Category The Enigma of. the Aerofoil

It is important to appreciate the difference between the professional perspec­tive of the sociologist and the perspective that prevails, and perhaps comes naturally, to social actors themselves in the course of everyday life. I refer to these as the “analyst’s perspective” and the “actor’s perspective.” The concerns of those engaged in sociological analysis are usually not identical to those of the social actors they study, though, of course, analysts themselves will some­times occupy the very roles that they investigate professionally. Conversely, sociological perspectives are sometimes invoked in the course of everyday interaction. (Major Low adopted such a stance when he speculated on what would have happened if Rayleigh had backed the circulation theory. He was reflecting on the role played in British aerodynamics by Rayleigh’s authority.) Despite this overlap and interweaving, it is the differences in the perspectives of the analyst and the actor that I want to emphasize.

In everyday life much of our curiosity centers on deviations from what normally happens or from (what we feel to be) our justified expectations. We want to know why things go wrong more than we want to know why they went right. Going right tends to be taken for granted. It is the failure of the airline to keep to its schedule that makes irate travelers demand to know the causes of the delay. They do not demand to know how and why a punctual departure was achieved. If they were to pose such a question, it would be heard as a hostile comment rather than a disinterested inquiry. The structure of everyday curiosity can be remarkably one-sided. Using a terminology that has become current in the sociology of science, such everyday curiosity may be described as “asymmetrical.” For the sociologist, however, the atypical is not the only thing that needs explaining. The typical is as interesting as the atypical, and the normal or the expected course of events is at least as im­portant as the deviations. The professional curiosity of the sociologist may therefore be called “symmetrical,” in contrast to the “asymmetry” of much commonsense curiosity.4

If an “asymmetrical” curiosity prompts us to ask for causes for half the story, then a “symmetrical” curiosity must lead us to demand causes for the whole story. If the commuters only want to know the causes of delay, then sociologists must risk the resentment prompted by their wanting to know the causes of nondelay. They must ask the questions others don’t ask or don’t want to answer. If sociologists were to study the workings of an airline, they would try to grasp its organizational features and see how its various parts related to one another. There are pilots and crew to be trained, maintenance schedules to be established, fuel supplies to be arranged, safety standards to be adhered to, duty rosters and wages to be negotiated, and shareholders to be satisfied. These dimensions of the organization would be common to all or most airlines, so the sociologist could construct a general model of such an organization and note the difference of practice between different instances of the model. This airline might devote twice as much time to safety training as that one; this one might repeatedly demand more flying hours between checks and repairs than that one; this one might meet its schedules by taking more risks. Such an investigative procedure would bring both the successful and the unsuccessful, the efficient and the inefficient, the safety conscious and the risk takers under the scope of the same model. By casting both sides of the story in the same terms, it is possible to use the different performances to probe the working of the general model, and hence to explore more deeply what it is to have a social organization capable of producing the range of ob­served outcomes.5

These considerations, drawn from the practice of general sociology, also apply to the sociology of knowledge. The central thrust of the Strong Pro­gram is that explanations in the sociology and history of science should be both “causal” and “symmetrical” in the sense that I have just explained. The same type of cause should explain the attractions of both true and false the­ories, and both successful and unsuccessful lines of work (where the judg­ments of truth and success derive from hindsight or are the analyst’s own). I have said that this approach has informed my case study, but when I asked “Why did the British resist the circulation theory?” I may seem to have ad­opted the asymmetrical stance of common sense. It is true that the question could be posed in a purely commonsense way. This, I suspect, is how Major Low meant it when he asked why Lanchester had been ignored. Despite his sociological insight, he primarily wanted someone to take the blame. Stated in isolation Low’s question is worded in a way that is consistent with either a symmetrical or an asymmetrical stance. What differentiates the two stances is the purpose behind the question and the distribution of curiosity informing the answer. The evidence I have presented indicates that it was local cultures, and the institutions sustaining them, that explain the reactions to the theory of circulation exhibited by both the British and the German experts. These

were the causes of the phenomena that I set out to explain, and the causes were of the same kind in the two cases. Cambridge was not Gottingen, but both were influential and brilliant research institutions. Mathematical phys­ics was not technical mechanics, but both were based on rich, mathemati­cal traditions. Lamb’s Hydrodynamics was not Foppl’s Vorlesungen, but both were much-used textbooks that, respectively, encouraged and transmitted their own characteristic, mental orientation.

The scientific study of a complex phenomenon, or the development of a complex technology, typically calls for the cooperation of specialists from a number of fields. The creation of the atomic bomb in Los Alamos involved physicists, chemists, metallurgists, engineers, and experts in fluid dynamics. An episode in the history of science and technology of the kind I have ana­lyzed likewise counts as a complex, real-world phenomenon, and its study will involve specialists from different fields, for example, historians, sociolo­gists, and psychologists. The psychologist studies the mental capacities nec­essary for learning about the world and becoming a competent member of society, perhaps even a member of a specialist subgroup—for example, a subgroup whose members are able to read Foppl’s textbook or sit the Tri­pos examination. The sociologist studies the social processes without which, ultimately, there would be no professional identities such as “the engineer” or “the physicist” and no institutions such as “the textbook,” “the examina­tion,” or “the university.”

It is evident that the episode I have described in my case study cannot be called “purely” sociological any more than it is “purely” psychological or “purely” a matter of grappling with the world. Likewise, the desire for a “complete” description or a “complete” explanation of the episode can be dismissed as utopian. But it is not unrealistic to hope for insights into parts of the problem, and some aspects of the episode may call for psychological study, while other aspects may call for sociological study. The one does not exclude the other. My emphasis on the sociological dimension is not a denial of the psychological dimension or any other naturalistic dimension. Rather, the emphasis on society arises because sociological variables are the ones most relevant to the question I am asking. British and German experts did not diverge because their basic cognitive faculties differed or because their personalities were different or because one group engaged with the material world while the other turned its back on it. As far as the present episode is concerned, they differed primarily because their education and professional lives were different. They worked in different disciplines and institutions whose traditions and reward structures diverged from one another.

One final feature of the sociological approach must be emphasized. It is central to my account that the actors involved were not detached intel­ligences moving in an abstract world of thoughts, theorems, and deductions. Nor did they move exclusively in a world of committee meetings, personal confrontations, status conflicts, and power struggles. These things were part of their world but not the whole of it. The experts in my story experimented in wind tunnels, built models, observed and measured the forces on them, flew airplanes, and sometimes died in them. The sociological variables to which I have drawn attention are not to be conceived in a way that excludes these practical, experimental activities or diminishes their importance. The sociological processes I have identified do not stand between people and the material environment with which they are engaged. Contrary to the claims repeatedly made by their critics, those who follow the Strong Program do not treat the social world as something to which scientists respond instead of re­sponding to the natural world. The cultures, institutions, and interests that I have identified did not block the active involvement with material reality but were the vehicle of that involvement and gave a specific meaning to it.6

To apply and solve the Euler equations, mathematicians had to introduce various techniques to relate them to specific flow problems. “As they stand,” said Cowley and Levy, “these equations are not very suitable for solution” (39). They need to be fleshed out. This was done by means of a variety of auxiliary concepts such as source, sink, vortex, and stream function. The gen­eral connotations of the labels “source,” “sink,” and “vortex” will be evident, and their mathematical idealization refines, but does not essentially alter, the everyday meaning of the word. A vortex is like a whirlwind around a central point. A source is a geometrical point at which fluid is created at a certain rate, and a sink is a geometrical point at which it disappears and is destroyed. The words “stream function,” however, do not have any obvious counterpart in common usage. In this section I describe briefly what they mean.

Imagine a coordinate system of x – and y-axes that is to be used to describe a flow of fluid. The value of the stream function at some point P is given by the amount of fluid that flows in unit time across a line drawn from the origin to P. To specify this quantity is to specify the value of the stream function. In hydrodynamics this value is usually designated by the Greek letter psi, y. Altering the position of the origin only alters the value of y by the same con­stant amount at all points in the flow. It follows from the definition that such a function has a simple relation to the velocity components of the flow, and this is the utility of the stream function. If u is the speed along the x-axis at P and v is the speed of flow along the y-axis, it can be shown that

u = -—, and
dy

dw

v ~~dX ■

Given the stream function, a process of differentiation gives the velocity com­ponents. Here is a simple example. The stream function for a uniform flow of speed U along the x-axis is

W = —Uy = —Ur sinft

The first expression is in Cartesian coordinates and the second is in polar co­ordinates, giving the value of у at the point (r, 0). In Cartesian coordinates, differentiating у with respect to x gives the correct answer v = 0, meaning that the flow has zero velocity along the y-axis. Differentiating with respect to y gives the speed u = U along the x-axis. Notice that putting у = c, a constant, gives a straight line parallel with the x-axis. Such a line can be called a stream­line of the flow. Later in the discussion it will become evident that, for all its simplicity, this flow plays a basic role in hydrodynamic reasoning. Logically, it provides the foundation of the edifice.

I have referred to a streamline of this basic flow, but what is a stream­line? In everyday language the words connote speed. Modern aircraft are “streamlined,” whereas aircraft in the period of the old Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, with their struts and protruding engines and undercarriage, were certainly not. This usage, and the idea of low-resistance, streamlined bodies, was already well established in early aerodynamics, even if it could not be realized in the construction of flying machines.17 The technical mean­ing of the term “streamline” in hydrodynamics, though related to this popu­lar meaning, is more specific. A streamline drawn through a point in a fluid flow is a line that conforms to the direction of motion of the fluid element that is located at that point at that moment in time. A moment later the point may be occupied by another fluid element with a different velocity. The pic­ture becomes much clearer if the flow is steady so that the speed and direction of the flow at a given point are constant over time. When the flow is steady, then streamlines will coincide with the path taken by the fluid element. Look­ing at the streamlines will give a picture of what the fluid elements are doing. Streamlines also indicate something about the speed of the flow. For steady incompressible flow they come closer together as the flow speeds up and be­come wider apart as the flow slows down.18

How does the mathematician identify streamlines in order to draw a dia­gram of a flow? The answer is by reference to the stream function. Once in possession of an expression у for the steam function of the flow, the math­ematician generates a series of curves by putting у = c, a constant, and giving

the constant a sequence of values q, c2, c3, etc. The curves are convention­ally plotted at equal intervals. These are the streamlines. As a simple example, recall the stream function for the uniform flow parallel to the x-axis—the basic flow. The formula for the stream function was у = – Uy. Putting у = (say) 0, 1, 2, 3, etc. gives the straight, horizontal lines y = 0, y = -1/U, y = -2/U, y = -3/U, etc. Notice that the greater the speed U, the smaller the gap between the lines. Because, by definition, a fluid element will not cross over a stream­line, then any streamline can be selected and interpreted as a solid boundary without this in any way changing the picture of the flow. (It is sometimes said that the fluid bounded by a streamline can be suddenly “frozen” or “solidi­fied” without altering the rest of the flow.) In the present case the line у = 0 can be selected for this treatment. The flow then becomes (that is, can now be regarded as) the uniform flow of an infinite ideal fluid along a flat, smooth wall located on the x-axis.

Other, more complicated, flows call for other, more complicated, formu­las for the stream function. For example, there are stream functions for the flow around point sources and point sinks and for vortices. The streamlines of sources and sinks radiate away from, or toward, their center point while the streamlines of a simple vortex are concentric circles. By the expedient of adding the stream functions, the flow can be found for combinations of sources, sinks, and vortices. Shortly I shall give the stream function and the streamlines for another, particularly important flow; for the moment, how­ever, the point to retain is that a streamline is specified by setting the stream function equal to a constant у = c.

The practical men did not like “scientific” aerodynamics.50 So what sort of aerodynamics did they like? I begin to answer this question by identifying what might be called their “practical epistemology.” Then I look in more de­tail at the accounts of lift that are to be found in books written for the design­ers of airplanes and in articles that appeared in the Aeroplane, Flight, and Aeronautics.

The epistemology of the practical man was intuitive and qualitative. It was formulated in conscious opposition to the pedantic concern with ac­curacy and irrelevant detail attributed to the despised figure of the mathema­tician.51 Reality must be grasped in all its complexity rather than simplified and broken down into imagined elements. In this sense their epistemology was holistic. It was also artistic. A good designer could rely on his eye, his experience, and his judgment. In a literature review in Aeronautics the editor said: “I don’t deny the infinitely valuable role of pure science, still less that of theory, but science should have some relation to practice, since it is its foster-mother. There is more than one aeroplane designer who knows just enough mathematics to make twice two work out at four, but he will turn out machines equal in performance to the best. We in this country know, as they do in the United States, of eminent designers who see a new type of machine rather than design it.”52

Grey made the point more bluntly with no genuflection in the direction of science: “Never mind what the scientists calculate. Trust the man who guesses, and guesses right.”53 The claim was that some designers have a track record of guessing rightly, and these are the people to trust. We may not be able to see how they do it, but we should not let this put us off. Trust rather than understanding lies at the root of things. This was indeed Grey’s view: there were not only unknown factors involved in the design of aircraft but there were actually unknowable factors, and this was something the “slide – rule scientists” could not grasp.54

The implication was that the reasons behind practical success will remain mysterious. This notion implied a species of intellectual pessimism or even nihilism. Such pessimism was not unusual among practical men and was sometimes echoed by those in the other camp. For example, writing as J. C., a reviewer of G. P. Thomson’s Applied Aerodynamics recommended the book to practical designers (even though it was the product of Farnborough) and said, “One of the first ideas that arises in the reading is the state of ignorance that still exists in aerodynamics; it is safe to say that we know practically noth­ing of the reasons for the experimental results that we find. The amazing thing is that we are able to make aeroplanes as well as we can.”55

At least two of these statements come from spokesmen of the practi­cal men rather than from designers themselves, but they seem to articulate a widely held view. Grey’s characteristic denunciations were repeated in a foreword he wrote in 1917 for the book Aeroplane Design by F. S. Barnwell, who was the chief designer at the British and Colonial Aeroplane Company. This firm, usually known as the Bristol Company, became famous during the Great War for the Bristol fighter, which was designed by Barnwell.56 Much harm had been done, said Grey, “both to the development of aeroplanes and to the good repute of genuine aeroplane designers by people who pose as ‘aeronautical experts’ on the strength of being able to turn out strings of incomprehensible calculations resulting from empirical formulae based on debatable figures acquired from inconclusive experiments carried out by persons of doubtful reliability on instruments of problematic accuracy.”57 If one asks what is left when all the hated calculations, experiments, and instru­ments have been swept away, the answer is intuition. This was Grey speaking, not Barnwell, so we cannot be sure that Barnwell endorsed it. Authors do not necessarily agree with what others say in the forewords of their books, but it is reasonable to expect general agreement.

W. H. Sayers, a strong critic of the National Physical Laboratory, was in­volved with the development of seaplanes during World War I. In an article written after the war, in 1922, called “The Arrest of Aerodynamic Develop­ment,” Sayers described the current conception and form of the airplane.58 It was, he said, “the hybrid product of two utterly different and independent methods of development.” From 1908 to 1914, its evolution was “the result almost entirely of individual adventure.” There were, he insisted, no wind – tunnel results worth mentioning, the mathematics of stability had no appar­ent connection with the facts, and even engineers regarded the airplane as a mechanical curiosity. “Individual designers worked, as artists worked, by a sort of inspiration as to what an aeroplane ought to be like, and built as nearly to their inspiration as the limited means, appliances and increasing knowledge they possessed would allow them” (138). Sayers went on to de­plore the degree of standardization that had set in with regard to design. This, he said, gave a spurious sense of understanding and control. In reality we did not know how to predict what would happen outside the limited range with which we had become familiar. Similarly, the laboratory workers had been in error in concentrating on simple bodies, especially “such simple bodies as might be used as components of the standard type of aeroplane” (138). The result, he said, was a bias toward an additive conception of the different aspects of design and a tendency to overlook large, qualitative effects such as the interference of different components.

Like many other practical men, Sayers was skeptical about model work.59 In his view, aerodynamicists did not yet know what dynamic “similarity” re­ally was, so that inferences from models remained doubtful. Full-scale ex­perimentation was the real basis of knowledge. Grey could be relied upon to give the relatively measured prose of Sayers, his frequent contributor, a more colorful rendering: “I would back any one of a dozen men I know to find out more about streamlines in a month at Brooklands, with the help of a borrowed racing car, a jobbing carpenter, and a spring-balance, than the combined efforts of the National Physical Laboratory, Chalais-Meuden, the Eiffel Tower, the laboratory at Kouchino, and the University of Gottingen have discovered since flying first attracted the attention of that section of hu­manity which the Americans expressively call ‘the high-brow.’”60

This cavalier dismissal of all the major aerodynamic laboratories of Eu­rope dramatizes the anti-intellectual strand in the epistemology. Not all of its expressions were so markedly of this character, but there is no denying a tendency in this direction. Nor can one deny a certain justice in the stance. If scientists have a tendency to simplify the complex and decompose it into its elements, where does this leave the designer who has to reassemble the ele­ments in novel ways? Even if simple principles can be discovered, it can still be unclear how these principles interact when they work together. Design is still a matter of judgment about their combination and compromise in their balance.

Grey’s dismissive attitude toward Gustav Eiffel’s work was not shared by all practical men. The impression created by articles and reviews in the tech­nical journals is that Eiffel was seen as an engineer who could be relied upon to operate in a practical way. If Eiffel’s large, empirical monograph, replete with tables of data, graphs and diagrams of airplanes, is laid side by side with

Greenhill’s mathematical report, there can be no more striking visual proof of the extremes of style that can be represented in aeronautical work. What is more, Eiffel’s work was frequently compared favorably with the experimental work of the NPL. Where the two laboratories diverged, the practical men backed Eiffel.

The reviewer of Eiffel’s La resistance de Fair et Faviation, for the Aero, in March 1911, was enthusiastic: “One is hardly going too far in describing this book as the most authoritative work on the subject that has yet appeared, and it is especially valuable in as much as the experiments have been evolved with an eye specially inclined toward their value in practical aeronautics. . . while experiments of a more purely academic interest have. . . been relegated to the background.” This, the reviewer continued, was strikingly different from the situation that “obtains in more than one experimental laboratory.”61

Writing in July 1916, the editor of Aeronautics invited readers to compare Eiffel, “working almost single handed,” with the National Physical Labora­tory: “It would not be unjust to say that Eiffel attains practical results, ne­glecting a slight margin of error, accounting probably 2 per cent. in extreme cases, which for the time being and for practical purposes is inappreciable. On the other hand, the N. P.L., in its beautiful work, seems rather to strive for the meticulous elimination of this negligible margin of error and passes by the major facts.” Ask Eiffel for the air resistance of, say, an airship hull and the job is done “in a couple of days,” while it would last “heaven knows how many weeks” at the N. P.L.62

The report of the Advisory Committee for 1911-12 noted that, between Eiffel’s laboratory and the NPL, there were differences of some 15 percent between the values of the lift coefficient for certain wings. The probable rea­son, it was said, was observational errors. The ACA resolved to investigate the matter and to ensure that a high degree of accuracy was maintained at Teddington. The “Editorial View” in the Aero was that to the “lay mind” such differences are “disquieting,” and the writer of the editorial chose to read the ACA’s response “almost as an acknowledgement of error on the part of Teddington.”63

For the engineer and the physicist are acquainted with exactly the same facts, but the manner in which they approach their subjects is quite different.

philipp frank, Relativity: A Richer Truth (1951)1

That it is Applied Physics is to me the most inspiring definition of engineering; and if this be true for engineering in general, as I think it is, especially true is it of aeronautics. h. e. wimperis, “The Relationship of Physics to Aeronautical Research" (1926)2

The circulation theory of lift was developed by Lanchester, who was an en­gineer. The reasons advanced against it were proposed by men such as G. I. Taylor who were not engineers but who worked in the British, and particularly the Cambridge, tradition of mathematical physics. This is a clue that needs to be followed up. If the objections were the expressions of a disciplinary standpoint, located at a specific time and place, then perhaps the resistance to the circulatory theory would be explicable as a clash of cultures, institutions, and practices. Such an explanation would not imply any devaluation of the reasons that were advanced against the circulatory theory. It would not be premised on the assumption that these reasons were not the real reasons for the resistance. On the contrary, the intention would be to take the objections against the theory in full seriousness and to probe further into them. To do this it is necessary to understand the sources of their credibility and why the reasons were deployed in precisely the way that they were. I shall now begin that process. By the end of the chapter I shall be in a position to outline a theory that could explain the negative character of the British response to Lanchester’s theory.

In section II Kutta sketched his mathematical method and introduced some of the basic formulas. His aim was to use a number of conformal transfor­mations. The strategy was to exploit the known flow around a circular cylin­der by transforming the cylinder into the arc representing the cross section of Lilienthal’s wing. The streamlines around the cylinder would be trans­formed into the streamlines around the wing. What is more, any circulation that is ascribed to the flow around the cylinder would be transformed into a circulation around the wing. The two steps in the procedure are therefore (1) describing the flow around a circular cylinder and (2) finding the trans­formation to turn a circular cylinder into a shallow circular arc.

Here is the formula that Kutta gave to describe the most general flow round a circular cylinder, where the circle is inscribed on the Z – (zeta-) plane:

W ^z+Zj – і-c2 jV-Zj + і■c-logC-

Each of the three parts on the right-hand side of the formula characterized one aspect of the flow around the cylinder. The term q specified the component of flow along the horizontal axis of the Z-plane, while c2 gave the component of flow in the direction of the vertical axis. The term c toward the end of the formula (without a subscript) was the constant associated with the circulatory component of the flow, that is, the component of flow in concentric circles around the cylinder. Kutta did not use exactly the same formula as Rayleigh. Whereas Rayleigh worked with the stream function for the flow around a circular cylinder, Kutta worked with the more general complex-variable for­mula which captured both the streamlines and the potential lines.

The problem was to find the right transformation to apply to the circle. How could the circle be turned into a shape resembling Lilienthal’s wing pro­file? There are no rules for finding the right transformation, and Kutta did not spot any direct way to do this. He therefore had to proceed in a piecemeal way. He constructed the required transformation by combining known for­mulas that could act as intermediate steps and whose combination had the desired outcome. He built a mathematical bridge between the simple case of the circle and the difficult case of a winglike shape, but he did so by starting at both ends and meeting in the middle. In one direction he went from a circle represented on the Z-plane (which he called the “transcendental plane”) to another shape on the t-plane. In the other direction he went from a simpli­fied geometrical description of Lilienthal’s wing, on the z-plane (sometimes, today, called the “physical plane”), to another shape on an intermediate plane called the z’-plane, and finally from the z’-plane to the t-plane. The two procedures therefore mapped their respective starting points onto the same shape in the same plane, the t-plane. This was where they met. Kutta then had the required connection between the circle and the wing.

The insight that allowed Kutta to construct this transformational bridge was that he knew a transformation that would turn an arc of a circle into a straight line and another that would turn the exterior of a circle into the top half of an entire plane. As we saw in chapter 2, a straight line counts as a poly­gon, so once Kutta had a straight line he could use the Schwarz-Christoffel theorem to link the flow to the simple and basic case of the flow along a straight boundary.

The first published application and test of Prandtl’s approach was provided by Otto Foppl in the Zeitschrift fur Flugtechnik of July 19, 1911.57 Foppl had already produced a series of experimental reports using the Gottingen wind channel to test the resistance and lift of flat and curved plates.58 These studies indicated that the laws of resistance depended in a complicated way on the effects at the edges of the plates. It was clear that the move from an infinite to a finite wing would introduce significant new factors into the account of lift and drag. Prandtl had begun to identify these factors in his lectures. Foppl’s aim now was to test a quantitative prediction made by Prandtl on the basis of the new theory he was developing. The prediction kept away from the problematic singularity at the wingtips and concerned the angle at which the air would be moving downward at a specified distance behind the wing. It concerned the induced angle of incidence.

Foppl took for granted the qualitative picture of the two (straight-line) trailing vortices or “vortex plaits” (Wirbelzopfe). The reader of the Zeitschrift was assured that these had been rendered visible in the Gottingen wind chan­nel by introducing ammonia vapor into the flow (184). This “really existing flow” (“tatsachlich vorhandene Stromung”), said Foppl, was the empirical basis on which Prandtl had built his theory (184). The question was how the downwash and the tilt in the local flow could be generated and measured in the wind channel. First it would be necessary to introduce a model wing to generate the vortex system that was under study. It should then be possible to detect the downwash by introducing a flat plate at a distance behind the wing. The angle of the plate could be adjusted until it was aligned with the tilt of the airflow. When the plate was correctly aligned with the flow, there should be no lift force on it. This is the empirical clue giving the angle of the flow. It is important that the plate should be flat, because if it were curved or had the cross section of a normal aerofoil it would still generate a lift even when pointing directly into the local flow. The zero-lift position would not reveal the angle of the flow. With a flat plate, however, the observed angle of zero lift gives the actual tilt of the flow, and this can be compared with the predicted angle.

Having reviewed the logic of Foppl’s experimental design, we can now look at the details of the experiment and the connections that Foppl made with the realities of aircraft construction. Consider the choice of the distance between the wing and the flat plate. The distance used in the prediction and test was selected on the basis of practical considerations about current aircraft design. Increasingly, and unlike the early Wright machines, aircraft were being built with a control surface, called the elevator, located at some distance behind the main wing. The elevator controls the pitch of the aircraft. In the Wright Flyer, the elevator was at the front and the propellers at the rear. By 1911 designers typically put the propeller at the front and the elevator at the tail end of the fuselage. As Prandtl explained, according to the “horseshoe” model, if the el­evator is in a horizontal position behind the wing, it will experience a definite downthrust or negative lift (Abtrieb). This will only disappear if the elevator is rotated by a specific amount which depends on the circulation around the wing. If the elevator is a flat surface (in effect a moving tailplane), then for the reasons just given it will experience a zero-lift force when it is aligned with the downward inclination of the flow behind the wing.59 Foppl therefore built a model airplane with exactly this kind of adjustable elevator. The model is shown in figure 7.10.

The main wing was 60 X 12 cm and had a camber of 1/18, while the eleva­tor was a flat plate of 20 X 8 cm. Both were made of 2.3-mm-thick zinc. The elevator, which was rigidly attached to the wing by two struts, could be piv­oted about its leading edge and fixed at different angles relative to the airflow. There was a distance of 34 cm between the elevator and the main wing, that is, the line running along the span of the wing on which the bound vortex was supposed to be located.

Foppl’s experimental procedure involved four steps, each of them us­ing the Gottingen wind channel. First, Foppl removed the elevator from the model, leaving the main wing still connected to the two struts. He placed the wing and struts in the wind channel at a realistic angle of incidence of 4.6°. The channel was run at a single, fixed speed V, and the lift on the wing was measured. The next step was to reposition the wing (still without an eleva­tor) at a different angle of incidence. This time he chose 7.6°. Again the lift

was measured at the speed V. In both cases Foppl expressed the lift as a coef­ficient Za. (This involved dividing the lift force by the density, the area of the wing, and the square of the speed.) He now had two lift coefficients, one for each of the two angles of incidence. In preparation for the next part of the experiment, Foppl reattached the elevator in order to carry out two sequences of measurements on the whole model. In one sequence the elevator-wing system was suspended so that the angle of incidence of the main wing was
4.6°, while for the other sequence the main wing was at 7.6°. For each of these angles Foppl measured the overall lift of the combined system for a range of different elevator settings. He gave the elevator seven different settings, that is, seven different angles relative to the direction of the free flow. The angles of the elevator to the free airstream ranged from +30° to -10°.

To find the forces on the elevator alone, Foppl subtracted the lift mea­surement for the wing in isolation from that of the wing plus elevator. The remaining lift force (that is, the lift force on the elevator) was then cast into the form of a lift coefficient. This gave Foppl data that could be expressed in terms of two graphs in which the lift on the elevator was plotted against the angle of incidence of the elevator—one curve for each of the angles at which the main wing had been set to the free stream. The most important feature of these graphs was the point at which the curves passed through the x-axis, that is, the angle of the elevator when its lift coefficient was zero. This was the angle at which the elevator should be parallel with the downwash, that is, the local, downward flow of the air induced by the vortex system. The graphs indicated that when the main wing was at an angle of 4.6°, the zero-lift position of the elevator was 2.8°. When the main wing was at 7.6°, the zero – lift position of the elevator, and hence the angle of the downwash, was 4.3°. The question now was whether Prandtl’s theory could predict these angles of downwash from the main wing at the two angles of incidence that Foppl had selected for his test.

Foppl duly announced the predicted value of the angles that had been deduced from the theory—but he did not say on what basis the prediction had been made. He simply informed his readers that in his lectures Prof. Prandtl had derived a formula that gave the tangent of the predicted angle of downwash. The formula was stated, but the deduction that led to it was with­held. The tangent, Foppl said, was given by the ratio w/V, where, according to Prandtl,

w = Ь£а

V nl

As Foppl explained, the coefficients of lift ZA to be entered into the formula were the ones that had been determined experimentally for the isolated wing. All the other dimensions could be taken from the model itself. Thus, b was the chord of the main wing (12 cm), l was the span of the wing (60 cm), and x was the distance along the longitudinal axis of the model from the middle of the main wing to the middle of the elevator (34 cm). With these values for the tangent, the predicted angles themselves came out at 3.3° and 4.2°. Given
that the two measured angles of the downwash (derived from the zero-lift position of the elevator) were 2.8° and 4.3°, Foppl concluded that the result amounted to “a very good confirmation of the theory”—“eine sehr gute Bestatigung der Theorie” (184). The prediction derived from the horseshoe model was correct.

The force of this claim must have been somewhat diminished because the theory used to make the prediction was not revealed. Readers of the Zeitschrift would have known that something was afoot in Gottingen, but Foppl was not going to anticipate Prandtl and expound the theory. He merely said that Prof. Prandtl would soon publish his derivation of the formula in the ZFM. No such derivation was forthcoming, but, with the benefit of hindsight, an examination of the formula makes its origin easy to guess. The formula was simply the result of applying the Biot-Savart law to each of the three straight­line parts of the horseshoe vortex and then doing the trigonometry necessary to relate the formulas to Foppl’s model.60

R. V. Southwell, from the NPL, opened the discussion after the talks and sought to defuse the situation with good-natured praise for all of the speak­ers. Southwell wondered if the Stokes equations were quite as secure as Bair – stow assumed. He raised the possibility that the underlying physics might in­volve even more complications than those already expressed in the equations. He also reported that wind-tunnel experiments under way at the NPL seemed to be finding a value for the circulation around a wing that was similar to that predicted by Prandtl, though he, Southwell, doubted if the flow near the wing would correspond to that assumed by the circulatory theory. On the other hand, he was enthusiastic about Bairstow’s fundamental research program and fully supported the need to explain the success of Prandtl’s ap­proach. Bairstow’s own contribution to the discussion was a bland response to a Dutch speaker from the audience who had sketched some of the recent work at Aachen and Gottingen. Bairstow said he was glad to hear that Con­tinental workers were taking viscosity seriously. The discussion ended on a bizarre note when Sir George Greenhill proceeded to inform the audience that the modern approach to aerodynamics was based on a paper that Ray­leigh had written fifty years ago on the irregular flight of the tennis ball. This intervention was remarkable for two reasons. First, Greenhill was rewriting history and was expecting his audience to have forgotten all about the discon­tinuity theory of lift and his own, and Rayleigh’s, contribution to it. Second, it is unclear whether Greenhill had come into the lecture late or whether he had failed to register what had been said in his presence. Glazebrook had to draw Greenhill’s attention to the fact that he was repeating a version of what Major Low had just said. This done, Glazebrook thanked all of the speakers and promptly declared the meeting closed.

Despite the pointed criticism of the Advisory Committee, Glazebrook had chosen not to respond to Low. He might have been distracted by Greenhill’s odd behavior but, leaving psychology aside, there is another possible explana­tion for Glazebrook’s nonresponse. The Wednesday session was not the first time the issue of Lanchester had been raised at the Congress. Low and Glaze­brook had crossed swords on the previous Monday, June 25. It is possible that Glazebrook had decided he had said all he was prepared to say and was not going to be drawn out on the subject again. On that Monday, Glazebrook had given a paper titled “Standardisation of Methods of Research.”104 In the

discussion that followed he had encountered some criticism by Major Low about the reliability of wind-tunnel results. Low cited some negative remarks from G. P. Thomson’s book on aerodynamics and argued that wind-tunnel data needed to be corrected. The “Lanchester-Prandtl theory,” said Low, had shown how to make the corrections, and this theory would soon be the sub­ject of his own talk. Glazebrook, who did not like to air the problems of wind – tunnel research in public, suggested that Prof. Thomson had surely changed his mind. Then, perhaps alerted by Low’s mention of his forthcoming talk, Glazebrook added a comment that was not a direct response to anything that had actually been said. As if to head off trouble, Glazebrook launched into an apologia for the way Lanchester had been treated: “With regard to the refer­ence to the Prandtl theory, I trust there is no one here who will in any way depreciate the enormous value of the work done by Mr. Lanchester and of the suggestions he has made. But it was not until Prandtl put some such sugges­tions into mathematical form that it was possible to attach to them the kind of value they have now gained, or to give Mr. Lanchester all the credit and praise that we should desire to give for his work” (65). This preemptive state­ment may explain why, on the following Wednesday, Glazebrook remained silent. He had no wish to go round the issue again.

Glazebrook’s desire to give due, if belated, credit to Lanchester may be accepted at its face value, but as an excuse for the neglect of the circulation theory, his claim has three, obvious weaknesses. (1) To say that we can now see that Lanchester was doing something valuable because Prandtl has made it clear to us does not explain why the British could not have worked it out for themselves. (2) In reality, as I have argued, British mathematicians had no difficulty in seeing the underlying mathematical form of Lanchester’s ideas. It was not the obscurity of the relation to mathematics that was the cause of the trouble, but the opposite. British experts such a G. I. Taylor were very familiar with the mathematical form of the circulation theory. It was actually the underlying mathematical form (the potential flow of an inviscid fluid) that they rejected on the grounds that it could not refer to processes that were physically real. (3) When British mathematicians were presented with a developed mathematical expression of Lanchester’s theory, they still expe­rienced difficulty in coming to terms with it—witness, for example, G. H. Bryan’s negative review of Joukowsky, the responses of Lamb to Kutta, and Bairstow’s response to Prandtl and Betz. In all cases the work struck them as a problem rather than a solution. None of these three points is accounted for by Glazebrook’s version of the events. It is not difficult to see why a well – informed practical designer such as Low might have felt less than convinced by Glazebrook’s answer. No wonder he could not resist raising the matter again and putting Glazebrook on the spot.105

I have now looked at some of the discussions about aerodynamics that took place in Britain in the immediate postwar years. It is clear that the math­ematically sophisticated British experts did not take the view that “there was nothing to learn from the Hun.” They were learning and learning quickly, but there was disagreement about what, and how much, was to be learned. How, and on what terms, was the Gottingen work to be assimilated? While the arguments at the Royal Aeronautical Society and the International Con­gress were conducted in the public realm, there had been other arguments that were still running their parallel course behind the closed doors of com­mittee rooms. It is to these that I now return. In the next chapter I pick up the story of the discussions initiated in the Aeronautical Research Committee by Glauert’s resolve to champion the merits of the circulation theory and Prandtl’s theory of the finite wing.

One of the objections that critics have repeatedly directed against the Strong Program is that the commitment to causal, sociological explanation entails neglecting the role of reasons. The critics say that a Strong Program analysis involves disregarding the reasons that social actors themselves offer for their behavior. According to the critics these reasons can, on occasion, provide a sufficient explanation of the behavior and thus render redundant any attempt to construct a causal, sociological explanation. A recent example of this criti­cism is to be found in a 2006 paper by Sturm and Gigerenzer.7 The authors say: “Even after a strong sociological explanation has been given for the be­liefs of a scientist, it remains sensible to ask: Very fine, but how are these beliefs connected to the scientist’s justificatory reasons? Can these reasons perhaps explain better why the scientist acquired the relevant beliefs?” (144). As the wording indicates, these critics assume that the candidate sociological explanation will have been constructed without any significant reference to the agent’s reasons. The critics wish to make good this alleged lack, and they put their money on finding cases where nothing more than the scientist’s own reasoning is needed to explain some pattern of scientific belief. The agent’s reasons, they say, can be the cause of their beliefs, and a proper explanation of these beliefs should be in terms of these reasons (141).

Does the causal explanation that I have put forward to account for my findings in the history of aerodynamics depend on, or result in, a lack of

serious attention to the agent’s reasons? I hope it will be evident that such a complaint is groundless. The problem I have posed, the central problem of the book, is a problem about the reasons that were used to justify a certain scientific judgment. I have attended closely to the reasons given by the actors in the story and subjected them to a close analysis. I fear, however, that critics will dismiss my discussion of scientific reasoning as mere window dressing. Thus Sturm and Gigerenzer say, “Mentioning that scientists claim to employ certain reasons or reasoning standards, and mentioning which ones these are, is not the same as taking these standards seriously—seriously in the sense that they are acknowledged as causes of the scientist’s acceptance or rejection of claims” (142). For these critics, nothing short of treating reasons as self­sufficient explanations will count as taking them seriously. This I certainly have not done and will not do because it would corrupt the analysis. Despite this, attending to the actor’s reasons has played a central role, even though the analysis culminates in a causal explanation. The actor’s reasons are not merely mentioned; they are given a substantial role. Consider the stated reasons of­fered by the British to justify their rejection of the ideal fluid approach, for example, their complaint that the origin of circulation must forever remain a mystery. These reasons certainly illuminate the British rejection. When the reasons are examined, however, it becomes clear they do not adequately ex­plain the behavior of the British experts. This is not because the British had other “real” reasons. The inadequacy of the explanation is because their Ger­man counterparts understood the reasons that moved the British as well as the British did, but responded differently. Kelvin’s theorem was as familiar to Prandtl as it was to Taylor or Jeffreys. For me, therefore, taking reasons seri­ously, and assessing their causal role, requires asking why the same facts and the same theorems, that is, the same reasons, caused such divergent responses in the two groups of professionals.

Faced with a situation of this kind, where stated reasons underdetermine the response, should the historian look for a difference in the intellectual presuppositions behind the reasoning of the two groups? Perhaps this ap­proach could uncover hidden premises and lead to an explanation of the dif­ferent reactions. An appeal to presuppositions might keep the analysis within the realm of self-sufficient reasons in the way that the critics want. A search for presuppositions is certainly important in any historical analysis, and it has been a feature of my own procedure. As I have shown, such a search uncovers subtly different conceptions of an ideal fluid. The British experts treated an ideal fluid as a fluid of zero viscosity (p = 0), while their German counterparts treated it as the limit of a fluid of small viscosity (p ^ 0). The British drew a strong boundary between inviscid theory and viscous theory.

German-language work involved a weaker and differently positioned bound­ary. Thus von Mises was inclined to treat the objects of both the Euler and the Stokes equations as abstractions, while Prandtl was inclined to treat them both as realities. Despite their differences, both of these German-language thinkers placed viscous and inviscid fluids on a par with one another. This aligned the two against the more literal-minded realism of the British, who treated viscous fluids as real and inviscid fluids as unreal.

There can be no doubt, then, that identifying presuppositions of this kind deepens the analysis, but it still cannot furnish an explanation of the diver­gent responses of the British and the Germans. Presuppositions are simply reasons for reasons, so the real problem is postponed rather than solved. It merely leads to further questions: Where do the presuppositions come from? Why did the British and Germans have different presuppositions?

The point may be made in another way. I identified a sequence of judg­ments that informed the technical content of the aerodynamic knowledge of lift. At each point in the sequence the British experts jumped in one direction while the German experts jumped in the other. Such was the case regard­ing (1) the significance attached to the “arbitrary” value of the circulation,

(2) the meaning of the zero-drag result, (3) the importance of explaining the critical angle at which a wing stalled, (4) the reaction to the overoptimistic lift predictions derived from the theory of circulation, and (5) the problem of explaining the origin of the circulation around a wing within the confines of the theory of ideal fluids. The divergence of judgment on these questions was systematic, fundamental, and constitutive of the rival understandings of the two groups. It cannot be dismissed as a coincidence, but nor can it be ex­plained by the divergent reasons themselves. The deployment of reason is the problem, not the solution. The phenomenon calls for a causal explanation, and that is what I have given.

So far I have described my procedure in terms of an apparent transi­tion from reasons to causes. I have said, in effect, that my analysis may have started with reasons but it finished by my making an appeal to causes because reasons became equivocal. I justify the claim that the analysis is causal (and conforms to the Strong Program) by saying that an appeal to causes is, in the end, unavoidable. This argument is correct, but as a way of speaking it can generate problems. At best it is a provisional way to state the methodology behind the analysis.

The problem is that two modes of speech and two perspectives are in play: those of the actors and those of the analyst. Keeping both modes of speech in play may suggest that there are two different sorts of cause at work, namely, rational causes and sociological causes. Are we to conclude that reasons cause some of the behavior of the scientists under study but not all of it, so that the remainder has to be explained by sociological and nonrational causes? Does rationality provide a partial cause alongside other kinds of cause furnished, say, by the social context? Some such view may seem to be underwritten by the historian’s own investigative procedure or, at least, by the way the procedure is sometimes presented. First, it seems, reasons are examined and then, and only then, are sociological causes to be invoked (as if they were a residual cat­egory). But granted that the work of the historical analyst sometimes exhibits such a pattern, it would be wrong for the analyst to project this expository sequence into the picture of the historical actor and imagine that actors are, or may be, subject to a corresponding sequence of influences. I do not believe that a dualism of rational and sociological causes, which allegedly compete or alternate with one another, or supplement one another, can be the basis of a satisfactory perspective. It is eclectic and merely encourages baldly posed questions. Something more unified, and hence reductive, is called for. If the Strong Program is correct, then “rational causes,” which have so often been treated as sui generis, are really nothing more than a species of social causes.

Think of the confrontation between Lanchester and Bairstow when they clashed in public in 1915. Bairstow said that Lanchester could not explain why aircraft stalled, so his theory could not be taken seriously; Lanchester said that he did not need to explain this stalling because a theory of narrow scope could still be valuable within its limited domain. My claim is that, in tracing the arguments that Bairstow and Lanchester used against one another, a good historical analyst will, at the same time, be tracing the causal texture of their interaction. There will be no duality of rational and social causes and no tran­sition from one to the other. A properly historical account of the interaction between Lanchester and Bairstow will be in terms of social causation from the outset. A unified, social-causal perspective of this kind can be sustained if the analyst focuses relentlessly on the credibility that the participants and their audience attach to the arguments that are being advanced. Why did the failure to explain the onset of a stall worry Bairstow in a way that it did not worry Lanchester? Why was Bairstow’s concern shared by other British ex­perts but not, to the same degree, by Kutta, Prandtl, and other supporters of the circulatory theory in Germany? These are the questions that will expose the sociological basis of the power of reason, and these are the questions to which I have given answers.

The importance of credibility as a causal category, with its variable and distributed character, is at its most striking when the overall scene is brought into view, for example, the systematic divergence of the German and British responses to circulation. But actual or possible divergences of this kind are not confined to the large scale. They are a feature of every act of reason giving and every act of responding to reasons, whether interpersonal or intraper­sonal, whether public or private. This is because, on its own, invoking and formulating reasons can never be sufficient to render a belief causally intel­ligible or a course of action causally explicable. Things may not look this way from the actor’s point of view. Sometimes the reasons that are advances in the course of an interaction are accepted by other actors as sufficient justifica­tion or explanation. But I am giving the analyst’s perspective. I am speaking here from the point of view of a historian or sociologist who is committed to giving a causal analysis of a passage of interaction and behavior. Of course, critics say the claim that reasons are never sufficient is mere dogmatism or the result of an irresponsible generalization. Like others before them, Sturm and Gigerenzer see here nothing but a lack of prudence on the part of sup­porters of the Strong Program.8 They think it is more judicious to allow that reasons sometimes explain rather than never explain. In fact my claim is not dogmatic; it is made on the basis of a general and principled argument. The argument comes from Wittgenstein’s analysis of rule following and has ex­plicitly informed the Strong Program from the outset.9 Because the argument is so important, and so often misunderstood or ignored, I rehearse it here and then connect it to my overall analysis.

In April 1997 Peter Galison and Alex Roland organized the conference “At­mospheric Flight in the Twentieth Century,” which was held at the Dibner Institute in Cambridge, Massachusetts. By a stroke of good fortune, and the generosity of the Dibner Institute, I was able to attend the meeting. My role was to act as an outside commentator. I was deeply impressed by the high quality of all of the papers that were presented, though I confess I was some­what daunted by the technical expertise of the contributors. The conference opened my eyes to a field of work, the history of aeronautics, that was new to me but which proved immediately attractive.1

One paper in the conference that caught my attention dealt with early British research in aerodynamics and the way in which, in Britain, the gulf between science and technology was bridged. The paper was titled “The Wind Tunnel and the Emergence of Aeronautical Research in Britain.”2 After the conference its author, Dr. Takehiko Hashimoto, kindly sent me the un­published Ph. D. thesis on which his paper had been based.3 Dr. Hashimoto’s main concern was with the role of those important individuals who act as mediators, middlemen, and “translators” between mathematicians and engi­neers. By comparing the development of British and American aerodynamics (and their respective responses to German aerodynamics after World War I), he reached the gratifying conclusion that the British had been somewhat more successful in this process of mediation than had the Americans. I say “gratifying” because I am British, and the British frequently take a pessimistic attitude toward their own technological capabilities and tend to assume that other countries always do things better. I did not pursue the theme of the mediator or middleman, but it was this work that prompted me to do the research presented here. Although we paint a somewhat different picture of certain people who feature in both of our studies, I express my indebtedness to Dr. Hashimoto and my appreciation of his work.

I began by following up some of Dr. Hashimoto’s references in the Pub­lic Record Office in London and soon found a set of research questions of my own that I wanted to answer, as well as evidence that there was material available with which to pursue them. My questions were these: In the early days of aviation, that is, in the early 1900s, there were rival accounts of how an aircraft wing provides “lift.” One account was supported by British ex­perts, while the other was mainly developed by German experts. This was well known to historians working in the field.4 These two theories of lift were also featured, though not in technical detail, in Dr. Hashimoto’s account.5 But I wanted to know (1) why the rivalry arose, (2) what sustained it for al­most twenty years, and (3) how it was resolved. These questions were not ad­dressed in Dr. Hashimoto’s work, nor had they been convincingly answered in any of the broader historical literature in the field. The present book sets out the conclusions that I eventually reached on these three questions.

My kind colleagues in the Science Studies Unit at the University of Ed­inburgh bore the disruptions caused by my research-related comings and goings with understanding and good humor. I am all too aware that my ac­tivities must have added to their own already considerable work load. Relief from teaching and administrative duties during crucial parts of the research was made possible by the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC). I thank the Council for its financial support in the form of a project grant ESRC Res 000-23-0088. Grants specifically designed to offset the costs of publication came from two further sources: Trinity College, Cambridge, and the Royal Society of London. I thank the Master and Fellows of Trinity for their generosity, and I also express my appreciation for the continued sup­port of the Royal Society, in these financially straitened times, for work in the history of science.

The argument of my book involves a detailed comparison between British and German aerodynamic work, and this subject would have proven impos­sible to study without a number of lengthy visits to the Max-Planck-Institut fur Wissenschaftsgeschichte in Berlin. I must record my deep gratitude to Lorraine Daston and Hans-Jorg Rheinberger, the directors of Abteilung II and Abteilung III, respectively, and to Ursula Klein and Otto Sibum, who were directors of two of the independent research groups in the Institute. Their warm welcome and great generosity will never be forgotten, nor will the stimulus provided by the research environment they all worked so hard, and so successfully, to create. I also express particular thanks to Urs Schoe- pflin, the Institute librarian, and his dedicated team. They met my endless stream of requests and queries with unfailing professionalism, kindness, and scholarly understanding. Special mention must be made of one member of the library team, Monika Sommerer, who, in the final phases of writing the book, kindly began the work of approaching copyright holders for permission to reproduce the photographs and diagrams that illustrate my narrative.

One of the first things I did in Berlin was to make working translations of the main German technical papers that were relevant to the analysis. (By a “working translation” I mean something adequate for my own use rather than for public consumption.) Here I thank Marc Staudacher, a resourceful teacher of German and a professional translator, who spent many hours with me going over my attempts in order to check them and to explain points of grammar and meaning that were eluding me.

In developing the British side of the story I am indebted to the Royal Aeronautical Society in London for access to their unique collection of early aeronautical literature. I am deeply grateful to Brian Riddle, the librarian, who put this material, as well as his profound knowledge of the field, at my disposal. It was also through the good offices of Brian Riddle that I was able to make contact with Dr. Audrey Glauert of Clare Hall, Cambridge. Dr. Glauert generously made available to me material relating to her father and mother, both of whom played an important role in the development of aerodynamics and therefore feature prominently in my book. I hope I have been able to put that material to good use. The opportunity to talk with someone directly con­nected with the historical actors and episodes I was describing was a moving experience, and I express my gratitude to Dr. Glauert for her hospitality and kindness.

From its inception I have discussed my research project with Walter Vin – centi of the University of Stanford. I have benefited immeasurably from nu­merous and lengthy conversations drawing on his firsthand experience of aerodynamic research. His patience in discussing the arguments of the early technical papers and his willingness to read and comment so carefully on the first drafts of many of the chapters of this book have been invaluable to me in learning to find my way in this new field. It has been a privilege to be able to put my questions and problems to him and to be the recipient of his expert and thoughtful answers. Donald MacKenzie read and commented on a number of early draft chapters; later, drafts of the complete book were read by Barry Barnes, Celia Bloor, Michael Eckert, Jon Harwood, and Horst Nowacki. Not only their encouragement but also their critical comments have been invaluable, and I have made extensive alterations as a result of their suggestions. The responsibility for the defects that remain can only be laid at my doorstep.

In addition I have accumulated many other debts of gratitude for the help I have received in the course of the research—guidance to the literature and new sources, help in approaching and gaining access to archives, and numer­ous conversations on historiographical, methodological, and philosophical questions. I hope the following persons will forgive me if I do not mention individually their many and varied acts of kindness and generosity that, nev­ertheless, I so clearly remember. My sincere thanks to Andrew Barker, Jed Buchwald, Dianna Buchwald, Harry Collins, Ivan Crozier, Olivier Darrigol, David Edgerton, Heinz Fuetterer, Zae-Young Ghim, Judith Goodstein, Ivor Grattan-Guinness, John Henry, Dieter Hoffmann, Christoph Hoffmann, Marion Kazemi, Kevin Knox, Martin Kusch, Wolfgang Lefevre, David Mus- ker, Jurgen Renn, Simon Schaffer, Suman Seth, Steven Shapin, Skuli Sigur – dsen, Richard Staley, Nelson Studart, Steve Sturdy, Thomas Sturm, Annette Vogt, Andrew Warwick, and Richard Webb.

I have used material from the following archives and express my thanks to the archivists for permission to consult their holdings: Archives of the Cali­fornia Institute of Technology (Karman); Archiv zur Geschichte der Max – Planck-Gesellschaft (Prandtl); Churchill Archive Centre, Cambridge (Far – ren); Einstein Papers at Caltech (Einstein and Frank); Gottingen Archive of the Deutsche Gesellschaft fur Luft-und Raumfahrt (Prandtl); Library of the University of Cambridge (Tripos exam papers); National Library of Scotland (Haldane); Public Record Office (minutes of the ARC); Royal Aeronautical Society (Lanchester and Grey); Royal Air Force Museum, Hendon (Melvill Jones); St. John’s College, Cambridge (Jeffreys and Love); Trinity College, Cambridge (Taylor and Thomson); University of Coventry (Lanchester); and University of Edinburgh (A. R. Low).

The provenance of all photographic images and diagrams from published and unpublished sources is indicated in the caption along with an acknowl­edgment of copyright and permission to reproduce the material. In a few cases it proved impossible, despite every effort, to make contact with the holders of the copyright.

Finally I must mention my greatest debt. Throughout the research and the writing of this book I have benefited from the unstinting help of my wife. The book is dedicated to her. It is as good as I can make it, but it still seems little to give in return. I proffer it with the sentiment Wenig, aber mit Liebe.

The motion of a fluid element involves three different kinds of change:

(1) translation, (2) strain, and (3) rotation. Translation involves change of position of the element, strain involves a deformation of the shape of the element, and rotation involves a change of angular orientation of the ele­ment. Rotation may seem to be an intuitively clear idea because the image that comes to mind is the rotation of a rigid body in which the fluid element is pictured as if it behaves like, say, a spinning ball. Sometimes fluid elements are indeed represented as spinning balls. Although shape is not really crucial, the picture of a sphere is sometimes invoked when explaining the striking result that a fluid element in an ideally inviscid fluid can never be made to rotate if it is not already rotating, nor can it be stopped from rotating if it is already in rotation. The rotation of an ideal fluid element can neither be created nor destroyed by, for example, the motion of a solid body that is immersed in, and surrounded by, a fluid. The argument is that, in a perfect fluid, neither the surrounding fluid nor such a moving body can exert any traction on the smooth surface of the element in order to change its exist­ing state of rotatory motion. It will be evident that, in light of this result, the origin of rotation becomes something of a mystery.19

Cowley and Levy, however, do not avail themselves of an intuitive pic­ture of fluid elements as rotating spheres of fluid. They opt for the more austere technical definition. Technically, the rotation of a fluid element (in two-dimensional flow) is defined as the average angular velocity of any two infinitesimal linear elements within the fluid element that are instantaneously perpendicular to one another. Mathematically this definition is expressed in the formula

1(dv du |

rotation = — ———- — .

2 ^dx dy )

The virtue of the technical definition is that commonsense comparisons tend to omit the possibility that the angular velocity of the two linear elements might cancel out so that, under some circumstances, rotation can be equal to zero by virtue of the deformation of the fluid element.20 A flow in which the quantity in the brackets in the previous formula is zero is called an ir – rotational flow.

Methodologically, the important point about the rotation of a fluid ele­ment is that by neglecting it, and restricting attention to irrotational flow, the mathematics is greatly simplified. Why is this? A glimpse into the reasons can be gained by taking another look at the stream function discussed in the pre­vious section. Consider the following expression involving the stream func­tion y. The expression is arrived at by differentiating у twice with respect to x and twice with respect to y and adding the result. Thus,

dy dy

dx2 + dy2′

It will be recalled that differentiating у once yields the velocity components of the flow and that the x and y components of the fluid velocity at a point are given by

dy

u =—— and

dy

= dy

dx

Substituting these definitions of the velocity components in the expression under consideration gives

dV+dV=+Af+d^VAf_—1

dx2 dy2 dx ^ dx J dy ^ dy J

dv du dx dy

The result of the substitution is precisely the expression that was used in the technical definition of the term “rotation.” It is in fact twice the rotation. If the rotation is zero, that is, if the flow is irrotational, then this term must be zero, and so, therefore, is the expression cited at the outset of the discussion. In other words, if the flow is irrotational, then the stream function у is gov­erned by the equation

dy+dy= 0

dx2 dy2

This equation is called Laplace’s equation. Although the equation itself may look far from simple, it is not difficult to appreciate that it is simpler than if the right-hand side were equated to some complicated function of x and y rather than to zero. Irrotational flow is thus a (relatively) simplified form of flow governed by Laplace’s equation.

Laplace’s equation is one of the most significant differential equations in the history of mathematical physics.21 The equation is often written as V2y = 0.22 The restriction to “irrotational” flow, which it signifies, not only simplified the mathematics, but it brought out the analogies between fluid flow and the results that had emerged or were emerging in other fields. Ir – rotational flow obeyed simple mathematical laws that were similar to those in areas such as the theory of gravitational force, the theory of heat, the theory of elasticity, and the theory of magnetism and electricity. Maxwell used the analogy, and Laplace’s equation, to shed light on the hydrodynamics of the flow of fluid through an orifice and the vena contracta, that is, the contraction shown by the jet of fluid a short distance from the orifice.23 Because of the electrical analogies, irrotational flows used to be called “electrical” flows. The interplay between hydrodynamics and the theory of electric phenomena was not only suggestive theoretically, but it was also exploited in the laboratory. In the interwar years it provided the basis of a laboratory-bench technique used by E. F. Relf at the National Physical Laboratory for graphically plotting the streamlines of the flow around objects with complicated shapes, such as aerofoils.24 The resulting representation was, of course, a representation of the flow as it would take place if the air were an ideal fluid.25