ROLLS, DIPS AND SPIN

Gisborne Times, Volume LXXXII, Issue 12543, 3 May 1935, Page 7

ROLLS, DIPS AND SPIN

SPORT’S GREATEST THRILL.

STUNT FLIER’S ILLUSTRATIONS. DAYTONA BEACH, Fla., March 23. We were talking about comparative thrills—bob sledding, speed driving such as Sir Malcolm Campbell delights in, motorboats the way Gar Wood drives them—and Ben Stegall, of Sivvannah, Ga., quiet, square-jaw-ed fellow who flies racing airplanes,didn’t seem impressed. “Have you ever done any stunt fiyinjg?” he asked. So we went stunt flying. He ton, ]ds bullet-no.sed 30-horsopowered red and silver biplane, “The Bug,” that was Doug. Davis’s pride and joy, off the ground with a run of 2(X) feet. He climbed to 8000 feet at the rate of 1000 feotaaaninutc. Wo had the two--way/phonos connected , with Ben piloting from the second of the two open; cockpits. SPEEDS OVER, RACING CAR Wo shot above, the beach where Sir Malcolm, races'; where on his runs, Stegall in this same ship catches him coming down the course at anywhere from 250 to 281 miles an hour, flips tho plane down on him with such accuracy and' precision that A 1 Mingalone, who flies with him for Paramount and takes pictures, never has had the racer out of his lenses in the measured mile. Remember, Sir Malcolm is in that mile anywhere from 12.81 seconds to lb seconds. The sun poured down hotly, and far below the ocean was blue velvet, lace-edged where the line of white rollers licked the sands. ‘‘My friends,” came Ben’s voice through the ear phones, “we’re going to do a snap roll. We’re going 18b miles an hour now. I’m going to nose up, cut the speed to 80, and when I kick that rudder until we’re completely over, hold tight,”

SUDDEN LURCH TO RIGHT. We nosed up, the speed died. Suddenly a t-remendoxis lurch to tho right. End over end we went, like an acrobatic winged tumbler doing a cartwheel in tho sky. The world was upside down, the ocean under your head, the sky disappeared. Then out in a terrific, spine-tingling dive and you flop back weakly. “Great,” I grasped into tho mouthpiece. I never should have said that. “Fine,” said Ben. “Now a roll and a half. It’s something like the last one only move so. Watch when I snap it all the way over. I give it the gun, we go onto our backs, and come out heading the other way.” We did. Arid the hair on your head tries to lift the helmet off. Your face contorts into a frozen grimace, a- roller coaster dip magnified a million times. You’re hack. Over again, sti'aightened out, and the cold perspiration is starting to oozo down your face, and you think your stomach isn’t going back properly into place. POINT STRAIGHT AT SUN. “Glad you like it,” comes Ben’s voice through the, ear phones. “Next is a vertical reverse. I’ll dive -until we’ro doing 100 and pull her up until she’s pointing straight- at the sun. When she’s killed off to GO ]’ll kick her over to the loib reverse, come down. Ready!” “We dived, the ocean in your-face now, wind trying to tear your head away, then up with a sudden change of direction that almost drives you through the floor of the ship. Straight up at the sun—and it’s high -noon. Then, whango, to the left over on your face, down, and now you feel as if parts of yon had become a iree balloon. “Kick in that, oh?” says Bon. “Now for an Immelman.” We zoom straight up, stall, kick over. Everything is a hlurr. “Having fun?” asks Ben. “Here comes the big one. This is a blackout. We’re going way up, tight spiral all the way down, son won’t lose consciousness, but everything will go black. Here we go.” EVERYTHING GOES BLACK. There we went; from 8000 feet he started down, and it seemed like he anchored the tip of tho right wing on the ocean far below, so tightly did lie spin around it. A thousand feet down, 2000 and the centrifugal force is crushing you like an orange in a squeezer. Your shoulders narrow, your body seems to shorten. Breathing is a terrific task. Your temples thump. Suddenly everything goes black. You can think but can’t sec. Ben is going through the same thing. That’s where he pulis her out of the spiral, 5000 feet down from where we started. He brings her out with graceful turn. He adds a couple of tailspins for a final flourish, then sweeps down the beach at 220 miles an hour, deposits you, trembling, weak, soaked in perspiration. “How’d you. pull that thing out of that ‘blackout’?” you gasp. “Just instinct,” says bo casually.