flying in the man’s world of that day and age?  No, not at all.  Instead, there was something else that stole the headlines that morning, on April 16, 1912 — today in aviation history — eclipsing Harriet Quimby’s flight into history.

Harriet Quimby in the USA during 1911.

Harriet Quimby’s Introduction

The Royal Aero Club covered Harriet Quimby’s crossing in their newsletter, Flight, in some detail.  They provided more than a simple reduction of the story into its newsworthy terms, but rather added considerable context to her flight.  They opened with a wonderful salute to her status as one who should have been better known to England’s leading aviators, but who was not.  Perhaps this was because she hailed from the United States, too far from Europe to make the news.  The Royal Aero Club writers explained:

ALTHOUGH Miss Harriet Quimby has made an enviable reputation for herself as a capable pilot in America, her native country, she has not been very well-known on this side of the Atlantic, and no doubt few of our readers who read the announcement in FLIGHT a week or so back that she was coming to Europe, looked for her so soon to make her mark by crossing the Channel.

A cheerful wave as Harriet Quimby achieves her pilot certification.

Earlier, the writers had introduced Miss Quimby in a short item that also related news about other women in aviation:

THE number of certificated aviators among the gentler sex is being gradually added to.  The first to obtain her certificate under the new rules was Madame Driancourt, at the French Caudron School, but soon after her was Miss Harriet Quimby, of California, who qualified on a Moisant monoplane at Mineola, N.Y., on August 1st.  Miss Matilda Moisant, sister of the late J. B. Moisant, has also qualified for a pilot’s licence on a Moisant monoplane, and Miss Blanche Scott should qualify shortly.

Well-dressed and beautiful, Harriet Quimby’s flying skills were accepted in an era when women were considered, “the fairer sex”.

Preparations and Flight

The writers made particular mention of the rapidity with which Harriet Quimby had carried out the record flight — though they got it wrong, she wasn’t from California, but rather from the small town of Coldwater, Michigan.  Further, they did not clarify their meaning and it seems that either they were impressed with her confidence and abilities, which made the flight across seem like just another day flying, or perhaps they were making obtuse mention of a certain American impetuousness, using that classic language of British implication:

Contrary to what one would expect, the feat was carried through without any fuss or elaborate preparations, and only a few friends, including Mr. Norbet Chereau and his wife and Mrs. Griffith, an American friend, knew that the attempt was being made and were present at the start.  Miss Quimby had ordered a 50-h.p. Gnome-Blériot, which arrived from France on Saturday, and was tested on Sunday by Mr. Hamel.

Posing with her airplane, always a favorite of the press in the USA; she found less coverage in Europe.

The flight itself was then described in the simplest terms, though with a certain illustrative flair that, even in its brevity, puts the reader into the cockpit for the flight itself.  The phrasing shows that this was clearly written by a pilot, for pilots:

On Tuesday morning, as previously arranged, after Mr. Hamel had taken the machine for a preliminary trial flight, Miss Quimby, who had been staying at Dover under the name of Miss Craig, took her place in the pilot’s seat, and at 5.38 left Deal, rising by a wide circle and steering a course, by the aid of the compass, for Cape Grisnez.  Dover Castle was passed at a height of 1,500 feet, and by the time the machine was over the sea, it was at an altitude of about 2,000 feet.  Guided solely by compass, Miss Quimby arrived above the Grisnez Lighthouse a little under an hour later, and making her way towards Boulogne she came down at Equihen by a spiral vol plané not far from the Blériot sheds.

Harriet Quimby herself later wrote of the rush at which she had commenced, putting things in a different light:  “There was no wind. Scarcely a breath of air was stirring.  The plane was hurried out of the hangar.  We knew that we must hasten, for it was almost certain that the wind would rise again within an hour.”

This half-page photograph of Miss Quimby appeared with the article. Source: Flight, April 20, 1912

Conclusion and Aftermath

The writers made no mention of the lack of news coverage — after all, they covered it well enough themselves, complete with a large half page photograph of Miss Quimby in her Blériot — and thus they offered her the laurels that she so very deserved:

To Miss Quimby, therefore, belongs the honour of being the first of the fair sex to make the journey, unaccompanied, across the Channel on an aeroplane; and, appropriately enough, as the first crossing of an aeroplane by a “mere man” was on a Blériot machine, her mount was of that type.  Miss Trehawke Davies, it will be remembered, was the first lady to cross the Channel in an aeroplane, but she was a passenger with Mr. Hamel on his Blériot monoplane.

In light of this, just why was Harriet Quimby’s incredible flight largely ignored by the press and public?  Put simply, another news event took place the night before, of which, at the time of her take off, she knew nothing.

Having arrived safely in France, Harriet Quimby, still in her flight suit and goggles, is celebrated by the French.

On April 15, 1912, mere hours before Harriet Quimby’s departure from Dover, the great ship RMS Titanic struck an iceberg and sank in the North Atlantic.  Thus, the morning newspapers lit up with large headlines declaring news of the tragedy.  As for Harriet Quimby, she barely warranted mention as a result — it was ill luck of timing, but it did nothing to eclipse her actual achievement that day.

As for what else was not reported about her flight?  Well, there was the matter of her all-purple aviation jumpsuit, which she had designed herself….

From the Archives

Miss Trehawke Davies Loops the Loop — read about another daring aviatrice from the same time as Harriet Quimby.  In fact, Miss Davies was the first woman to cross the Channel by air, though as a passenger.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

Who was the second woman to pilot a plane across the English Channel?

“Deep Sea 129″, the code name for a reconnaissance flight, took off from the Naval Air Station at Atsugi, Japan, at 6:50 am local time on April 15, 1969, on what should have been a routine Beggar Shadow mission.  The plane, operated by the US Navy’s Airborne Reconnaissance Squadron One (VQ-1) under the umbrella of the National Security Agency (NSA), was a Lockheed EC-121M Warning Star — the ELINT version of the Constellation.  As usual, the plane carried a full crew — that day it totaled 31 on board.  The aircraft commander was LCDR James Overstreet, USN, a veteran of the mission.  To support the ELINT mission, the EC-121M’s sides, top and bottom bristled with antennae of all types, each tuned to intercept and record a different type of enemy radar, communications or other equipment.  The route of the flight was first to fly north and then back down the coast no closer than 50 nm from the shores of North Korea, China or the Soviet Union.  Since January 1, 1969, nearly 200 similar Beggar Shadow missions had been flown, a rate of more than two a day.  The mission was so commonplace that it was categorized as “low risk”.

Six and a half hours later, at 12:37 pm local time, the plane was flying down the North Korean coastline at 70 nm offshore when the communications technicians on board began to detect an increase in North Korean communications.  The EC-121M had no tactical radar of its own to track airborne targets — indeed, the men in the back were almost all communications experts, including fluent Russian, Korean and Chinese speakers.  Nonetheless, in support of the mission, the US Army’s Army Security Agency had a radar facility in South Korea that tracked the North’s air movements and, through the World Wide Military Command and Control System, was in the loop and actively supporting the mission.  The Army radar operators detected and tracked the take off of a pair of Korean People’s Air Force (KPAF) MiG-17 “Fresco” aircraft.  They suspected that the flights had something to do with the presence of the Navy ELINT plane.  As it was, they were right — the North Koreans were out for blood.

The sister aircraft (PR-22) of VQ-1 to the EC-121M involved in the events of April 15, 1969, which carried the codes PR-21. Photo Credit: US Navy

The Interception

As the ground-based Army radar operators watched, at first the two MiG-17s flew a rather routine course heading eastward to run along the coast.  Therefore, about 20 minutes later at 1:00 pm local time, the EC-121M filed a routine position report through the normal channels.  Communications with the EC-121 were virtually continuous.  In the event, flights of North Korean aircraft, so long as they remained over or near North Korea, were usually welcomed, at least from a SIGINT and ELINT perspective.  When they flew, it meant that various communications and radar systems that might otherwise have been idle were active and, therefore, being recorded for later analysis.

At 1:22 pm, however, the Army’s radar operators lost track of the two MiG-17s.  They hoped that the planes had descended down low over the ocean, thus disappearing into surface reflections that could confound even the more advanced radar systems of the late 1960s.  Maybe they were returning to their base, given that the MiG-17s had a very limited fuel supply.  However, at 1:37 pm, the two MiG-17s suddenly reappeared on the Army radar screens.  Shockingly, they were on a direct course to intercept Deep Sea 129 and were closing at high speed.  With urgency, the Army broadcast a warning message.

At NAS Atsugi, the communications team of VQ-1 that was supporting their plane saw the warning on the World Wide Military Command and Control System network and immediately transmitted a message to LCDR Overstreet in the plane.  The message declared a “Condition Three Alert”, which meant that they were to immediately abort the mission and return to base.  The message also transmitted that based on the rapid approach the North Korean MiGs were likely on orders to attack.

A MiG-17 “Fresco” painted in North Korean KPAF colors at the USAF’s Threat Training Facility; actually, this is a license-built version, a Lim-5, but very similar to a Soviet-built MiG-17. Photo Credit: LeClaire

Shootdown and Death

Even as the EC-121M turned to escape back to Japan, the two KPAF MiG-17s closed in.  By that point, they were at full power, burning fuel at an extraordinary rate to close the gap and avoid an extended tail chase.  The MiG-17s carried the typical heavy armament of that Soviet-built type — each plane had three cannons, including a Nudelman N-37 37mm cannon and two 23mm cannons with 80 rounds per gun.  Just a few of those cannon rounds could, if well aimed, bring down the EC-121M.  In the short tail chase that followed, the two MiGs had a closing speed of perhaps 200 mph.  Just ten minutes later, at 1:47 pm, the radar units along Japan’s coast and in South Korea recorded the twin blips of the pursuing MiGs as they merged with the single blip of the EC-121M.  The planes were at the following position:  41°28’00″N 131°35’00″E.  Later analysis of intercepted North Korean and Soviet radar traces confirmed the position exactly.

An EC-121M Warning Star. Photographer Unknown

The situation was desperate.  If the North Koreans meant to attack, it wouldn’t be much of a fight, as the American ELINT plane was unarmed and unarmored.  LCDR Overstreet, nor any of the other 30 members of the flight crew on the EC-121M had any warning of the closeness of the attack.  No doubt, the cannon rounds raked the fuselage and wings, destroying the aircraft and killing many on board in the very first seconds of the attack.  Nonetheless, it took a full two minutes for the blip that was the EC-121M to disappear from the radar scopes.  It was last seen descending rapidly.  Later analysis concluded that most of that time the radar return was from plane, perhaps in pieces, spinning down to a crash into the ocean after the attack pass.  The ground-based radar operators watched helplessly as the two blips of the MiG-17 fighter planes turned back west to head toward their base.

At first, it wasn’t clear if the EC-121M had simply descended in a dive in accordance with established procedures.  It was possible that the American plane was running along at low level over the waves, perhaps even having eluded the two MiG-17s.  It was also possible that the MiGs had intercepted the plane, buzzed it and then turned for home.  There was still hope, though most were already thinking the worst.  Ten minutes later, with no word from the plane, it seemed clear that the plane had been shot down.  All 31 men on board were gone.  A few minutes after that, at 2:01 pm, a protective combat air patrol was scrambled, putting two F-102 fighter jets into the air from Japan.  It was clearly too late.  NSA transmitted a FLASH message and then a CRITIC message, relaying word of the attack throughout the system and to the National Military Command Center, as well as to the White House — in every case, the warnings, follow up messages and confirmations were late being delivered — in one case, a FLASH message, normally requiring no more than 6 minutes to deliver, was not received for 1 hour and 16 minutes, far too late to be meaningful.

A MiG-17AS in flight — this is actually a photograph of No232, the MiG-17 that defected from Cuba to Homestead AFB on October 5, 1969, by the hand of Lt. Eduardo Guerra Jimenez, DAAFAR squadron commander at Santa Clara.

Aftermath

An immediate search and rescue effort was mounted.  For protection, the SAR aircraft were covered by USAF and US Navy fighter planes.  Two Soviet Navy ships asked to assist in the search, not for nefarious purposes but truly in the interest of supporting the rescue since American ships were still more than a day away.  At first, nothing was found, but then the following morning a P-3B Orion of VP-40 spotted some wreckage on the surface.  After coordinating with the Soviets, the US Navy and USAF planes guided their ships to the scene.  Their crews retrieved some debris, but found no survivors, nor any bodies.  Later, the Soviets turned over all of the debris that they had taken in a mid-ocean rendezvous with an American ship.

When the first American Navy vessels arrived at the scene, they too found and retrieved debris.  They also found two bodies, those of LTJG Joseph R. Ribar and AT1 Richard E. Sweeney, but sadly the bodies of the remaining 29 crewmen were never recovered.  Some of the debris recovered showed telltale signs of the attack — clearly, the North Koreans had fired with devastating accuracy, though it would have been hard to miss the large, lumbering target of the EC-121M out in the middle of a clear blue sky.  As no message had been transmitted by the EC-121M informing of an ongoing attack, it seemed likely that the plane had been downed in the first pass when the two MiG-17s roared up from directly behind.  Most likely, it was over in a few seconds.

MiG-19s, the later advancement over the MiG-17 Fresco jet fighter, remain an active part of the KPAF; here one is inspected by North Korea’s new, young leader, Kim Jong un. Source: North Korean Television

US Response and Final Thoughts

The Nixon White House was outraged, but tempered the US response, calling it a matter of “restraint”.  The US Military was not ordered to retaliate as this might have escalated the situation.  To send a clear message, the Beggar Shadow ELINT missions were resumed just a few days later, though with more available fighter coverage in the event that the KPAF tried another interception.  Formal protests were made, but these obviously had little impact on the North Koreans who were proudly celebrating the event.

Ultimately, the shooting down of Deep Sea 129 was a victory of sorts for North Korea.  It also served then — and today — as a clear reminder that the militarism and raw aggression of the North Koreans remains untamed, unpredictable and unacceptable.  Finally, it marked a watershed event for the World Wide Military Command and Control System.  Clearly, better coordination and more timely warnings were needed for the next time.

Sadly, there would be a next time, but that’s another story.

From the Archives

Reds Down U.S. Bomber — read about another loss of a reconnaissance plane, this one shot down by the Soviets just off the coast of the northernmost Japanese island of Hokkaido.  Indeed, reconnaissance was a deadly game during the Cold War.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

Why did the North Koreans select that flight on that day — April 15, 1969 — to shoot down the American aircraft?  What event precipitated the attack?

• Designed specifically for ground attack, yet a triplane!
  
• The personnel look quite lax — yet is it from the interwar period?
  
• A single pilot airplane — no copilot! — but had two gunners.
  
• Fitted with armor plates so it could survive while strafing trenches.
  

So do you know what this aircraft is?

Post a REPLY below with your best guess!

Click here to check out last week’s What’s That?

When he entered the Link Trainer room, he saw that there were ten of the machines neatly lined up to either side, a walkway separating the two rows.  Like all new USAF pilots, he was assigned to undergo intensive instrument training in the Link ANT-18, which consisted of a small, airplane shaped wooden simulator with an enclosed cockpit that, when the hood was down, put the pilot alone inside with the flight instruments.  His task was to virtually fly around while the trainer rocked left and right, nose up or down, turning and twisting to reflect his movements on the controls.  Behind each Link Trainer, there was a desk manned by an instructor who gave instructions through an intercom to the pilot through his headsets and a plotting table, where a pen marked on a map the courses flown.  Somehow, the line never seemed to be where you wanted it to be.

TSgt James R. Schneid at the controls of this early flight simulator at Freeman Field, Seymour, Indiana, while training in 1943.

The idea was that you could learn to fly on instruments in the Link Trainer first and then, when you had to do it for real, you’d be skilled enough to succeed.  The place to make mistakes was in the Link, rather than in a real airplane where your first mistake would likely be your last.  When you did screw it up in the Link though, the machine would start to spin around and around, simulating a stall and spin in a real airplane.

Looking across the two rows of Link Trainers, he was surprised to see that all of them were spinning.  Just then, the top of one of the Links popped open and the pilot clambered over the side of the cockpit to leap to the floor.  My God, he thought, that one’s bailed out….  What am I in for?  He swallowed hard — he was next….

Edwin Link poses in the cockpit of a Link ANT-18 during the height of World War II, c. 1943.

The Origin of the Link Trainer

Today in aviation history, on April 14, 1929, Edwin A. Link filed his patent application for his first Link Trainer, which he called the “Pilot Maker”.  The machine had been carefully developed based on two compatible foundations — first, the Link family business (the Link Piano and Organ Company of Binghamton, New York) developed bellows, valves and air pressure systems for organs and music players.  And second, Ed Link didn’t have enough money to fly as much as he wanted, so he built a simulator!

It isn’t hard to recognize where he got his mechanical talents given that he learned to build music players in the family business.  His family’s most extraordinary device being the Link Autovox of 1927, which fit into a large, ornate wooden cabinet — essentially the machine was the size of an armoire.  It was quite complex and served as a type of early “jukebox” (a term that came into use much later).  The Link Autovox was one of the first to offer a choice of ten different 78 rpm records for the paying listener.  These were mounted on ten turntables each with its own tonearm and needle with the apparatus visible through glass-fronted doors!  By depositing a nickle, you could hear a selection played out of the two side-by-side speakers in the top of the cabinet, shielded behind cloth screens.

The Link ANT-18 Trainer, as presented in a Link company advertisement to the US Army Air Corps — note the use of the USAAC insignia on the wing and the tail flash!

As a result of his organ bellows experience, Ed Link’s patent filing defined a device that was mounted on a series of bellows that could move the Link “Pilot Maker” around.  Ed Link’s vision was simple — he felt that by using a ground-based training system, he could reduce the high cost of learning to fly.  His own flight training had cost him dearly, money which the Link organ bellows and Autovox business could only barely provide.  Thus, he pioneered the world’s first aircraft simulator, not because he was a brilliant businessman, but because he was barely making ends meet!

Ed Link’s patent diagram from his original filing.

The Link Catches On

After receiving the patent award in September 1931, Link’s first sales were not to the military or to flight schools, but rather to amusement parks!  The little trainers served as entertainment for paying guests who learned the essential techniques of flying while having fun.  After that, a few flight schools expressed interest.  Finally, in 1934, Link approached the US Army Air Corps with his idea to use his “Pilot Maker” to help train Army pilots.  At the time, the Air Corps was assigned the role of flying the air mail, a mission that had previously been in private hands, but which the government took back and assigned to the military following irregularities and difficulties with the contracts.

What followed when the Army began flying the mail was predictable.  The generally inexperienced Army aviators were a poor substitute for the veteran pilots of private industry, men who had been flying the mail in all conditions for nearly a decade.  When pressed into service, the Army aviators learned the hard way that they were insufficiently trained for night flight, flying in the clouds or in bad weather.  Yet the rule of the air mail was that you flew, even if conditions were difficult — the mail “had to get through”.  Predictably, a string of air crashes followed.

Aircrew training during the 1940s at a Link ANT-18 Trainer.

A demonstration to the US Army Air Corps in 1934 quickly resulted in a contract for the first six machines.  That contract quickly expanded as pilots gave the device rave reviews — they may not have liked the experience of spinning in to a crash in a Link, but it sure beat spinning into the ground in the real thing!  By the mid-1930s, the Link Trainers were being used by the US Army and the US Navy and Ed Link’s business had grown to a substantial size.  He expanded to market the device internationally, where he found the Canadians and British also to be willing buyers, though the instrument panel had to be redesigned for British standards (the so-called D2 model of the Link ANT-18).

By World War II, every Allied nation used the Link — remarkably, his design in the 1940s remained virtually identical in outward appearance to his original patent drawing, though the bellows devices had been considerably modernized.  In the US alone, counting among US Army, US Navy and US Marine pilots, half a million pilots learned instrument flying in the Link Trainer.  It was a revolution that not only cut costs substantially but also saved lives.

The Apollo Simulator with its control panel to the side, used for astronaut training in the late 1960s prior to the first landing on the Moon.

After World War II

By the end of the war, Ed Link was secure in his business and quite wealthy.  His firm had played a key role in the massive scale pilot training that took place from 1942 to 1945 and it was a record that he could be proud of.  In all, over 10,000 Link Trainers were delivered during that time.  The Link continued in its pilot training role right up through the Korean War and into the Vietnam era.  Link was engaged by NASA to build rocketry simulators for the Apollo program, which landed the men on the Moon.  Today, Link’s company is a part of L3, one of the largest defense and engineering companies in the world.  Simulators have gone digital with full-motion hydraulic lifts that turn and twist life size, exact replicas of each specific model of airplane — 747-400 simulators, 737-800 simulators and so forth, with even various sub-models uniquely represented with everything from analog instruments to glass cockpits.

Portrait of Edwin Link, c. 1952.

All in all, Ed Link was an extraordinary engineer and brilliant visionary whose design created a revolution in flight training, the effects of which are still felt today.  Looking back, it is hard to imagine that it all began on the shop floor of an organ and “Autovox” company as the vision of a young man who didn’t have money to fly.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

In the 1950s, Ed Link phased himself out of the Link Training business and manufacturing, eventually selling the company.  What was the next venture in his life?

Against all odds, their plane had made it across the Atlantic Ocean from Europe to North America.  The flight was an aviation first that happened today in history, on April 13, 1928.  Until that moment, every successful transatlantic crossing had been heading west toward Europe, thus taking advantage of the prevailing westerly following winds.  Over the more than 36 hours they had been aloft, their plane, a Junkers W33 nicknamed “Bremen”, had veered to the right of course.  They had made landfall farther north in Canada than intended.  As they scanned the landscape below, comparing it with their maps, they found no recognizable landmarks.  What was more troubling was that they did not spot a single person or building — apparently, the part of Canada over which they were flying was barren tundra.

They realized there was a real possibility that they could crash in this wilderness and simply disappear — and with that, their record-setting first flight would be lost to history.  Indeed, just a year before, the famous French ace, Charles Nungesser, and his navigator, Francois Coli, had attempted a similar flight in their specially-built plane, “L’Oiseau Blanc”.  They had been lost — though whether they had made it to Canada was guesswork.  They had been last seen flying over Ireland still on a heading to the west before disappearing out to sea.

Freiherr von Hünefeld, c.1928.

Preparing the Bremen

Ehrenfried Günther Freiherr von Hünefeld had a dream.  Inspired by the flight of Charles Lindbergh, who had crossed the Atlantic solo in a single engine airplane from New York to Paris, Freiherr von Hünefeld began to plan his own crossing.  After Lindbergh, much of Europe was entranced with the challenge of crossing against the wind in the other direction, from west to east.  If that could be done, then it might be possible to pioneer two-way air travel linking both sides of the Atlantic Ocean.  Yet Freiherr von Hünefeld was not a pilot.  In fact, he was blind in one eye and severely short-sighted in the other.  A war wound left him with one leg shorter than the other.  He was sickly, but well-funded at least given his noble titles.  From his perspective through the monocle that he wore over his right eye (his good eye, so to speak), he could see that the Americans and French had enjoyed their fair share of glory — now, it was Germany’s turn.

For Freiherr von Hünefeld, the choice of an aircraft seemed obvious.  It would have to be a German design and, given his friendship with Hugo Junkers, he purchased two of the new Junkers W33 single engine, all-metal monoplanes.  With additional fuel tanks and careful fuel management, the plane could conceivably make 38 hours of non-stop flight.

Captain Hermann Köhl, head pilot of the “Bremen”.

To support his vision, he recruited Captain Hermann Köhl, another German who was the head of the Deutsche Luft Hansa Nightflight Branch, and another pilot, who was also a moderately skilled navigator, Major James Fitzmaurice.  The latter hailed from Ireland.  In fact, this unassuming Irish pilot had previously trained and served in the RAF and had flown the mail on the Continent.  The two pilots were well-qualified for the flight, which they computed would require approximately 33 to 36 hours to complete, reaching New York City in the early afternoon one day after a morning departure.  First, they would navigate by the sun and then, with the onset of night, the flight would be over the western Atlantic still, allowing them to navigate by the stars.  By mid-morning, they would find the coast of Newfoundland and, flying southward, would pass the towns and cities that dotted the US coast until arriving at the unmistakable city of New York.

That was the plan, anyway.  What happened, however, wasn’t even close to their expectations.

The “Bremen” at the start of its flight, still on the bround in Ireland as the sun rises. Source: German Federal Archives, Bild 102-05720

The Flight into History

The three men left Baldonnel Aerodrome, Ireland, in the “Bremen” on April 12, lifting off at exactly 5:38 am GMT.  An hour and a half later at 7:05 am GMT they passed Slyne Head Lighthouse on the westernmost point of County Galway.  Continuing west, they were soon out of sight of land.  The weather was favorable.  Passing the 30 degree longitude line, they worked out the time and distance equation to realize that headwinds had slowed their forward progress to just 90 mph.  It was all as expected, though.  They continued to navigate by the sun, holding a solid course by using a drift sight against the waves.

At 4:00 pm GMT, they climbed higher, hoping to improve their ground speed.  As the sun set, they took their final drift sight reading, hoping that the winds would hold generally the same over the night, though usually there were changes as the hours would tick by.  They would hold course, however, relative to the stars and, barring that, based on magnetic compass they had on board.  Clouds, however, were already obscuring the sunset, however, and they were soon flying under a solid overcast.  With sundown, they had no reference to the stars for navigation due to the clouds.  They climbed to 6,000 feet in the evening.  Yet here they were confident in their night navigation skills — after all, Captain Hermann Köhl, as earlier noted, was the head of the Deutsche Luft Hansa Nightflight Branch.  He held a solid course through the night based on the compass alone.  In any case, they should have been just three hours from landfall by that time.

The “Bremen” after landing in Quebec, Canada.

Morning and the End of the Flight

Before the first light of morning, the overcast broke and they caught the first sight of the North Star.  Incredibly, with that, they realized that the magnetic compass was 40 degrees off, twisted southerly.  Thus, instead of heading on the correct course, they had been heading 40 degrees off course angled toward the north.  Immediately, Captain Köhl turned to the southwest, making a nearly 90 degree course correction.  Even so, as dawn broke they knew that they had been far off course.  They could see also that they were over land.  Scanning below, nothing they saw was recognizable on the maps.  All they knew was that they were flying somewhere over Canada.

The wind was directly in their face.  As a result, their forward progress was too slow.  To avoid the wind, they took the plane down low, skimming low over a valley.  They kept their eyes searching for houses and people but none were seen.  If they were to crash here, they might never be found.  Down low, they made better time, however.  Though there were others who saw the plane flying low through the valley, they still saw no one.  Indeed, the area was sparsely populated after all, but they had not seen any evidence of that.  They continued on, passing 32 hours aloft.

From left, Captain Hermann Köhl, Freiherr von Hünefeld and Major James Fitzmaurice — the three men pose with the “Bremen”. Photo Credit: Georg Pahl, Bundesarchiv, picture 102-05719

Finally, they spotted a lighthouse located on an island near the edge of a body of water — circling, they could see four people nearby as well as a pack of dogs.  They set up a landing on a flat area nearby, damaging the plane but coming to a safe stop.  The three men descended from the “Bremen” to celebrate — and find out just where they were located.  They learned then that they were at the Strait of Belle Isle, close to where the borders of three Canadian provinces, Quebec, Labrador and Newfoundland, came together.  While they hadn’t made it to New York, they had made it across the Atlantic safely and landed at Greenly Island.  In the end, they had missed New York by 1,200 miles — with the fuel they had available, they would never have made it the rest of the way.  They had flown non-stop for 36.5 hours, landing at approximately 6:10 pm GMT (around noontime locally).

The flight crew of the “Bremen” cruise down Broadway during a New York ticker tape parade in May 1928.

Afterward

When news reached Europe and the United States of the success of the flight, the three men were elevated to heroic status among the pioneering aviators of the day.  Weeks later, they came to New York where they were celebrated with a parade through New York, not too dissimilar from Lindbergh’s welcome.  On May 2, 1928, President Calvin Coolidge conferred the Distinguished Flying Cross on each of the three men.  Freiherr von Hünefeld had finally achieved the fame he had desired, though he still felt that he had something to prove.

Six months later, he took the other Junkers W33, which he had named the “Europa”, and hired a Swedish pilot, Karl Gunnar Lindner, to attempt a round-the-world flight.  They took off from Berlin on September 18, 1928, and made their way down through Europe, across the Middle East, across Persia and then India before skirting the coast of Asia and China.  They made multiple stops along the way, resting as they went given that there was no reason to push the clock.  Reaching Japan, they came to Tokyo on October 20.  The hardest leg was ahead, the crossing of the Pacific.  Yet the weather was not favorable for a departure.  As the days went on, Freiherr von Hünefeld’s health began to deteriorate.  In pain and realizing that his usual sickly nature was not to blame, wisely, he cancelled the attempt.  Three and a half months later, back in Berlin, he died from stomach cancer.

James Fitzmaurice lived a long and full life after the flight of the Bremen.  After many other aviation adventures, he finally passed away in 1965 at 67 years of age.  As for Captain Hermann Köhl, in 1935, he lost his position at Deutsche Luft Hansa and left Berlin.  He purchased a farm and lived out the rest of his life there so as to avoid having to work with the Nazis, to whose rule he objected.  He died just three years later in 1938, at peace in Munich.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

What became of the two Junkers W33 aircraft, the “Bremen” and the “Europa”?

When Bill Lancaster took off from Reggane, Algeria, ahead of him was the empty expanse of the Sahara desert.  Having risked it all in an attempt to break the flying time record that linked London to Cape Town, South Africa, he was already running behind schedule.  He had the nearly impossible task of making up time over a journey of 72 flight hours over just a little more than four days.  Thirty sleepless hours into the trip, he should have stopped, yet he pushed on, even as French officials tried to intervene.  His family had used their savings to finance the purchase of his airplane, an Avro Avian Mk.V that had been Sir Charles Kingsford Smith’s “Southern Cross Minor”, a proven long distance record-setter.  He couldn’t afford to fail, nor try again.  Above all, the love of his life, Jessie “Chubbie” Miller, looked to him to reestablish his reputation among pilots by setting the record — there seemed no other way for the two of them to start a new life together, particularly after the nasty business of the prior year’s murder trial….

Bill Lancaster and Chubbie Miller stand in front of their Avro Avian Mk III “Red Rose”

Lancaster’s Earlier Flight

Captain Bill Lancaster had been an RAF pilot in the early 1920s, flying from airfields in India.  Leaving active service for the RAF Reserves in 1927, he decided that he would put his experiences flying in Asia to work securing a name for himself as a pioneering aviator.  His plan, given that as a child born in England, he had been raised in Australia, was to make a record-setting flight linking both countries.  Plans, however, soon crashed into realities.  He had insufficient funds to make the flight, even with free fuel offered by Shell and a specially-modified Avro Avian offered by Mr. A.V. Roe.  Disappointed, he continued to search for a means to make the trip, but nobody, not his own family nor his wife’s family, had funds.

Then, by chance, he met a young woman named Jessie “Chubbie” Miller.  Chubbie was a wealthy Australian woman who dreamed of flying from England to her home in Australia — she just needed a plane and pilot.  With Lancaster’s wife’s permission, he finalized the plans for the flight.  With Chubbie’s generous purse, he completed the purchase of his Avro Avian Mk. III with an 80 hp ADC Cirrus engine and extended range fuel tanks.  They named their plane the “Red Rose”.  On October 14, 1927, he and Chubbie set out together on the flight, both pursuing a dream.  Ahead, the pair faced thousands of miles of rugged country across the Middle East and Asia.

What might have been a flight of a month or two of flying turned into a five month long affair — and that term is used quite literally, given that along the way, he and Chubbie fell in love.  With breakdowns and various delays, including a crash that had required the plane to be rebuilt, there was ample time between flights to tour the countryside together and enjoy each others company.  At the end of the trip, the pair did a speaking tour of Australia that further cemented their new bond as a famous couple, she being the first woman to make the trip by air.  Clearly, Lancaster’s marriage was on the rocks.

Bill Lancaster and Chubbie Miller hold hands aside their airplane.

America and Mexico

After the Australia adventure, Bill Lancaster and Chubbie proceeded together to America where she learned to fly and began setting various records on her own.  Lancaster learned, however, that times were tough and flying jobs were few.  Promised a flying job in Mexico, Lancaster left Chubbie in Miami.  She planned on staying on the ground for a while, taking the time to work with a ghost writer named Haden Clarke who was paid to pen her story.  In the long months apart, however, Chubbie soon turned her attentions to the writer instead of remaining dedicated to Lancaster.  Absence, it seemed, did not make her heart grow fonder.

On hearing that Chubbie had taken up with the writer, Lancaster came back to Miami in a rush.  On April 20, 1932, Chubbie, Lancaster and Clarke were together at Chubbie’s place in Miami for the night.  By dawn, Clarke would be dead, victim of a gunshot wound to his head from Lancaster’s pistol.  Summoned to the scene, the police arrested Lancaster and for the next three months, he remained in jail awaiting trial on charges of murder.  At the outset, everyone expected that he would be convicted and sent to the electric chair.

The “Red Rose”, in better times.

Throughout the trial, Lancaster spoke softly, with confidence and authority.  No doubt, this skill at oratory was in large part due to his experiences in Australia on the speaking tour with Chubbie.  He was charismatic and came across as honest and upstanding.  His claim that Clarke had committed suicide lacked credible evidence — two suicide notes were discovered even to have been forged by Lancaster himself!  Despite overwhelming evidence against him, there was still the benefit of the doubt and the jury found him innocent.

Free to go, he departed for England.  And thus, he had what he thought was his last chance to regain his position as a respected, record-setting aviation pioneer.  He would attempt to set the new record from London to South Africa and, based on that, hopefully he would be able to return to successful work as a famous pilot — in 1932 and 1933, the world was gripped by the Great Depression.  Chubbie, for her part, chose to reunite with him — all in the name of love.

Bill Lancaster poses in front of the Southern Cross Minor prior to his departure from Croydon, London, England, on his fateful flight.

The Flight into History

Bill Lancaster departed Croydon in the “Southern Cross Minor” on morning of April 11, 1933.  Thirty hours later, after having had to do an unplanned refueling at Barcelona due to head winds, and then having gotten lost between Oran and the town of Reggane in the Adrar Province of central Algeria, he made yet another short stop for more fuel.  On his plane, he carried no survival equipment — he couldn’t afford it.  For supplies, he had just a two gallon jug of water, a flask of coffee and a couple of sandwiches.  The next leg was to be to Gao.

Before he departed, one of the airport officials, Mr. Borel, begged him to not go.  He could see that Lancaster was exhausted.  When Lancaster insisted on continuing with the venture, despite the near impossibility of making up the nearly 10 hours of lost time due to his extra stops, Borel told him that if he was lost, they would send a car to search the dirt track that lead to Gao.  Borel told him that if down, he should to stay with the plane and light flares so that he could be seen.  Lancaster took off at 6:30 pm and disappeared into the gathering darkness.  Just a bit less than two hours later, his plane failed him — the engine on the Avro Avian conked out.  Despite his skills as a pilot, the exhausted Lancaster stood little chance in a pitch dark landing in the desert sand.  The plane flipped on impact, leaving him unconscious, upside down in the cockpit, still strapped in.  Though he had survived, the plane was beyond repair.

Windblown and little more than a skeleton stripped of fabric, the remains of Bill Lancaster’s Avro Avian Mk V as they were found in the desert of the Sahara by a group of French soldiers.

Lancaster’s Last Days

Having regained consciousness, he crawled out of the plane.  With the morning sun, Bill Lancaster began to write lengthy entries in his logbook — a sort of diary of his perilous time in the desert.  The first began by recounting the crash:

“I have just escaped a most unpleasant death….  It was pitch dark, no moon being up (about 8:15 p.m.).  I tried to feel her down but crashed heavily and the machine turned over.  When I came to I was suspended upside down in the cockpit.  I do not know how long I had been out.  There was a horrible atmosphere in my tiny prison with petrol fumes.  By worming my way around and scraping sand away with my nails, eventually I corkscrewed my way out into the open.  My eyes were full of blood which had congealed, but eventually I managed to get them open.”

With just two gallons of water, his cold coffee and the two sandwiches, Lancaster’s situation was dire.  At night, he lit small scraps of fabric from the airplane and held them aloft to signal any rescuers that might come out looking for him.  As it had been dark, his landing was farther from the track that Mr. Borel had said they would drive to search for him if he didn’t make Gao.  How far afield of that, he did not know.  He wondered whether he should set out on foot to walk east to the sea and find the track, thereby to await the passage of some traveler or his rescuer.  Ultimately, he stayed with the plane, hoping to be spotted from the air.

A photo of a page from the diary, kept in Lancaster’s logbook for those eight days in the Sahara as his condition steadily worsened.

A search was mounted, but everyone assumed that he had flown much farther south, nearer to Gao, before having crashed.  None except Borel looked for a plane that might have crashed just a couple of hours out of Reggane.  Lancaster’s makeshift flares of wing fabric were never seen.  After eight days of diary entries, he knew the end was near as he laid down, huddled under the wing of his ruined plane.  His last entry was written on a fuel card, as he had wrapped his diary into some fabric hoping that it would be preserved after he died.  The note on the fuel card read simply, “No one to blame, the engine missed, I landed upside-down in pitch dark and there you are….  Goodbye, Father old man.  Write Jacki.  And goodbye my darlings.  Bill.”  (Jacki was his brother.)  Elsewhere in his diary, he written to Chubbie, reflecting on his life, on her and on his “headstrong” ways that had insisted that he fly this last journey, despite the risks.

He died on the morning of April 20, 1933 — exactly one year to the day since Haden Clarke had died of a gunshot to his head.

The wreckage of the Southern Cross Minor recovered from the Sahara Desert and displayed at the Queensland Museum. Photo Credit: Riandmann

Aftermath

So remote was Bill Lancaster’s crash site that the plane was not found for another 29 years.  On February 12, 1962, a group of French soldiers came upon the wreck and mummified body of Lancaster.  They found too the wrapped up diary and Shell fuel card with his final message.  Taking the body to Reggane, he was buried with a proper ceremony.  The diary was given to none other than Chubbie Miller, who had since remarried (in 1936) to another pilot.  In 1975, the wreck of the plane was recovered and put on display at the Queensland Museum in Brisbane, Australia, left much as it was found in the desert after all those years.  In recent months, it has been removed from public viewing — it remains the the testimony to Bill Lancaster’s legacy, his life and his love.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

Who set the record flight time between London and Cape Town that Bill Lancaster had so desperately sought to beat?

Today in aviation history, on the evening of April 11, 1955, precisely five hours into its flight to Jakarta, Indonesia, the chartered Air India Lockheed L-749 Constellation “Kashmir Princess” was suddenly rocked by an explosion.  An instant later, the pilots saw flames streaming from behind the number three engine on the right wing.  Smoke began to fill the cockpit.  As the captain shut down and feathered the number three engine, he saw too that the fire warning light for the baggage compartment was illuminated.  A fire in the cargo hold, a fire on the wing, and smoke in the cockpit were an extraordinary, life-threatening emergency.  As the captain pointed the plane’s nose downward toward the sea, he hoped to ditch the plane into the water so that the survivors could escape in life rafts.  A distress call was transmitted, declaring the airliner’s position over the Natuna Islands.

Moments later, the radio went dead as the electrical system in the airplane began to fail, along with other critical systems as the fire spread below.

The Air India Lockheed L-749A Constellation VT-DEO “Bengal Princess”, sister ship to the “Kashmir Princess”, is photographed at Heathrow Airport in 1953. Photo Credit: RuthAS

Crash and Questions

Ultimately, the captain’s last hope of ditching the plane in the water was unsuccessful.  All of the passengers and some of the flight crew — sixteen in all — perished in the crash that followed.  Somehow, three crewmen survived, including the first officer, the flight engineer and the navigator, who would later make clear statements of the events on board.  What made this more than just another plane crash was one thing — China’s Premier, Zhou Enlai, was supposed to have been on board, though he had cancelled at the last moment after citing an emergency medical surgery need, but then three days later had proceeded to Jakarta via Rangoon instead.

In the post-accident evaluation, investigators wondered whether the crash had been an accident after all — could it have been an assassination attempt gone wrong?  They also asked themselves, why had Zhou Enlai cancelled his journey on that plane at the last minute but gone via another means?

Chinese Premier Zhou Enlai walks forward (center) at a conference in Geneva, Switzerland, on April 26, 1954.

Zhou Enlai’s Close Shave

As the investigation proceeded in the months after the crash, a number of strange coincidences and unexpected twists began to emerge.  The full evaluation of the events determined that an explosion had taken place in the plane’s wheel well.  That, in turn, had ignited fires in the baggage compartment and on the right wing.  The most obvious explanation was a bomb mixed in with the passenger bags.  Yet the passengers themselves were all officials and journalists heading to a conference — three were Chinese government officials, three were Chinese journalists and the rest were a mix of Vietnamese and East European delegates.  All were heading to the Asia-Afro Bandung Conference in Jakarta, Indonesia, flying on an Air India flight that the Chinese government had chartered for the conference.  Three days later, Zhou Enlai arrived at the conference, apparently having never undergone any emergency surgery at all.

An Air India Lockheed Super Constellation at Heathrow in 1961. Photo Credit: Phillip Capper

To the investigators, it made no sense for one of them to have brought a bomb on board in a suicidal bid to down the plane.  The fact that originally Zhou Enlai was supposed to have been on board was strong circumstantial evidence pointing to an assassination attempt, but by whom?  Interviews were conducted with all of the ground crew, fuel truck staff and baggage handlers who might have had access to the plane at its points of origin as well as in Hong Kong, where the flight had made a stop en route to Jakarta.  All of the personnel checked out and were proven to be innocent, except for one Hong Kong janitor working for an airport contractor.  Quite simply, the man who investigators had originally identified as the lowly janitor, Chow Tse-Ming, was missing.  Was it coincidence or could he have been the bomber?

Former Kuomintang headquarters in Zhongzheng District, Taipei.

The Mystery of Chow Tse-Ming

As investigators and police chased leads about Chow Tse-Ming, they began to unravel a mystery.  Apparently, Chow Tse-Ming was an alias; in fact, two other aliases for the same man were also uncovered.  As well, in the days leading up to the bombing and crash of the plane, they learned that Chow Tse-Ming had been spending a lot of money around Hong Kong, as if living it up based on income or savings that an airport janitor shouldn’t reasonably have.  Perhaps he had been paid to plant the bomb?  Finally, his disappearance from Hong Kong was finally traced to him having departed quietly on a Civil Air Transport (CAT) flight to Taiwan.  As the Chinese knew all too well, CAT was a frequent CIA contract air carrier, though it also flew other airline operations and cargo flights around the region.

Fingers began pointing at the Central Intelligence Agency as the possible culprit, though a competing theory soon emerged when others considered that the CAT flight had delivered Chow Tse-Ming to Taiwan.  Indonesian investigators reported that amidst the wreckage, they had identified an American-made MK-7 detonator device, adding fuel to the fire.  The British-run Hong Kong police surmised that it seemed likely that the man was an agent of the Kuomintang’s intelligence operations arm, a theory which the Chinese also felt had validity  — undoubtedly, the CIA had supplied MK-7 triggers to Taiwan.

Despite the evidence that the events were of Taiwanese origin, in the years that followed, the Chinese asked the Nixon White House twice about the events of the plane’s bombing and whether the CIA had been involved, expecting that perhaps the attempt had been a joint CIA-KMT operation.  In response to the second request, Henry Kissinger quietly noted that the Chinese thought far too highly of the CIA’s actual abilities.  Ultimately, the evidence was compelling but not conclusive that the Kuomintang Government of Taiwan had attempted to assassinate the Chinese Premier, Zhou Enlai, and had failed, killing 16 innocent people in the process.

The Bandung Conference in Jakarta during 1955, which was viewed by the West as a gathering of communist and socialist states.

The Question of Chinese Complicity

Years after the bombing, the Chinese government released a series of documents that painted a very different picture of the events of April 11, 1955, when the Kashmir Princess crashed.  In the documents, it was learned that Zhou Enlai had been tipped off about the upcoming bombing of the Kashmir Princess.  Rather than cancel the flight and lodge a protest, he had assigned lower level Chinese cadre officials onto the airplane as well as a set of journalists (as their presence would result in a wider array of press coverage).

Knowing that all of those going onto the plane would surely die, he simply let the events happen, hoping to gain political advantage as well as cover for a secret trip to Rangoon for a meeting with the government there.  Three days later, he would emerge in Jakarta for the conference, riding a wave of positive press coverage in the wake of an attempted assassination that had gone wrong and killed innocent people.  The plan worked, though not as well as Zhou Enlai might have hoped — the investigation into the crash took far longer than a few days and ultimately, the culprits were never firmly established.

Capt. D. K. Jatar, who lost his life in the bombing of the Air India plane, “Kashmir Princess” in 1955.

Aftermath

The bombing of the Kashmir Princess is a sad tale, in which 16 innocent people died needlessly, pawns in a larger political game to which they played little or no part.  The captain of the Air India plane, Capt. D. K. Jatar, as well as his flight crew members, M.C. Dixit and Anant Karnik, were professionals who didn’t deserve to be caught up in espionage operations and failed assassination attempts.  That Taiwan attempted the assassination of Zhou Enlai is both despicable but also understandable in those times of Cold War intrigue and conflict.  That China knew in advance and did nothing to prevent the bombing is equally immoral and, against virtually any ethical yardstick, is virtually indefensible.

Looking back, we can only be glad that the dark days of the Cold War have ended, even if the question of Taiwan’s future remains open.  Such deeds in a cloak and dagger world of “wet work” — the parlance of Cold War assassins — are hallmarks of a time long past, even if politically-motivated assassinations have continued even up to this day.  More recently, the news has reported the allegedly Russian sponsored radioactive poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko in London and the 2004 poisoning of Viktor Yushchenko, as well as targeted assassinations undertaken by Israel’s Mossad in Dubai of the Hamas senior official, Mahmoud Al-Mabhouh, among others.

Thankfully, however, none of those have involved the bombing of airliners.  The world, it would seem, has come a long way since the early days of the Cold War.

From the Archives

Italy’s Darkest Night — read about what might have been a French-attempted assassination of Muammar Qaddafi, which ended up shooting down an airliner over the Mediterranean.

The Arado Ar 234B-1 streaked overhead at high altitude, beyond the reach of Allied interceptors.  Its sleek lines and twin jet engines gave it speeds that were in excess of 700 km per hour.  On board, a pair of Rb 50/30 reconnaissance cameras captured a nine kilometer wide swath of countryside from their mounting points in the rear of the fuselage, each canted outward at a 12 degree angle.  The single pilot on board flew it steadily as a pair of cameras imaged the ground below, taking a new photo in a steady stream every 11 seconds, advancing the film between frames to form a nearly continuous strip.  Before any Allied fighters could climb to altitude, the plane had flown its route and disappeared back across the English Channel to safety.

On the ground, the English radar operators could track the plane but could do nothing about it.  It didn’t matter much, they thought, given that the war was rapidly coming to a close.  The date was April 10, 1945 — today in aviation history — and just a few weeks later, the war in Europe would end with the death of Hitler, the occupation of all of the Axis territories and nations, and capture of a wide array of aircraft, including the very plane that had flown over England on the last reconnaissance flight of Germany’s war.

The sleek lines of an Arado Ar 234, as seen at the end of the war, still in Luftwaffe markings.

The Arado Ar 234

Incredibly, the Arado Ar 234 had first come off the design table back in 1940.  By the time the Jumo 004 engines were available for testing and the airframe had been proven, it would be mid-1943.  Testing moved rapidly and the plane proved to be a dream to fly.  Fully aerobatic, capable of high-G maneuvering, and with a reasonably good range once at altitude, it could outrun virtually airplane the Allies had.  Several versions were in development by mid-1944 — a reconnaissance version, a bomber and a fighter.  Even though most Jumo 004 engines were slated for the Messerschmitt Me 262 program, the Arado Ar 234 received sufficient engines to outfit a few dozen planes.

By July 1944, in the wake of the Allied landings at D-Day, the German military needed updated information that would verify what the ground commanders were saying, which was that the volume of Allied men and materiel was vastly larger than German intelligence had claimed was possible.  The Luftwaffe assigned the mission to the Ar 234B-1 squadron which began to fly regular missions over the beachheads.

The graceful shape of the Ar 234B.

Day after day, as weather allowed, they returned with the photographic images that proved that the Allies were massing more and more equipment and landing more and more men — stopping the flow was virtually impossible.  Whenever Ar 234B-1 pilots spotted Allied aircraft, they simply advanced the throttle and sped away.

Incredibly, the Allies didn’t even see their first Arado Ar 234 until November 21, 1944, when a flight of P-51Ds flying top cover over a bomber stream saw one speed by over Holland.  Quickly, they realized that they had no opportunity to intercept the plane — it was simply too high and too fast.

An Arado Ar 234 parked on the ramp at Freeman Field, Indiana, after the end of the war.

Operations and Issues

Though over 200 Arado Ar 234 aircraft were built during World War II, at any one time less than two dozen were operationally ready to fly.  Allied bombing of airfields, repair facilities and aircraft factories kept the numbers low.  While trying to address the emerging threat of the Me 262, Allied planes had begun to patrol over airfields where the jets were based.  In one case, a squadron of Spitfires ambushed a flight of Ar 234s when coming in to land — when they were most vulnerable.  Two Ar 234s were shot down and three damaged.

Maintenance on the aircraft was extraordinarily high.  The brakes burned out quickly given the high landing speeds required and thus had to be replaced after every third mission.  The engines each needed to be overhauled or replaced after an average of just ten flight hours.  Spare parts were difficult to obtain given the Allied bombing of German infrastructure.  Fuel was in short supply.  Access to the Jumo 004B engines continued to be limited as the bulk of the manufacturing was dedicated to supporting the Me 262 squadrons.  Thus, more than half of the planes delivered from the factory had empty shells on the wings since insufficient jets were available.

Allied personnel examine a captured Arado Ar 234.

The Last Arado Wonder Weapons

Despite the pressure from the overwhelming air power of the Allied forces, the Arado Ar 234s continued to fly right up to the end of the war.  Their finest role was in reconnaissance, where, fitted with drop tanks on the wings to extend their range, they could easily fly a 450 mile mission.  The quality of their cameras, including both the Rb 50/30 and Rb 75/30, was excellent, bringing the Germans a wealth of intelligence.  The bombing versions had proven to be excellent, though very few made it into combat — most famously, they repeatedly bombed the bridge at Remagen after it was captured by the Allies.

After the war, only two Arado Ar 234s were shipped to the USA for evaluation at Wright Patterson AFB.  One turned out to be not flyable and was scrapped while the other was flown just enough to log performance and determine what could be applied to US jet fighter programs.  Afterward, it was shipped to the Smithsonian in Washington, DC.  For many years, it remained out of public view awaiting restoration in Maryland.  Finally, it was rebuilt to its original specifications and condition, thereafter being put on display.

The last Arado Ar 234, a B-model, on display at the Smithsonian’s Udvar-Hazy Center. Photo Credit: Kogo

Today, the last example of the Arado Ar 234 can be seen at the Smithsonian’s NASM Udvar-Hazy Center by Dulles Airport west of Washington, DC.  Just looking at the plane sitting still on the ground, it looks like it is going 400 mph.  Ultimately, it was truly one of the most amazing “Wonder Weapons” of the Luftwaffe during World War II.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

While the Arado Ar 234 could not achieve supersonic speeds, it was blazingly fast.  It was not the fastest of the Luftwaffe’s operational, active “Wonder Weapons”, however — what was?

Mr. Slack Crosses the Channel.

ACCOMPANIED by his little son, Mr. Robert Slack, on the 27th ult., flew across the channel from Dover to Calais on his Blériot monoplane.  With an unfavourable wind he took three-quarters of an hour for the trip.

One hundred years ago in aviation history, on this date, British aviators were reading about the latest prize offerings from the Daily Mail, a newspaper in London that had been sponsoring the advancement of aviation since its first days.  Widely distributed, the newspaper had deep pockets and, in exchange for sponsoring the prizes — which were often quite rich — it received excellent publicity and increases to its own sales and subscribers.  Indeed, one can only wonder what early aviation might have been like without the incentives of the Daily Mail prizes to spur on the young and old alike to press the limits of flight.

Just how many such prizes were there?  Quite a few, it turns out.  And the two new prizes offered a century ago were serious challenges; in fact, one challenged the entire world to make the first flight across the Atlantic Ocean — and the year was 1913!

Count Jacques de Lesseps with two lady passengers in his two-seat Blériot.

The Two New Daily Mail Prize Offers

The Royal Aero Club published the latest Daily Mail Prizes as follows:

ONCE more the proprietors of the Daily Mail have come forward and offered two generous prizes with the object of stimulating progress in the development of aviation, with which we deal elsewhere editorially.

The first prize is the sum of £5,000 to the first person who shall pilot a waterplane of entirely British invention and construction round England, Scotland, and Wales — and, so far as Ireland is concerned, within one mile of Kingstown Harbour — in seventy-two continuous hours, starting and finishing at a point to be agreed upon near the mouth of the Thames.  The full regulations which will be drawn up with the assistance of the Royal Aero Club have not yet been decided upon, but it will be specified that certain parts of the machine shall be marked and that the machine must not descend on land at any point, although it may, of course, stop in harbours for the replenishment of its fuel supplies, &c.

The second prize is £10,000 to the first person who crosses the Atlantic from any point in the United States, Canada, or Newfoundland to any point in Great Britain or Ireland in seventy-two continuous hours.  The flight may lie made, of course, either way across the Atlantic.  This prize is open to pilots of any nationality, and machines of foreign or British construction.

Immediately, the Daily Mail received its first notifications from pilots intending to compete for the two new prizes — and these were reported as follows:

The Daily Mail announces that the first entries for both prizes are those of Messrs. Blériot, Ltd., and Col. Cody, while Mr. Gordon England and Herr Rumpler have also entered for the Atlantic prize, and Mr. J. Radley and Mr. G. L. Temple for the Round Britain prize.

Claude Grahame White’s Nieuport IV, c.1912. Source: Library of Congress

Past Prizes

In the same announcement, the writers found it fitting to list the previously awarded Daily Mail Prizes, which serve as an excellent historic record of some of the greatest achievements in aviation history — at least until April 9, 1913, that is:

IN this connection the following summary of the prizes offered by the Daily Mail is not without interest:

• £10,000 for flight by aeroplane from London to Manchester in twenty-four hours with not more than two stoppages en route.  Offered November 17th, 1906.  Won by M. Paulhan on April 28th, 1910, with one stop en route at Lichfield.  193 miles covered in 242 minutes.
• £1,000 for flight across the channel between England and France, to be accomplished in daylight without touching the sea.  Offered on October 5th, 1908.  Won by M. Blériot, July 25th, 1909, in 46 minutes of flight.
• £1,000 for first circular flight of one mile in an aeroplane by a British subject in the British Isles on an all-British built machine.  Won b y Mr. J. T. C. Moure-Brabazon in a Short aeroplane on October 30th, 1909, in 2 mins., 36 secs.
• £10,000 for circuit of Britain covering a distance of 1,000 miles in one day with eleven compulsory stops at fixed controls. Offered on May 22nd, 1910.  Won by M. Beaumont on July 26th, 1911, in 22 hrs. 28 mins., at 45 miles an hour, defeating M. Védrines.
• £1,000 for greatest aggregate cross-country flight in the year ending August 15th, 1910.  Won by M. Paulhan with 855 miles, defeating Mr. Grahame-White with 842 miles.
• £150, £75, and £25 for aeroplane models awarded after exhibition at the Agricultural Hall, April, 1907.
• £100 for half-mile flight (quarter-mile out and return), won by M. Henry Farman, January 14th, 1908.
• £100 cup for second cross-Channel flight.  Won by Count Jacques de Lesseps, May 21st, 1910.
• £50 cup to John B. Moisant for flight from Paris to London, and smaller cup to his mechanic and passenger, Fileux.  Won September 6th, 1910.
• £250 and gold cup for flight of 81 miles round London.  Won by Mr. T. O. M. Sopwith on June 8th, 1912, in 90 minutes.

Louis Paulhan takes off in his Farman III aeroplane during the Dominguez International Air Meet at Los Angeles, California, held during January 10-20, 1910. Source: Library of Congress

Looking Back and Looking Ahead

The list above constitutes a virtual “who’s who” of early aviation’s greatest flyers.  Many other names are not on the list, but that wasn’t for a lack of trying.  Even if some names on the list may be less known, the men (no women on the list at that point!) were nonetheless widely respected in that time.  Looking back, all of aviation owes the Daily Mail a debt of gratitude for offering so many prizes and issuing those key challenges that set in motion more rapid advancements in all aspects, whether in aircraft design, piloting or even model building!

Today, a new generation of prize offerings have emerged, patterned on the famous Daily Mail challenges of 100 years ago.  Once again, these prizes are offered to foster technological advances, though this time the challenge is to go into space and to the Moon.  While it may have taken NASA just a bit less than a decade to put a man on the Moon the first time, it is likely that within about the same time private entrepreneurs and scientists will return to once again plant the flag.

Just how far will it go?  We can only wonder if 50 years hence someone will offer a prize of $10 million for the first spacecraft to land on the surface of Pluto and beam back pictures….

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

What other newspapers offered prizes in those early years of aviation history?

Mario de Bernardi was the epitome of the Italian aviator, dashing, smiling, confident and — above all — daringly fast.  Born in the small town of Venosa, Italy, in 1893, he first joined the Italian military in 1911 at the age of 18 to serve in the cavalry.  Soon thereafter, he transferred to the new Air Service where he was assigned to an airfield near Verona and flew with Italy’s 91st Fighter Squadron.  Credited with the first kill by an Italian aviator during the Great War, he amassed a total of four confirmed victories by the end of 1918, though his personal count was five, with the last being unconfirmed by the authorities.  After the war, he de Bernardi was assigned by the Italian Air Service to its racing division.  He would spend the next nearly two decades as a test pilot, racing pilot and international aerobatics competitor for Italy.

If there is one thing to remember about Mario de Bernardi, it would be his extraordinary flight in the Schneider Cup seaplane races in 1926 racing in a Macchi M.39 seaplane.  For both the dashing young aviator and for Italy, it was their finest hour of the 1920s.

One of the M.39 training planes at Lake Varese, c. September 1939.

The Schneider Cup

In 1926, Major Mario de Bernardi was one of only a handful of the top Italian pilots assigned to the seaplane racing program.  By the mid-1920s, the Schneider Cup seaplane races were hotly contested as many nations in Europe, as well as the United States, competed to demonstrate their engineering and aviation prowess.  Their goal was to build and fly the fastest seaplanes in the world.  In 1926, the Schneider Cup was held at Hampton Roads, Virginia, as the Americans had won the Cup in 1925 off the Lido Beach at Venice, Italy — a victory achieved by Jimmy Doolittle.  For Italy, after that defeat, it was a matter of pride that the Cup be brought back to Rome.

In the rules of the Schneider Cup, if any nation won three years in a row, the competition would be considered completed and the trophy would remain in the victor’s country for all time.  Italy had nearly won the cup already, winning both in 1920 and 1921, with excellent runs off the coast of Venice at Lido Beach.  The third year, however, in 1922, a British pilot won in his Supermarine Sea Lion II.  The two years thereafter, shockingly, were taken by the Americans.  With the third win now looming, the Cup was in danger of being forever placed into American hands.

The incredibly narrow and thin profile of the M.39 racer, a fact that is not obvious from its side view. Source: Flight, November 18, 1926

Prelude to the 1926 Race

For the races of 1926, at Hampton Roads, Italy geared up to win.  No expense was was spared in the development of Italy’s fastest plane, the all red Macchi M.39.  The plane was designed by Mario Castoldi around the narrow profile of the 800-horsepower FIAT AS.2 liquid-cooled V12 engine.  Numerous technical advances were built into the plane.  Among the most innovative features were that the left wing was longer than the right because it was thought that this would allow faster left hand turns, the floats were weighted unequally so as to help counteract the extensive torque from the 800 hp engine, and the AS.2 engine was refined to be as narrow as possible so as to reduce profile drag to an absolute minimum.  Seen from the front, the plane looked almost emaciated, yet this added up to the potential for the maximum speed advantage.

Arturo Ferrarini in the cockpit of one of newly delivered Macchi M.39 racers at Lake Varese, c. August 1926.

The extraordinary lines of the Macchi M.39 concealed a terrible reality — the plane was designed, built and tested in just a few short months and had not undergone sufficient testing to prove its capabilities at any speed, let alone at the highest speeds.  Macchi built three racers and two training planes, the latter with lesser horsepower engines.  The three planes were constructed and delivered to Lake Varese for a short period of pre-race testing.  The Italian Air Service assigned Vittorio Centurione, Mario de Bernardi, Adriano Bacula and Arturo Ferrarini to fly for the Italian racing team.  Drawn from the international colors of motor racing, the planes were painted in the Italian Rosso Corsa, which loosely translates to “racing red”.

During the short testing period, just a month prior to the race, disaster struck.  The team captain, Vittorio Centurione, perished when his M.39 trainer plane, which was nearly identical but with a 600 hp engine, crashed into Lake Varese.  Despite the very limited testing having been accomplished and several known problems with the airplane and engine, the Italians pressed on with a few more tests before loading the planes onto a ship to sail to Hampton Roads or the race.  The races, originally scheduled for earlier, were delayed to November to allow the Italian team to make a showing.

Italian Air Service portrait of Mario de Bernardi.

While it might sound extraordinary that the Italians should go with equipment that was so unproven, in fact, every nation was in a head-long drive to prove new technologies, design new aircraft and advance their interests for the race, even if it meant taking extraordinary risks.  Yet while Italy wasn’t alone in this, it was probably the farthest out on the bleeding edge.  If the Americans were to win, the Schneider Cup would be forever lost and that, the Italians had decided, was unthinkable.

On the American side too, the press to advance the maximum speeds created problems.  Disaster struck — not once, but twice, though in one case, Lieut. F. H. Conant was killed while flying a a support plane from Washington to Norfolk, rather than one of the racers.

The Curtiss R3C-4 racer at Hampton Roads, Virginia.

The 1926 Race at Hampton Roads

On November 12 and 13, 1926, the Schneider Cup trophy race was held at Hampton Roads, Virginia.  The three Macchi racers were assigned pilots as follows:  MM.74 would be flown by Lieut. Adriano Bacula; MM.75 by Capt. Arturo Ferrarini; and MM.76 by Major Mario de Bernardi.  Arrayed against the Italians were the Curtiss R3C-2, Curtiss-Packard R3C-3 and Curtiss R3C-4 racers from the United States, all updated and re-engined models of the 1925 winning planes.  The English racing team could not complete their new seaplane designs in time for the race and thus did not participate.  As with previous Schneider Cup races, the actual races were not head-to-head but rather time trials; planes were released on five minute increments so that they could fly the pylons without interference in a true speed test.  At Hampton Roads, the course involved a 50 km lap length and consisted of seven laps for a total distance of 350 km — races were timed on each lap but had to complete a complete, consecutive seven lap race over which the times would be averaged.

Four days prior to the races, on November 8 while in practice runs, the Americans had set a high bar for the Italian team to beat, racing around the pylons at 256 mph.  It was an ominous, new world record.  Among the Italian team, nobody knew if that record could be beaten — none had ever achieved that at Lake Varese.  On November 12, the first day of the race, a major mishap resulted when the American pilot Lieut. Tomlinson nose-dived his Curtiss-Packard R3C-3 into the bay — his aircraft was the reserve plane for the American team.  The other two American pilots, Lieut. Cuddihy on Curtiss R3C-4 biplane, which had a 700 h.p. Curtiss V-1550, and Lieut. C. F. Schilt, USMC, on Curtiss R3C-2 biplane, which had a 600 h.p. Curtiss V-1400, both performed well.

The Curtiss R3C-3 racer at Hampton Roads during the 1926 races.

On November 13, the race culminated with the high speed runs with both teams going full out, doing whatever it took to try to win.  Lieut. Bacula managed a complete run of seven laps but averaged just 218 mph.  The American, Lieut. Tomlinson, flying one of the other aircraft, could not get his engine to perform properly and managed an extraordinarily slow average speed of 137 mph.  The second American, Lieut. Cuddihy, put in excellent times and at the end of his sixth lap was averaging 239 mph — yet he was forced out with a malfunction before completing the last lap.  When Capt. Ferrarini of the Italian team attempted the course, he suffered a burst pipe during the fourth lap, forcing him down to a safe landing.  His time over the three laps had been 238 mph, very close to the best American time.  Yet the Lieut. Schilt, USMC, had put in an extraordinary run, finishing the full seven laps and putting a speed to beat on the board of 231 mph.

Major Mario de Bernardi in the cockpit of an M.39.

The race came down to Major de Bernardi in the M.39 numbered MM.76.  Without concern for the engine or aircraft, once airborne off the water, he simply pushed the throttle to the stop and hoped that the engine would survive the run.  He flew the plane smoothly and flawlessly around the course, finishing all seven laps with perfection before landing and taxiing back to the ramp where the M.39 was pulled from the water as de Bernardi stoop up in the cockpit.  The officials put his average speed at 246 mph.  Though slower than the pre-race record set by the Americans on November 8, it was the winning time for the race itself.  The earlier world record time did not count for the Cup win because it was not accomplished during the race itself.  That evening, the trophy was awarded to the Italians during a formal dinner celebrating the race finish.

For Major de Bernardi, however, not going home with the record speed was a hollow victory — he knew that the American planes had performed better.  The pride of Italy was still at stake and he would settle for nothing but a complete and absolute victory that demonstrated Italy’s ability in the air.  Thus, four days later, when weather conditions were right and after the mechanics had tuned his FIAT AS.2 engine as best they could, Major de Bernardi took the M.39 up for one final speed run.  Again pushing the throttle to the stop, he completed the full circuit and set a new world record speed of 258 mph, just 2 mph faster than the best the Americans had managed.  It was enough, however, and the Italian team returned to Italy with both the trophy and the world record speed in hand.  As for Major Mario de Bernardi, he returned as the hero of all Italy.

One of the later Macchi seaplane racers.

Aftermath

In later years, after completing a long racing and aerobatic career, Mario de Bernardi flew as a Caproni test pilot.  His greatest achievement in that role was undertaking the first tests of the Caproni N.1, Italy’s first jet powered aircraft.  In later years, after World War II, he was a regular sight at races and international air meets.

Sadly, on April 8, 1959 — today in aviation history — while attending an air meet at Rome, he took his light plane up to put on an aerobatic show.  Part way through the flight, he suffered a massive heart attack.  Somehow, despite the pain and his rapidly deteriorating condition, he managed a safe landing.  He died shortly after being pulled from the cockpit.  It was a sad end for one of Italy’s greatest pilots, but also fitting in its own way, dying while doing what he loved most, flying one last time for the crowds.

Today’s Aviation Trivia Question

The Schneider Cup races after 1926 were no longer an annual meet but rather were extended to every second year.  Why?