Everything about the control of an airplane has to be learned mechanically. Once learned the aviator applies his knowledge intuitively. He "senses" the position and progress of the craft by the feel of the controls, as the man at the yacht's tiller tells mysteriously how she is responding to the breeze by "the feel." Even before the 'plane responds to some sudden gust of wind, or drops into a hole in the air, the trained aviator will foresee precisely what is about to happen. He reads it in some little thrill of his lever, a quiver in the frame, as the trained boxer reads in his antagonist's eyes the sort of blow that is coming. This instinctive control of his machine is absolutely essential for the fighting pilot who must keep his eyes on the movements of his enemy, watch out for possible aircraft guns below, and all the time be striving to get an advantageous position whence he can turn his machine gun loose. A row of gauges, dials, a compass, and a map on the frame of the car in which he sits will engage his attention in any moments of leisure. It is needless to remark that the successful pilot must have a quick eye and steady nerves.
Nerve and rapidity of thought save the aviator in many a ticklish position. It is perhaps a tribute to the growing perfection of the airplanes that in certain moments of peril the machine is best left wholly to itself. Its stability is such that if freed from control it will often right itself and glide safely to earth. This not infrequently occurs in the moment of the dreaded perte de vitesse, to which reference has been made. In his book, With the French Flying Corps, Mr. Carroll Dana Winslow, a daring American aviator, tells of two such experiences, the one under his observation, the other happening to himself:
The modern airplane is naturally so stable [he says] that if not interfered with it will always attempt to right itself before the dreaded vrille occurs, and fall en feuille morte. Like a leaf dropping in an autumn breeze is what this means, and no other words explain the meaning better.
A curious instance of this happened one day as I was watching the flights and waiting for my turn. I was particularly interested in a machine that had just risen from the "Grande Piste." It was acting very peculiarly. Suddenly its motor was heard to stop. Instead of diving it commenced to wabble, indicating a perte de vitesse. It slipped off on the wing and then dove. I watched it intently, expecting it to turn into the dreaded spiral. Instead it began to climb. Then it went off on the wing, righted itself, again slipped off on the wing, volplaned, and went off once more. This extraordinary performance was repeated several times, while each time the machine approached nearer and nearer to the ground. I thought that the pilot would surely be killed. Luck was with him, however, for his slip ceased just as he made contact with the ground and he settled in a neighbouring field. It was a very bumpy landing but the airplane was undamaged.
The officers rushed to the spot to find out what was the matter. They found the pilot unconscious, but otherwise unhurt. Later in the hospital he explained that the altitude had affected his heart and that he had fainted. As he felt himself going he remembered his instructions and relinquished the controls, at the same time stopping his motor. His presence of mind and his luck had saved his life--his luck I say, for had the machine not righted itself at the moment of touching the ground it would have been inevitably wrecked.
The spectacle, though terrifying, proved valuable as an education to young Winslow who a few days later was ordered to a test of ascension of two thousand feet. This is his story:
I had a narrow escape. I had received orders to make a flight during a snow-storm. I rose to the prescribed height and then prepared to make my descent. A whirling squall caught me in the act of making a spiral. I felt the tail of my machine go down and the nose point up. I had a classical perte de vitesse. I looked out and saw that I was less than eight hundred feet above the ground and approaching it at an alarming rate of speed. I had already shut off the motor for the spiral, and turning it on, I knew, would not help me in the least. Suddenly I remembered the pilot who fainted. I let go of everything, and with a sickening feeling I looked down at the up-rushing ground. At that instant I felt the machine give a lurch and right itself. I grabbed the controls, turned on the motor, and resumed my line of flight only two hundred feet in the air. All this happened in a few seconds, but my helplessness seemed to have lasted for hours. I had had a very close call--not as close as the man who fainted, but sufficiently so for me.
[Illustration: Distinguishing Marks of American Planes.]
