TO PARIS BY AIR

Taranaki Daily News, 14 February 1933, Page 10

TO PARIS BY AIR

THE PILOT’S ROUTINE INCESSANT VIGILANCE NEEDED. THE LOG BOOK CHECK. The great air liner heels over as a wicked gust leaps sideways out of a forty-mile headwind and smacks our port wing up in an arc toward the lowering clouds. With a kind of quiet haste the master gives the wheel a three-quarters turn against the clock and our thirteen tons steady like a tender-mouthed horse as the opposite aileron bites the air. Then, spinning the wheel slowly back, he turns and grins: “We’d better get out of this and try higher up. Mustn’t make my passengers sick.” He ’ pulls back the stick, the dual control before the second pilot on his right automatically following suit. The horizon drops away below the windscreen and we begin climbing up a gentle slope, the needle of the altimeter following our progress so slowly that it seems unwilling to leave the 2000 ft. mark, where the deciding buffet had struck. A little more throttle, a little more stick, and the deciding angle would be exciting, pleasantly or not, according to taste. Instead, the four engines, far behind, placidly hum out their normal 1600 revolutions a minute and the air-speed indicator stays at a very creditable 80, says a writer in the “Manchester Guardian.” THROUGH THE CLOUDS. Now ragged fringes, hanging like wisps of a slattern’s hair from the mass of thick grey cloud, whip past our wings. We rock a little, up and down, from side to side, at the sudden change in density. Still we climb, and the earth below begins to fade, grows dimmer yet, then vanishes altogether as we bury ourselves in the heart of the cloudbank. The master’s eyes never leave the turn-and-bank indicator now, unless it be for a swift glance at the air-speed indicator to check our rate of climb or a hasty look at the compass to check our course. Outside there is nothing but a dull blanket of fog—is this grey mist the magnificent sullen pack that lay above us a few minutes ago? Like many other things, clouds are poor stuff at close quarters. But they vindicate themselves splendidly enough. As we climb through the upper fringes and flatten out. at 6000, there, as far as the eye can reach, is v/hat must surely be snow—crisp, closepacked snow, billow upon billow, gleaming so solid in the thin glow of early winter sunshine that it call for ski. Our climb is justified, if only by the beauty of the scene. Still, the master had other things than scenery in mind. He had a shrewd idea that up here the wind would be steady, and he is right. For we slip along in the teeth of a gale, putting thirty minutes on our time, it is true, but as smoothly as a skater. We shall arrive with robust passengers instead of a cargo of grey-green ghosts. MAZE OF INSTRUMENTS. The second officer, silent and motionless except when he has been busy with the log-book, looks at the master, a question in his eyes. An assenting nod, and the master hands over. He half turns in his wide comfortable bucket seat and we begin to talk. What strikes me most, I tell him, is the mass instruments, dial upon dial, across the whole sweep of the great dashboard. With a light aeroplane there are fewer instruments to watch than upon the dashboard of many a fast car. Some of them, of course, are in quadruplicate, since there are four engines. Here then are the revolution counters, each one kept steadily synchronised with its neighbour; here. are the “booster” recorders (a booster is a kind of automatic supercharger); here are oil pressure indicators; here are petrol gauges. ' The explanation is interrupted as the master takes over while the second officer reaches out for his log again. I look over his shoulder and begin to realise the care which lies behind a studied—and justified—omission of any reference to safety in the air. . The eyes of the pilots, roving like any taxidriver’s, are constantly sweeping over the whole board, and eye, ear, or both are quick to notice anything abnormal. But the logging is a half-hourly routine, primarily as the ultimate safeguard, but also as a complete tale of the trip and a check upon performance. Down in the book it all goes; petrol consumption, engine speed, oil pressure, height, “boost,” and heaven knows what else. Back at Croydon it will be carefully checked and any minor adjustments heeded will be ordered. THE RADIO. The master hands over again. No, the life isn’t very exciting. (The row of war ribbons on his tunic may partly explain that). Fog over the terminal aerodrome makes him think a bit. Even then, there is always the ground organisation to warn him. He hands me the spare ear-’phones of the wireless, throws the switch for sending. His voice rattles in my ear: “Hullo, Bourget. Imperial _ X calling, bound for Paris. Passing Beauvais at 6000 feet. Over.” (Many a listener has heard such conversation and may have wondered what “Over” could mean. It is an indication that the caller has finished and is switching over for reception). The man at Le Bourget is quick on the job to-day. Hardly has the switch gone over for reception when there comes the reply: “Hallo, Imperial X, Bourget answering. Understand bound for Paris, passing Beauvais at 6000 feet. It that correct? Over.” There is a formal acknowledgement. “Hello, Bourget. Imperial X answering. That is correct. Over.” And there for to-day it ends, as far as we are concerned, though fog or storm, warnings, bearings, weather reports, and any other communication of use are exchanged as a matter of routine where necessary. This is getting short now. There is Bourget ahead, and already the master, once more in control, is taking us down the slope. We meet the gusts again,'but he damps down the bumps with instant reactions, now almost an instinct born of flying reckoned in thousands of hours.

(One thousand hours of piloting is the minimum required of any man seeking employment with the line as a second pilot). We begin the left-hand circuit demanded of all incoming craft. A steep bank, then we level out and come into a landing, perfect, yet as much this man’s property as his signature. A brief farewell and the master goes off to see whether he is wanted for the return trip on the late aeroplane. The passengers clamber out, a little stiffly, some proud of their first ventures, others accepting almost casually the speed, comfort, and—forbidden word—safety they have bought