Category STORY

The success of Alcock and Brown was historic. Now came the question: Could anyone fly the Atlantic solo? Charles Lindbergh accepted the challenge (Fig. 6.1). He made all preparations and arrived at New York in May 1927. He was keen to fly his aircraft, the Spirit of St. Louis, across the At­lantic, all the way from New York to Paris, solo. He had set his heart on it. But bad weather had forced him stay put for about a week. All through the night of 20 May he tossed in his bed. He could not get a wink of sleep.

Many friends asked him why he wanted to stake his life on the risky venture. He laughed off their fears. "I’ve designed this plane. It can carry enough fuel to last me for the journey. I may have some to spare too, at the end of the journey. As regards my decision to fly solo, well, I’d be bet­ter off with more asoline than an extra man", said Lindbergh.

"Yet, it’s risky", said his friends.

That was true. Rene Fonck, a veteran of France (he had been a fighter pilot during World War I), had tried and failed. His plane crashed at take off. Noel Davis and Stanton Wooster, two Americans, died in a mishap during a test flight. Charles Nungesser and Fig. 6.1: Charles Lindbergh

Francois Coli, two war heroes of France, took off from Paris on May 8, 1927. They vanished into thin air. Nobody knew what happened to them.

These failures didn’t scare Lindbergh. They only spurred him on, strengthened his determination to go ahead with his plan.

He was just 25. He was ready to dare and act. He wanted to be the first to fly an aircraft, solo, across the At­lantic. It was truly a quest he loved. Success would bring him name and fame. There was also the lure of the prize money ($25,000), offered by a rich hotel magnate Raymond Orteig.

These were factors that weighed with him. But hardly anyone guessed why he was so hell-bent on executing this plan. Years later, he shared it with the whole world, "I have never been aware of the need to prove myself… . My im­pression is that I have done what I have done because I enjoyed doing it or because I thought it led to some desir­able or necessary end".

He fell in love with flying after he watched an air show at Fort Meir. "How exciting would it be to soar freely, up in the air, like birds?" thought Lindbergh. From then on, fly­ing became a passion. Lindbergh chose flying as a career. He told his father of his decision. The old man demurred, "Flying is dangerous and you’re my only son". Lindbergh pleaded. Finally, the old man agreed.

Lindbergh’s mother was more understanding and sup­portive. She patted him and said, "If you really want to fly, that’s what you should do". Lindbergh danced with joy.

From then on, nothing could hold him back. He trained to fly. There was money in flying. He earned his living, car­rying passengers around. He hopped around, flying mail. In between he found time to practise parachute jumping.

Every success in the field of aviation thrilled him. Each report fired his imagination, gave wings to a desire.

He resolved to strike yet another milestone in the history of aviation.

But what could he do? The answer came to him while flying an airmail sortie in the fall of 1926. Suddenly he re­membered the prize money offered by Orteig to one who flew an aircraft solo across the Atlantic, all the way from New York to Paris and set a new record in the annals of aviation.

One major problem stood in his way. He didn’t have enough funds to take on this project. All that he could raise were $2,000. He needed more than $35,000, to get an airplane and to make other preparations.

Where would the funds come from? There were many rich businessmen and industrialists who often sponsored such endeavours. They had the money and the will to give liberally to help the daring.

Lindbergh approached a few rich friends and acquaint­ances. He explained what he had in mind. He handed over to them detailed break-up of the funds he needed and justi­fied every item of expense.

Many people showed interest initially. Most of them, however, shied away. Finally, Harry Knight and Harold Bixby of St. Louis gave him the green signal.

The search for the ideal airplane began right away. Lindbergh was clear of what he wanted. He noticed that earlier attempts by experienced pilots, who flew double­engine aircraft, had failed. He decided, then, to fly a single­engine airplane. He decided on a Ryan monoplane.

He sent a wire to Ryan, the airplane builder of San Diego:

CAN YOU CONSTRUCT A WHIRLWIND ENGINE PLANE CAPABLE OF FLYING NONSTOP BETWEEN NEW YORK AND PARIS? If SO, PLEASE STATE COST AND DELIVERY DATE.

Ryan discussed the finer details. Lindbergh explained "I would like to carry maximum fuel. I’ve to fly a distance of about 3,500 miles (5,400 km) nonstop. If I run short of fuel, I’ll be in trouble".

"What about safety?" Ryan asked.

"Safety at the start of my flight means holding down weight for the take off. Safety during my flight requires plenty of emergency equipment. Safety at the end of my flight demands ample reserve of oil. It’s impossible to in­crease safety at one point without detracting from the other", Lindbergh defined his analysis of safety.

Ryan understood. Lindbergh was giving maximum at­tention to safety at the end of his flight. He was hinting that he would sacrifice safety at take off and during flight to ensure he reached his goal. He would take as much fuel as he could. If some safety equipment had to be offloaded, so be it. The radio set, used for communication, became the first casualty. That provided space for 35 kg of fuel. The sex­tant was discarded. "I’m on a solo flight. Where will I’ve the time to adjust and read the sextant?" he asked.

Reducing weight became an obsession. Lindbergh ripped spare pages off his notebook. He cut holes in the world map, clipping out places not on his route. He pro­cured special lightweight shoes. He didn’t take a parachute along. That gave room for 9 kg more of oil. He cut down on the food and water supplies too. He carried only five sand­wiches and a quart of water. That was very frugal fare for a long flight of about 35 hours. Lindbergh knew it. Yet he opted for it, saying, "If I get to Paris, I won’t need any more; and if I don’t get to Paris, I won’t need any more".

The fuel tank went in front. It blocked his vision. Lindbergh didn’t consider this a major problem. In those days, the airspace was uncluttered. No aircraft flew the route. However as a measure of caution, he fixed a periscope. It poked out on the left side. The view taken by the periscope was displayed on the instrument panel. Lindbergh believed that he would be safer, with the fuel tank in front of him. A

clock, a compass, an altimeter and an air speed indicator were the other equipment he had on board (Fig. 6.2).

At 2.30 a. m., on 20 May, Lindbergh looked out through the window. The star-studded sky winked at him. Was it a signal to him to set out on his historic flight?

He jumped out of bed, took a quick bath before driv­ing down to New York Airport. He checked the airplane, the Spirit of St. Louis, before taking in fuel (Fig. 6.3). "Load it up to the last ounce", Lindbergh grinned.

He got into the cockpit, started the engine, pulled the throttle. The aircraft started off, slowly. It picked up speed, but till it neared the end of the runway, it looked as if it might not get airborne. The ground crew gasped in fright. But the miracle happened. To the relief of everyone, the air­craft lifted off, just at the last moment. It flew inches above electric poles and trees, before gaining height.

A mild easterly wind held course. Lindbergh headed toward Nova Scotia, and thence to Cape Breton Island. Heavy rain, fog and turbulent weather made flying

difficult. For a moment, Lindbergh was tempted to consider whether he should call off his mad plan and seek security at St. John. Beyond St. John lay thousands of miles of sea. Once he left St. John behind, he would have no option but to fly ahead to his destination or be ready to be dumped into the Atlantic.

With grim determination, he circled St. John and flew out toward the sea. He sighed in relief. He saw the advan­tage that this choice held out. "A pilot, who has 2,000 miles of sea ahead of him, can’t park his plane on a cloud bank to weather out a storm or heave over a sea anchor like the sailor and drag along slowly down wind. He’s unable to control his speed like the driver of a motor car in fog. He has to keep his craft hurtling through air, no matter how black the sky or binding the storm", he told himself.

He rose to 10,500 feet (3,250 m) to get above the fog. The air around was very cold. Icy clouds were all around. "They enmesh intruders. They’re barbaric in their methods. They toss you in their hailstones, poison you with freezing mist. It would be a slow death, a death one would have long minutes to struggle against—climbing, stalling,

diving, whipping, always downward toward the sea", Lindbergh recollected about this experience. Quickly, he got out of the icy clouds. He descended before ice coated the wings and made the airplane heavier.

After 17 hours of flying, Lindbergh felt terribly sleepy. His eyelids drooped. He pulled the window so that ice cold wind hit his face. He slapped himself. Once he dozed off. The plane took an ugly roll, jerking him out of sleep. He saw illusions—of bottomless seas, of towering mountains, of rolling cascades. He feared of straying off the route.

The sun rose. With it came a sense of relief and confi­dence for Lindbergh. He had been airborne for 24 hours. The sleepiness vanished. He felt fresh and full of energy.

He flew on. Two hours later, he saw a seabird in flight. Then he saw a few native boats, sailed by fishermen. For Lindbergh that was a welcome sign. Land could be close by. Was he heading toward the Irish coast? He flew lower, hoping to find out from the fishermen on the boats. He shouted, "How far is the Irish cost?" Nobody heard his call.

After circling around the boats for a few minutes, Lindbergh realised it was a waste of energy. He was burn­ing up fuel on a futile quest. Swiftly, he changed course and headed toward his goal. Soon, he flew over the Irish coast. He was two hours ahead of schedule. That meant he had enough fuel to fly beyond Paris. Should he fly to Rome?

Fig. 6.4: Lindbergh’s route across the Atlantic

For a moment, he toyed with the idea. Then he gave it up. He had set out for Paris. To Paris would he go (Fig. 6.4).

Joy filled his heart as he neared Paris. In ecstasy, he told himself, "The Spirit of St. Louis is like a living creature, gliding along smoothly, happily, as though a successful flight means as much to it as to me. We love this flight across the ocean, not I or it".

The airplane circled the airport, lit by a thousand lights (Fig. 6.5). However, darkness obscured the aircraft till it de­scended and came within the range of the lights. The touch­down was smooth. Lindbergh’s solo flight across the Atlan­tic had taken 33 hours and 39 minutes.

A large crowd encircled him as soon as he got out of the cockpit. "Thousands of men and women were breaking down fences and flooding past guards", he recollected in his memoirs.

Walter S. Ross described the scene, "Lindbergh opened the door to climb out, but he didn’t set foot on ground.

Hands reached out and pulled him out. He was spread – eagled on top of the crowd like a captive tortoise". Two French pilots, Detroyat and Delage, quickly snatched the soft leather helmet of Lindbergh and made a tall American, who was standing a little away, wear it. The crowd mistook him for Lindbergh and encircled him. That gave the chance to the two pilots to lead Lindbergh away to a Renault car waiting to take him away.

He received a hero’s welcome in European capitals. President Coolidge honoured him with the Distinguished Flying Cross. Time-Life Books, in their series, This Fabulous Century, covering the period 1920-1930, wrote, "When a lanky, soft-spoken youth named Charles Lindbergh made the first solo airplane flight nonstop from New York to Paris, America pulled out the stops. As he was escorted up Broadway, jubilant crowds showered the returning hero with 1,800 tons of shredded paper".

The accolade was his by right. He had flown solo across the Atlantic, proved that man could overcome every chal­lenge that came his way. However there was still one chal­lenge to be met. Nobody had flown across the Atlantic, from Europe to America.

In May 1927, a Parisian newspaper carried a report, claiming that the L’oiseau Blanc, piloted by Francois Coli and Charles Nungessser, of France, had crossed the Atlantic, fly­ing East to West. This turned out to be wrong. The aircraft vanished shortly after take off. There was no trace of the aircraft or the men on board. Undaunted by this tragedy, Hermann Koehl, a former German Air Force pilot, under­took the flight. The Junkers Airplane company placed an all-metal low-wing W-33 monoplane at his disposal. Baron Gruenther von Huenfeld offered financial support on con­dition he was taken along as passenger. James A. Fitzmaurice, an Irish pilot with immense experience agreed to be the copilot.

The aircraft, called Bremen, took off, shortly after dawn, on 12 April 1928, from Baldonnel Airport, near Dublin. Strong headwinds slowed down their progress. Through­out the night, the aircraft was adrift in fog. Even after the day broke, the fog held on. The plane drifted too far north. Then came a blizzard. For four hours, the plane was tossed around. When it abated, the engine developed a leak. Koehl checked. The fuel gauge hovered around the empty mark. New York, their original target, was far away. So the pilot opted to land at Greenly Island, a barren stretch between Labrador and New Foundland. The three men had flown the Atlantic, from East to West. They had put yet another challenge down under.

Then came the daring dame, Amelia Earhart. She proved that women could match the men in grit and tenacity.

"There’s a call for you", the telephone operator, at Denison House, Boston, informed Amelia Earhart, a social worker.

"I’m too busy to attend to the call just now. Ask who­ever is calling to try again", she told the operator.

"But", said the operator, "he says it’s urgent."

Reluctantly, she picked up the receiver. Over the phone crackled a male voice, "Hello, you don’t know me. My name is Railey… Captain H. H. Railey. Could you come to my of­fice for an interview?"

"Not till I know what it’s all about", Amelia shot back.

"I’m thinking of a flight across the Atlantic. Would you be interested?" the man enquired.

Amelia’s heart instantly gained a faster beat. This sounded too good to be true. Amelia had done some flying. She believed that the true skill of a pilot lay in how one handled the airplane. She showed her control, at air shows, while performing breathtaking stunts.

Despite all these she had never thought of flying across the Atlantic.

"I’ll come", she told Railey.

The two met. Railey was taken in by her confidence and bearing. She reminded him of Charles Lindbergh. He rolled the name, in his mind, "Lady Lindy". That name stuck.

He told her of two experienced pilots, Wilmer Stulz and Louis Gordon, who would be flying a Fokker tri-motor

called The Friendship. Would she like to go along with them? "It’s a chance of a life time. You’d be the first woman to fly the Atlantic", Railey pointed out. Amelia agreed.

On 27 June 1928, The Friend­ship set out on the historic flight from Trepassey Bay, New Foundland. The plane ran in and out of fog and clouds, storms and cold icy winds. The radio didn’t function properly. One of the en­gines caused problems. The pilots got a scare when the fuel gauge indicated that the plane would remain airborne only for a couple of hours more. But luck favoured them. They touched down at Burry Port, in South Wales, England. They had covered 3420 km in 24 hours

40 minutes.

Amelia became, overnight, a celebrity (Fig. 7.1). How­ever, much she tried to share the credit with Stultz and Gordon, she received more accolades than the other two. President Coolidge sent her a message, "to you the first

WOMAN SUCCESSFULLY TO SPAN THE NORTH ATLANTIC BY AIR THE GREAT ADMIRATION OF MYSELF AND THE UNITED STATES".

Amelia asked herself, "What have I done to deserve all this?" The Editor of Flight, the leading British aviation magazine, expressed the same thought, "Well, the first lady passenger has crossed the Atlantic, by air, although what special merit there is in that is not altogether easy to set— The crossing of the Atlantic as a passenger doesn’t seem to us to prove anything in particular".

Amelia resolved, then, to prove herself. That chance came four years later.

One day, in 1932, Amelia and her husband George Putnam were having breakfast. She lifted her head, smiled
and asked George, "Would you mind if I flew the Atlantic solo?"

He smiled. "If you want it, dear", he replied. He felt elated at the spirit of adventure of his wife.

"I’m awfully proud of you. You could have tried to dissuade me. You trusted my judgement. You know I won’t attempt anything that I didn’t think I could do", she stretched out her hand tenderly. He pressed it warmly. That was the seal of approval.

Amelia consulted Bernt Balchen, a close friend, who was good at readying an aircraft for such a flight. Balchen reshaped the wings and the cabin to take in more fuel tanks so that the plane could take 1400 litres of fuel and fly a dis­tance of 5100 km without refuelling. The plane was equipped with a drift indicator, and a set of compasses.

Amelia practised flying solely by instruments. She spent hours with a friend learning how best to draw fuel from various tanks so that the weight would remain bal­anced all through.

On 20 May 1932 (the date is significant. On this date, in 1927, Charles Lindbergh had started on his historic crossing of the Atlantic), she set out from Harbour Grace, New Foundland. The first test of her ability came within an hour. The altimeter failed. That was a major blow. She would never know the height at which she was cruis­ing. Without that knowledge, it was difficult to fly by the instruments.

Within 4 hours came another problem. The exhaust pipe began to rattle. The vibrations made the flight eerie. Amelia peeped back and saw flames around the exhaust. Doubts began to creep in her mind. Should she turn back? She killed that thought, instantly. The plane flew into heavy clouds. To avoid them, Amelia ascended, only to find herself in the grip of icy winds. The plane slowed down, as ice gathered on the wings. Without warning, the plane began to spin.

During the spin, the plane lost about 940 m of height. Amelia recollected later, "How long we spun, I do not know. I do know that I did my best to do exactly what one should do with a spinning plane and regained flying control as the warmth of the lower altitude melted the ice. As we righted and held level again, through the blackness below I could see the whitecaps, too close for comfort".

From the icy region, the plane slipped into the clutches of clouds. Lower down lay fog. Each one was an enemy to the plane’s progress. Yet Amelia held on, all through the night.

Dawn came. With it came new problems. She turned on the reserve fuel tank. Then she noticed the leakage in the fuel gauge. Drops of fuel dripped into the cockpit. That was truly scary. The fire raging around the exhaust could ignite the dripping fuel. The plane could go up in flames. The vi­bration too was severe.

Amelia decided to end her flight as soon as she sighted land. Soon the plane flew over a railway track. After a few passes, she landed in a long sloping meadow. She climbed out of the plane. A farm worker ran to her. She asked him, "Where am I?" He replied, "In Gallegher’s pasture". (This was in Londonderry, Ireland. Paris, her original destination lay far away. However that didn’t matter. Amelia had crossed the Atlantic solo.)

"Have you come from afar?" he asked.

"From America", she replied.

She received a tickertape welcome, wherever she went. In London, she became the toast of the town. Paris spread the red carpet for her. In Belgium, the King and the Queen decorated Amelia with the Chevalier of the Order of Leopold. America honoured her with the Distinguished Fly­ing Cross.

No longer could anyone twit her as a ‘passenger’. She had truly lived up to the name, ‘Lady Lindy’. She was the first woman (and the second person) to fly solo over the Atlantic.

"I admire your courage", an admirer told her.

"How can Life grant us the boon of living… unless we dare the soul’s dominion? Each time we make a choice, we pay with courage to behold the restless day, and count it fair", she noted.

Amelia could not sit on her laurels. There were new fields to be explored. Five years after her historic flight across the Atlantic, she decided to fly round the world, to take the longest possible route East to West. "Roughly it is from San Francisco to Honolulu; from Honolulu to Tokyo; (or Hono­lulu to Brisbane); the regular Australia-England route as far west as Karachi; from Karachi to Aden; Aden via Khartoum across Central Africa to Dakar; Dakar to Natal; and thence to New York on the regular Pan American route", she wrote to President Roosevelt.

A Lockheed Electra, a ten-seater aircraft, was chosen for the mission. The seats were removed. About half the cabin was filled with additional fuel tanks. It was equipped with modern gadgets to aid flight and communication. These included a periodic compass, a bubble sextant, a Pioneer Drift indicator, three chronometers, altimeter, air speed in­dicator, temperature gauge and a Benedix Direction finder as also flares, smoke bombs and special maps prepared to help the flight over regions, so far not clearly charted.

President Roosevelt directed the US Navy to ‘do what we can’. The Navy instructed the coast guard cutter S. S. Itasca, stationed at Howland, to maintain radio communi­cation with the aircraft when it headed toward the narrow strip of land.

Amelia was fully conscious of the risks. She wrote to her husband, George Putnam, "I know that if I fail or if I am lost, you will be blamed for allowing me to leave on this trip; the backers of the trip would be blamed and everyone connected with it. But it’s my responsibility and mine alone".

On 1 June 1937, she set out from Miami, on the Electra. Fred J. Noonan was her navigator. The flight progressed, as per schedule. They reached Lae airport at Papua New Guinea, covering 35,000 km. There were two more laps, from Lae to Howland and Howland to Hawaii, a distance of 11,000 km to go.

On 2 July the plane took off from Lae Airport of Papua New Guinea for Howland Island, 4,200 km away. The time was 10 a. m. local time (12.30 p. m., 1 July, Howland time). The plane was expected to reach Howland Island in about 18 hours.

Howland is a narrow strip of land, about 32 km long and 1.2 km wide. Its greatest height above sea level is 4.5 m. It remains a speck in the ocean. The Naval ship S. S. Itasca waited at Howland. It remained in constant radio commu­nication with the aircraft.

At 7.40 a. m. (Howland time) the aircraft contacted the ship. "Gas running low. We are flying at an altitude of 1,000 feet (300 m)". At 8.45 a. m. came the last message. "We are in line of position 157-337. We are listening on 3210 kilocy­cles".

That was the last message from the plane. Then it van­ished into thin air.

What happened? Had the plane overshot the mark and crashed? If so, why was the wreckage of the plane not found around Howland, where a combing operation was organ­ised? Or was there something more to it? Nobody knows. All that remains are the memories of the triumphs of Lady Lindy, the first lady of aviation.

Adventure was what Lt. Commander Richard E. Byrd of the American Navy sought. Young and spirited, he loved to pit his strength against angry seas and howling winds. When he had had his fill of these, he turned to the polar region.

The year was 1925. Spring was in the air. Byrd was busy at his office. Spread before him were a few wireless messages. He was studying them when a very senior naval officer knocked at the swinging door and walked in. Byrd stood up, saluted him and politely held his hand toward a vacant chair.

"Have you heard of Donald B. Macmillan’s scheduled expedition to the Poles? The main task of the expedition is to locate unknown islands in the icy region, around the North Pole", the senior explained, while taking the seat.

"It would be fun to be part of that expedition. I envy the members of the team", Byrd sighed.

"You must then envy yourself", the senior laughed.

"In what way, Sir?" Byrd’s voice quivered with excite­ment.

"Accept my congratulations, Rich. The Naval High Command has nominated you to head the aviation activi­ties of the expedition. I shall relieve you of your present duties, this weekend. You’ll get in touch with Donald, pre­pare the plan for aerial survey of the remote region," the senior stood up, shook hands with Byrd and strode off.

The expedition sailed off from Wiscasset, Maine, US,

heading north, on 20 June 1925. It was Byrd’s first visit to the polar region. Wherever he turned he saw snow. The entire area wore a cloak of pure white. The air was clean and refreshingly cold.

Byrd fell in love with the terrain. He flew into the icy wilderness, conducted surveys and returned with excellent inputs.

During the trip, he heard of Roald Amundsen, a pio­neer of expeditions to the icy continents. In 1911, Amundsen had reached the South Pole, after trekking the vast expanse of snow. In 1925, he undertook a flight to the North Pole. With him went Lincoln Ellsworth. The two flew up to 160 km off North Pole in an aircraft. They were heading toward the target. Then came trouble. The winds became vicious. Mist and sleet caused low visibility. The engine of the air­craft coughed, shuddered and then conked off. So Amundsen and Ellsworth were forced to give up the mis­sion.

Their failure roused Byrd’s interest. He decided he would try.

On return home, after the end of the Expedition, Byrd contacted Easel Ford, son of Henry Ford, and John D. Rockefeller Jr. He shared with them his grand plan. He had the skill and the confidence. All that he needed were funds. If Ford and Rockefeller backed his program, he would earn laurels for his country.

Was it not a hair-brained idea? Why should they pour money into a seemingly impossible task? They raised a mil­lion questions. He had an answer for each one of them. His enthusiasm won them to the cause. Byrd received the nod. Ford and Rockefeller promised to finance his expedition.

Then began the search for a suitable aircraft. Byrd in­spected a number of models, available in the market. Fi­nally, he set his eyes on a Fokker transport aircraft. He made necessary changes in the structure. Chief among them was

the fixing of skis to serve as landing gear. Byrd named the aircraft Josephine Ford, in honour of Ford’s daughter. He engaged the services of Floyd Bennett, a veteran pilot. The two reached Kings Bay, Spitsbergen, on 29 April 1926.

Amundsen was also there. He was planning a flight over North Pole by a dirigible, called Norge. (A dirigible is a balloon powered by a motor (Fig. 8.1.) It was specially equipped for the polar flight. The members of the team were Ellsworth and Umberto Nobile. Nobile was an expert bal­loonist.

Which team would fly over North Pole first? It was anybody’s guess.

It was 9 May 1926. Byrd turned the drum containing the lubricant over a raging fire, so as to thin it. Bennett was busy chipping and pounding the snow so as to provide a level ground for take off. At last they were ready. They got into the cockpit. Bennett pulled the throttle. Byrd asked, in a hushed tone, "Remember, on three previous attempts, the aircraft had skid into snow banks. The skis got splintered. Now the aircraft has crude skis, made out of boat’s oars. Will they hold?" "You bet", Bennett concentrated on the task of getting the aircraft airborne.

The aircraft rolled over the patch of level snow. It ran, swaying from side to side. Bennett fought the drag. Then he felt the upward swing of the plane, reached out for Byrd and clutched Byrd’s palm. "We didn’t skid. We’re now fly­ing," Bennett could not contain his joy.

The Josephine Ford headed north. All went well till the aircraft was about 160 km short of the target. Bennett was at the controls and Byrd at the log. Then they heard a hissing sound. Bennett examined the engine and spotted an oil leak in the engine.

"That can prove dangerous", said Bennett.

"I know. But we have come close enough to our goal. We can’t go back, now. This is our only chance to create the record and to steal the honours", Byrd argued.

"Let us do or die", Bennett said, in a grim tone, mak­ing yet another check of the leaking engine.

Byrd sat, stern and silent, checking the position of the aircraft from time to time, with the help of the compass. Then he shouted, "We’ve done it, we’re flying over North Pole. Circle the spot once and then we’ll start our return trip".

"Congratulations", Bennett let a smile light up his face.

The aircraft limped back to Kings Bay, after a flight of 15 hours 30 minutes, covering a distance of about 2,470 km. They were the first men to overfly the North Pole.

Among those who greeted Byrd and Bennett were Amundsen and his two colleagues. Amundsen warmly hugged Byrd, held him close and mumbled, "You have beaten us. But my men and I are full of admiration for you".

Byrd plunged into more exciting travels.

On 29 June 1927, he set out, along with three compan­ions, on a flight across the Atlantic. The Fokker monoplane, named The America, took off from New York. Byrd planned to fly to Paris, emulating the feat of Charles Lindbergh. But dense fog hung over Paris. The aircraft could not land. The pilot set the aircraft toward the Channel coast. The fuel gauge hovered around the empty mark. Left with no choice, the pilot decided to land. It came down in the surf near the village of Ver-sue-Mer.

Within months of this triumph, Byrd began to feel restless again. He wanted yet another challenge. He thought of flying over the South Pole. If he succeeded, he would become the first man to have flown over both the Poles. He organised an expedition to the Antarctica. It was broad- based. Some members of the party would survey the land. Byrd would undertake a flight over South Pole.

The base camp was established at the Bay of Whales on top of the Ross Ice Shelf. Byrd named the camp Little America.

He chose a Ford Tri-motor aircraft with an all-metal body. It had been tested and found to be hardy and tough. Byrd named it Floyd Bennett, after the pilot who had flown the Josephine Ford in 1926. (Bennett had since died.) How­ever it got a nickname Tin Goose.

The aircraft set out on the historic flight on 29 Novem­ber 1929. Bernt Balchen piloted the flight. Harold June came in as the radioman, to maintain the communication line. Ashley McKinley handled the aerial camera. Byrd kept logs and monitored the aircraft’s position.

The aircraft climbed sluggishly, because of the heavy load of fuel on board. The engine made loud notes. So the men could not talk to each other. They tied a long wire. Messages were written on paper, tied to the wire that was pulled forward or backward when messages were to be ex­changed.

The aircraft approached the Queen Maud range of mountains. The peaks stood out. Some of them were about 4,200 m high. The pilot tried to gain altitude to clear the peaks. But the aircraft did not respond to the command. Balchen turned to the team members, made them under­stand the need for quick action. Byrd raised his head from behind the log book. He stared, with shock, at the peaks of the mountains, which stood in the way. He rolled a barrel of fuel out. McKinley helped in dumping yet another bar­rel. In all 500 gallons of fuel dropped out of the aircraft. It

was then the turn of food cartons to go overboard.

Smiles lit up their faces when the aircraft rose and cleared the peaks. Around noon, Byrd made some calcula­tions, checked the readings of the compass, wrote, "We’re over South Pole", and sent the message, over the wire, to others.

Balchen circled the area, once, got hold of an American flag, bound it to a stone, picked up from the grave of Floyd Bennett, and sent the flag floating down to the South Pole.

Harold June wired to base camp about the success of the mission. Soon the whole world heard about this great feat.

The US Navy promoted Byrd to the rank of Rear Ad­miral. The US Congress honoured him. Asked to comment about his success, Byrd shot back, "One gets there and that is all there is for telling. It is the effort to get there that counts".

An effort, equally thrilling, was carried off successfully by a British team on 4 April 1933. The team flew over Mount Everest (8,648 m). Two Westland planes took off from Lalbagh Airfield in Eastern India. The planes had open cock­pits. The men protected themselves with goggles and hel­mets and leather jackets, gloves and boots, carried para­chutes and heated oxygen cylinders. Pipes ran from the cyl­inders to the masks so that the men on board could breathe normally. A dust haze hung over the airport. The two air­craft lifted off at 8.15 a. m. Soon they rose to a height of 5,790 m. The settings here were cool and clear. The aircraft headed toward Mount Everest, about 80 km away. The men got a grand view of the snow-clad peaks, glistening in the sun.

Trouble struck as the planes zoomed higher. Clydesdale, the pilot of the lead plane, struggled for breath. The pipe carrying oxygen got tangled. His vision became blurred. Severe cramps gripped his feet. Clydesdale clutched, frantically, at the emergency oxygen tube. Col Blacker, the leader of the Expedition, stepped in to help. He held the tube while the pilot inhaled deeply. Clydesdale now felt better. Colour returned to his cheeks. Blacker resumed his photo mission.

Bonnet was the cameraman on board the second plane. While adjusting the camera, he accidentally stepped on the oxygen pipe. It cracked. Bonnet tied a kerchief round the crack and continued to click shots of Everest, which now lay very close. But he fainted. McIntyre, the pilot, quickly grabbed the camera, took a few shots, while getting closer to Mount Everest.

The planes flew through the snow plume blowing over Mount Everest at about 10 a. m. Five minutes later, the planes cleared Mount Everest. McIntyre brought the aircraft down to lower heights, immediately, to help Bennett regain his breath.

These flights were historic. For they were flights over the world’s most perilous regions. They were flights over ice caps.

The First World War ended, but not man’s interest in avia­tion. Britain, France and the United States continued invest­ment in the field. Aircraft held the key to faster mode of travel and transport. The prime need was to improve on speed and design, comfort and safety. Industrial houses re­alised the commercial possibility. They provided financial backing to engineers and designers and researchers. The experts came up with ideas and projects aimed at further development of new aircraft. All of them displayed abiding interest in taking aviation to great heights.

Civil aviation began with cargo transport and mail. Then it got on to transporting people. The designs of air­craft changed rapidly. Aircraft gained smart new look. They were sleek, better shaped to fly faster and smoother. Intro­duction of coolant instead of water and in-line cylinders led to leaner snouts. This meant considerable reduction in the drag.

In the United States, three companies, Douglas, Lockheed and Boeing, came up with new designs. Boeing 247 (Fig. 9.1) had Tow wings, twin engines’ and was shaped elegantly to reduce air resistance. It took off on its maiden flight, with ten passengers on board, on 8 February 1933. It flew at a speed of 240 kmph. On 17 December 1935, the DC 3, produced by Douglas (known to us as the Dakota) carried 21 passengers and cruised at a speed of 290 kmph.

Britain and France too developed commercial aircraft.

The designs underwent sea change. New material, new de­signs and new fuels were tested. Those that stood the test were incorporated into the next lot of aircraft. Wooden spars and fabric covering and wire bracing gave way to thin metal sheeting, stretched over frames suitably shaped to reduce air resistance. The quest for greater speed led to the clean, more streamlined monoplane. These planes proved their superiority, winning the Schneider Trophy Races (these were open to all nations), in 1927, 1929 and 1931.

The search for greater speed and efficiency continued. The piston engine limited the speed of rotation of the pro­pellers. A new form of propulsion had to be found. It took the seekers time to remember a basic law, defined by Sir Isaac Newton. He had asserted that action and reaction are equal and opposite.

This is demonstrated easily. Blow into a balloon till its swells up. Hold the air in by pressing the mouth with the fingers. Take the fingers off, quickly. The balloon flies back­ward, taking a zigzag path.

Frederich Stamer and Fritz von Opel (both of Germany) and Frank Whittle of England saw the cue that Newton’s law held, almost at the same time. They developed the turbo­jet engine. Air entered the engine through the air intake. It

was compressed, before fuel was injected and burnt to pro­duce hot gases. These gases worked the compressor and then rushed out, providing the thrust for the aircraft.

Experiments with the internal combustion gas turbine showed that the speed of rotation to the blades of the tur­bine increased manifold. However, the design churned up a new problem. The high speed of rotation resulted in very fast overheating. The available metal frames could not stand this heat. That problem demanded more study. Nobody showed the will or the confidence to undertake this study. The potential of the turbine engine was not readily accepted. So further work on this idea did not gain priority. Not till the Second World War broke out in 1939!

At the end of the First World War, in 1919, a Peace Treaty was signed. The defeated nations were barred from work­ing on military aircraft. So said the Treaty. No treaty remains valid forever. Not the Treaty of 1919 either. It ended with the rise of Nazism in Germany. Hitler came to power, pre­senting a new agenda. He wanted to make Germany a Su­per Power. For that he needed a modern defence force.

In 1934, he started rebuilding the nation’s military ca­pability. The Air Force, the Luftwaffe, was modernised. New aircraft with advance techniques like the Dornier and the

Condor were developed. In 1935, Hitler told the world that he had built up modern aircraft with immense speed and range. He proved his point in 1938. The Condor, with 26 passengers on board, made a record breaking round trip to New York and back.

Germany modernised its Air Force. It produced JU 52, suitable for bombing missions. Then came the BF 109, Ger­many’s fighter aircraft. It was the best among piston-engine fighter planes. Britain came up with the Hawker, the Hurri­canes and the Spitfire to counter the danger (Figs. 9.2 to 9.4). The US developed the Hawk 75 and then the P-36 and P-40 fighters.

Both sides watched, with bated breath, the gathering war clouds.

In 1938, Hitler quietly added Austria to his Empire. Czechoslovakia was his next target. Both Britain and France protested. Hitler decided to go slow and lulled the fears of Britain and France with false assurances. The Munich Pact was signed. It assured the sovereignty of Czechoslovakia. But this proved to be a brief reprieve. It only deferred the take over of Czechoslovakia by a few months.

Finally, on 1 September 1939, the Germans started a Blitzkrieg (Lightning War) on Poland. The German air power proved deadly. Within three weeks, Poland surrendered. Hitler’s forces targeted Belgium, Holland, Norway, Denmark and then France.

Britain was next in the line of fire. However, the nation was not totally unprepared. It replaced Chamberlain with Winston Churchill. He was the man to lead the nation in the crisis. He surveyed the Air strength, released funds to produce modern fighter aircraft and bombers and invited companies with the skill and expertise to help the war efforts.

Initial advantage in air battles lay with Germany. The Royal Air Force suffered heavy loss of men and aircraft in daylight attacks on enemy warships or on military estab­lishments. Germans shot down the outdated aircraft before they could complete their missions.

Britain felt the heat in the autumn of 1940. German fighters and dive-bombers swarmed in hordes, targeted even the civil population. Thousands died or received severe burns and wounds. Churchill breathed strength into the nation, declared that thd nation would defend itself to the very last.

This was no rhetoric. The people backed their leader to the hilt. Manufacture of fighters and bombers became para­mount. Thousands of young men enlisted in the Air Force.

Many women worked at the assembly lines. Their efforts thwarted Germany’s hope of an early victory. But the War was far from over.

The entry of aircraft carriers marked the next stage of aerial war. (Aircraft carriers are ships with huge runways on the deck. They also have room to house fighters and bombers. The ships sail close to the terrain or target on land chosen for attack, put in anchor at a safe distance from the shore. The aircraft take off from the deck, carry out the as­signed task and return to the carrier. The aircraft fly mini­mal distance. So they escape early detection by the enemy. Selection of targets for attack becomes easier. That increases the margin of safety and also the success rate of the air strike (Fig. 9.5).) The Allies inducted aircraft carriers in a big way. German submarines swung in to check them before they got into position to launch attacks. The British Navy succeeded, on most occasions, to detect and destroy the U-boats. In this battle on the seas, the hunter often became the hunted.

The tide changed when Japan sent its bombers to destroy US ships at Pearl Harbour, on 7 December 1941. That drew the US into the War. US Air Force planes hit the enemy in the West and the East by unleashing its air power. Factories in the US worked, round the clock, to turn out aircraft with marked superiority. The P-51 Mustang fighters were more dexterous and manoeuvrable, while engaged in air battles. B-17 bombers could fly, at high speed, into en­emy territory and drop around 2750 kg of incendiaries and explosives. B-29 and the Grumman F6F Hellcat too were inducted into the war. They were sleek and fast. They man­aged to duck and dodge the enemy interceptors and com­plete their missions.

Germany reeled under the concerted assault. However, Hitler’s hopes revived with the development of the success­ful testing of the world’s first operational jet aircraft, the Meserschmitt (Me-262). That was the last flicker of Germa­ny’s fortune. The Allies pressed forward. They closed in on Berlin. Germany surrendered. Hitler chose to take his own life.

The Air Force had played a major role in the final victory. Churchill complimented the men: "Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few".

After the end of the War, old warplanes were retrieved for civil use. But interest in the development of military aircraft did not weaken. The emergence of the Soviet Union as a Super Power made it imperative for the Americans to be in the race. This confrontation, known as the Cold War, continued till the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Many German scientists and engineers moved to the United States and to the Soviet Union. Their services took aviation to great heights.

Armament industry received a big boost. It became the key to economic development too. MIG-15 of the Soviet

Union and F-86 Sabre of the United States saw action in the Korean War.

In the meanwhile, the turbo jet engine proved its worth. This boosted civilian flights. In June 1947, Panam started world service with L-749 Constellation, produced by Lockheed (Fig. 9.6). Boeings too commenced civilian flights. In 1952, Britain introduced the jetliner, The Comet. Boeing 707 appeared on the scene soon after. In the 1960s, aided by computer, Boeings designed improved versions, B-727 and B-747.

Civilians with enough funds demanded small aircraft that they could own. This led to the development of small aircraft like the Cessna and the Piper.

No aircraft flew faster than the speed of sound (this is defined as Mach). Could any aircraft attain a speed more than 1 Mach? Jet powered aircraft seemed capable of break­ing the speed limit. Several attempts were made, by intrepid flyers. But they failed. Finally on 14 October 1947, a B-29 soared into air space over the Majove Desert in Nevada. On board was an orange Bell X-l, a small rocket-powered air­craft, powered by methyl alcohol and liquid oxygen. It had stubby wings and could withstand 18 times the force of
gravity. The aircraft soared to a height of 11,000 m. Then the Bell X-l was air dropped. At the controls was Captain Charles ‘Chuck’ Yeager (Fig. 9.7). The aircraft flew faster than the speed of sound. Chuck Yeager had created a record. Now the Concorde flies at speed of more than 2 Mach.

Every time a barrier is broken, a new challenge comes into focus. This time, the challenge revolved around the question, "Can anyone fly an aircraft non-stop around the world?"