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Aviation History
1918
1918 - 0295.PDF
MARCH 14, 1918. THREE MEN IN A FLYING BOAT. * By DOUGLAS W. THORBURN. I HOPE Jerome K. Jerome will not mind my adaptationof his famous title. I should like to have added by way of a sub-title, as he did : " To Say Nothing of the Dog," butthere was no dog in this episode, so I'll simply say nothing about it. Jerome's story concerned a picnic, but this affairwas no picnic. It began with a visit on business to a certain well-known seaplane factory somewhere on the coast. Ifound myself sitting next to a Lieutenant, R.N.V.R., in the train, and when a ticket-inspector looked in early in thejourney to see if our tickets were of the correct vintage, it transpired that we were bound for the same station. Isummed him up at once. He had the small leather suit- case and the air of settled melancholy which characterisedall Admiralty Acceptance Officers, and I guessed instinctively that another of Messrs. Saxon Jackson's Famous All-WeatherFlying Boats (They Float on Water—Try One in Your Bath) was ready for testing. And so it was, more or less. We chatted on the way down, and I remember our chieftopic of conversation was Food. Not cards or coupons, but real food—the stuff we eat, or used to. We had both lefthome early without anything very substantial in the way of breakfast, and all we were really interested in was the pros-pect of a good lunch as soon as we reached our destination. We talked about aviation and other matters, but always cameback to that lunch. On arriving at the station we were delighted to see a distinguished Test Pilot awaiting us in hisalmost equally distinguished car. It looked as though in a very few minutes we should be comfortably seated in ahotel demanding our rations for the week, but he had other views. The tide, he told us, was at its best, and as adver-tised, would wait for no man. Unless the Flying Boat was tested at once—before lunch—the day would be wasted,and to-morrow it might rain. Personally, I did not care very much if it snowed, but in vain did I point to the loose-ness of my waistcoat, and the pale face of my R.N.V.R. companion. Before we had time to realise what washappening we were being whirled around the hundreds of corners which embellished the few miles of alleged road be-tween the station and the seaplane factory. Of course, when we got there the Flying Boat was not ready.I understand they never are. They resemble revues, which someone said are not produced—only postponed. I haveoften seen Test Pilots at work (I have also seen them at play, but that is quite another story), and have always noticed thatthey are never surprised at anything. If the weather breaks up, or the machine breaks down, or the AcceptanceOfficer breaks out into profanity, the civilian Test Pilot of to-day never shows any astonishment. I believe that evenif one of them arrived at an aerodrome and found the machine quite ready for testing, with its tanks actually filled, hewould not be surprised—outwardly at any rate. On this occasion, however, the delay was very brief, and we just hadtime to dash into the canteen and hastily devour a little beef and beans while the finishing touches were being given.I do not wish to imply for one moment that we were in- hospitably received, because the noon-day meal at this can-teen was really over, and besides, they were not expecting visitors to lunch ; but it was nobody's fault that the mealwas not a great success. We found practically the whole staff of the Saxon JacksonFlight Company (this, I may say, is an entirely fictitious name) assembled on the sea-shore around the new Flying Boat.All the girls who had polished the copper rivets, or done the dress-making jobs on the fabric, or cleaned the cabin windowsor painted the targets on the sides for the Huns to aim at; all the men who had built the hull, or attached the tail, orarranged the motors side by side, or poured in the petrol and Castrol—even the men who had stood by and watched theothers doing the work, were there. It was a notable gathering, obviously glowing with pride at the launching of the latestof its U-boat Busters. The motors were already roaring, sometimes the one andsometimes the other. At last came the triumphal moment when both were persuaded to roar at once, and this encouragedthe Test Pilot to array himself in leather and Triplex. The Acceptance Officer, who had been walking around the machineentering number-plate figures and general remarks in a note- book, also prepared for the flight. At this moment thePilot discovered he had no passenger to occupy the third seat, and asked for one, looking at me. It was a beautiful sunnyday and the sky was blue, and I did not hesitate. I forgot to look at the sea until later on. I climbed on board, borrowed a cushion after seeing thesort of seat I was expected to sit on, and we started the descent of the slip-way. It was a very slow and stately descenttowards the water's edge, inch by inch—I had nearly said winch by winch—and no Gadarene swine business about it.At last the waves were lapping around the hull. We were cast adrift, and the Pilot put his foot on the accelerator ordid something of that kind. It was about this time I first noticed the sea, and realised. ,how much there was of it, and what it was doing. The Flying Boat leapt forward, and I stood up to look out.of the cabin roof to see what happened. The first thing that happened was the arrival of a large wave, which broke rightover us and drenched me. I promptly sat down, and the next wave hit us from beneath and made me stand up again.I decided it would be better to remain on my feet, holding tight for the next bump. It was not long in coming, and theAcceptance Officer went up and then came down with such determination that he crashed right through the wooden seaton which he had been sitting. I hope he gets the wound stripe he said he was going to apply for, and wonder if he will wearit on his arm. When once we had left the water and the shock of partingwas over it became most enjoyable. We cruised up and down the coast at a moderate height in real comfort. As we passedover the nearest town our Pilot left the machine to fly itself —which it did very successfully—while he devoted his energiesto waving a handkerchief (my handkerchief) at what appeared to be a man cleaning a bedroom window in a large buildingnear the front. The only thing wrong about the machine was the speed indicator, which registered 90 knots when wewere climbing, and 40 knots when we put our nose down, so after half an hour or so we decided that such figures werehardly to be relied upon and it was advisable to return. The " landing " on the water was excellently done, and notnearly so strenuous as the getting-off had been, but alas I" —this was not the end of the trip by any means. This, infact, is where the plot began to thicken. I gathered that three ropes would now have to be fixed,one to our nose in order to haul us back on to the slip-way and two on to our tail to steady our progress. This delicatetask was to be undertaken by a motor-launch, with a skipper who might have suitably illustrated any of the stories ofW. W. Jacobs. He was assisted by two other sea-faring gentlemen in shirt-sleeves, and in addition a small dinghymanned by a very athletic and dare-devil crew of two was somewhere in the offing. I don't exactly know what anoffing is, but have an idea it has something to do with a welkin. The Pilot and the Acceptance Officer perched themselvesprecariously on the outside of our little cabin, holding on with one hand and preparing with the other to catch a rope which.was going to be thrown to us by the crew of the motor-launch. I meanwhile stood on the seat vainly endeavouring to holdthe Flying Boat steady. The launch charged down upon u& over the waves, which were running high enough to concealit from view half the time. When it got near it apparently realised it might run us down, so it suddenly altered its course.It passed us at a distance of roughly a hundred yards, and the thirty yards of rope which were thrown in our directionmissed the grasp of the Clutching Hand Brotherhood, as a short mathematical calculation will show, by seventy yards.One or two very personal remarks followed from our Pilot, but fortunately the launch was too far away for the skipperand his accomplices to hear. They described a wide circle around us and then tried again.This time they got within fifty yards, but the rope ration was still inadequate. Our Pilot's vocabulary, however, wasnot. He drew particular attention to the fact that the tide was going out, and the wind was drifting us on to a woodenbreakwater, and we could not start our motors up again, and that if he—the skipper of the launch—allowed hisengine to stop we should all be drowned, and he would go to a very uncomfortable place, and serve him right. He saida lot more which I forget for the moment, and the Acceptance Officer assisted him to say it. These histrionic efforts were punctuated by the crash ofthe waves against our lower planes and the occasional bursting of fabric and the breaking of ribs. It was a cheer-less outlook, and as the launch started once more for a cruise on the horizon before making another attempt to send us aline, I began to wonder if life was worth living. The pitching and tossing were getting horribly monotonous. Our Pilot,who was not looking as well as usual, said he was getting " fed-up," and commenced the composition of a new Hymnof Hate, dedicated to the crews of all motor launches. The 291
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