a certificate yet?’
‘ No.’ He could not lie about that.
‘ Well, if you have some experience, it’s okay. She handles like a willing lady.’
Dick ’s career in aviation had started with his hanging around flying fields in the United States. For some time he had worked for, and with, Glen Curtiss, but eventually came to France. Now he was one of Farman’s established pilots.
They arranged to meet on the following morning, and James could not wait to get back and give the news to Martin Savory.
The next day was like its predecessor – clear and bright, with a pinch of frost in the air.
They worked all morning, checking the rigging and tuning the engine. Dick Farthing had brought a hamper out from the Queen ’s Hotel, and said he would do a circuit after lunch.
‘ Just to keep her in trim. Then I’ll run through the procedures with you, if you’d like to fly her.’
There was really only one way to learn: get a thorough grounding by reading, listening and watching; then get up there and do it. James, with the supreme confidence of youth, knew that he was ready.
They ran the engine up, and the aeroplane trundled out onto the grass, with Dick at the controls. Fifteen minutes later it was back, nose turned in James’ direction. Once the engine was switched off, and the propeller stopped, he jumped down. ‘Okay, you want to take her around?’
Dick lent him his flying gear and James climbed into the hard little seat in front of the engine. Dick went through the controls: the levers for elevators, rudder and ailerons; exactly how much throttle he would need; cautionary advice on not being heavy-handed with the elevator, and a word about judging his speed for landing.
His mouth was dry, and he could feel the sweat starting from his pores, in spite of the cold. The palms of his hands were damp under the leather as he tested the control levers. There was a good forward view, allowing him to judge the angle of the elevator – directly in front of him – stretching out on the jutting triangular framework.
He heard Dick, behind him, calling to ask if he was ready; and they went through the familiar starting-up ritual.
James had not bargained for the vibration, or noise. You were aware of it from the ground, but once at the controls everything took on new perspective. The Farman was translated from an inanimate object to a machine that had life and purpose.
He concentrated, feeling a sense of achievement at steering the aeroplane across the field, finally turning into the wind, holding back on the elevator lever to keep the boxed tail and rudders down on the ground.
He gave the throttle a touch, lowering the revolutions; but the rudder box wanted to rise – the rudders themselves needing hard handling to swing the front of the craft into position. Finally it came around, giving James a view of grass spread out in front of him, with the skyline and trees in the far distance, a couple of miles away.
He looked about him, as other pilots did, to ensure no other aeroplanes were nearby, or overhead. Then, still holding the tail down, he pushed the throttle lever forward, calling up the power needed to launch himself into the air.
The racket behind him grew louder, and more distracting, as the machine began to move forward. At first, the motion was hardly noticeable; then the whole aeroplane tried to slew violently to the left. Correcting quickly with the rudders, he had to push even harder on the elevator to keep the rear down, as the Farman bumped over the grass, gathering speed at a frightening rate.
Everything appeared to blur as the speed rose, wind lashing at his face, trying to penetrate the leather of helmet, and the glass in his goggles. Then the rear stopped swinging and he was moving in a straight line.
Now, he thought, letting the elevator lever loosen slightly. The curved control plane moved fractionally, ahead of him, and he allowed it to find its natural position before tightening his grip,
‘ No.’ He could not lie about that.
‘ Well, if you have some experience, it’s okay. She handles like a willing lady.’
Dick ’s career in aviation had started with his hanging around flying fields in the United States. For some time he had worked for, and with, Glen Curtiss, but eventually came to France. Now he was one of Farman’s established pilots.
They arranged to meet on the following morning, and James could not wait to get back and give the news to Martin Savory.
The next day was like its predecessor – clear and bright, with a pinch of frost in the air.
They worked all morning, checking the rigging and tuning the engine. Dick Farthing had brought a hamper out from the Queen ’s Hotel, and said he would do a circuit after lunch.
‘ Just to keep her in trim. Then I’ll run through the procedures with you, if you’d like to fly her.’
There was really only one way to learn: get a thorough grounding by reading, listening and watching; then get up there and do it. James, with the supreme confidence of youth, knew that he was ready.
They ran the engine up, and the aeroplane trundled out onto the grass, with Dick at the controls. Fifteen minutes later it was back, nose turned in James’ direction. Once the engine was switched off, and the propeller stopped, he jumped down. ‘Okay, you want to take her around?’
Dick lent him his flying gear and James climbed into the hard little seat in front of the engine. Dick went through the controls: the levers for elevators, rudder and ailerons; exactly how much throttle he would need; cautionary advice on not being heavy-handed with the elevator, and a word about judging his speed for landing.
His mouth was dry, and he could feel the sweat starting from his pores, in spite of the cold. The palms of his hands were damp under the leather as he tested the control levers. There was a good forward view, allowing him to judge the angle of the elevator – directly in front of him – stretching out on the jutting triangular framework.
He heard Dick, behind him, calling to ask if he was ready; and they went through the familiar starting-up ritual.
James had not bargained for the vibration, or noise. You were aware of it from the ground, but once at the controls everything took on new perspective. The Farman was translated from an inanimate object to a machine that had life and purpose.
He concentrated, feeling a sense of achievement at steering the aeroplane across the field, finally turning into the wind, holding back on the elevator lever to keep the boxed tail and rudders down on the ground.
He gave the throttle a touch, lowering the revolutions; but the rudder box wanted to rise – the rudders themselves needing hard handling to swing the front of the craft into position. Finally it came around, giving James a view of grass spread out in front of him, with the skyline and trees in the far distance, a couple of miles away.
He looked about him, as other pilots did, to ensure no other aeroplanes were nearby, or overhead. Then, still holding the tail down, he pushed the throttle lever forward, calling up the power needed to launch himself into the air.
The racket behind him grew louder, and more distracting, as the machine began to move forward. At first, the motion was hardly noticeable; then the whole aeroplane tried to slew violently to the left. Correcting quickly with the rudders, he had to push even harder on the elevator to keep the rear down, as the Farman bumped over the grass, gathering speed at a frightening rate.
Everything appeared to blur as the speed rose, wind lashing at his face, trying to penetrate the leather of helmet, and the glass in his goggles. Then the rear stopped swinging and he was moving in a straight line.
Now, he thought, letting the elevator lever loosen slightly. The curved control plane moved fractionally, ahead of him, and he allowed it to find its natural position before tightening his grip,
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