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A Day to Be
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In
Their Own Words
 ccording
to Lt. Benjamin D. Foulois, his superiors in the US Army had earmarked
him as a "dangerous, erratic nut who would have to be watched carefully
lest his radical thoughts get to the public." The behavior which
warranted this assessment was that he had recommended that the US Army
in general and the Signal Corps in particular "concentrate our interest
in the development of heavier-than air vehicles." Owing to this odd
belief, he found himself at Fort Myer on 30 July 1909 in the passenger
seat of the Wright Military Flyer. The following is excepted from his
memoirs.
When June, 1909, rolled around, the
Wrights had firmly established the fact in the public mind that their
flying machine could indeed fly. On June 9 President Taft invited them
to the White House, and presented them with the Aero Club Medal in
long-delayed recognition of their achievements. Eight days later a
celebration in their honor was given in their home town of Dayton, Ohio,
where they received medals from the city and state and a special medal
authorized by the Congress which was presented by General Allen.
Orville and Wilbur returned to
Washington on June 20, intent upon completing the trials that had been
interrupted by the tragic accident the previous September. The machine
they brought this time was an improved version which incorporated a
number of engineering changes. Structural changes had been made to
prevent brace wires from fouling the propeller, the method of attaching
the rear rudder had been changed by using a solid wire in place of an
elastic stay, and the height of the skids had been increased in front,
making them resemble runners on a sleigh. Between the control surfaces
on the front elevator two semicircular vertical fins were installed to
prevent spinning. Two control levers—one to the right, and the other to
the left of the two pilots' seats—controlled the elevator, as in the
1908 machine, but the rudder in the rear was operated by one of the two
parts of a split-hinged lever located between the two seats; the other
part operated the wing warping for lateral balance. The combined action
of these two parts caused the machine to bank at the correct angle.
There were no instruments, but the Wrights had fastened a piece of
string about eight inches long with a weight attached to the horizontal
crossbar between the front ends of the two skids. This served as a turn
and bank indicator, and showed by its angle whether the airplane was
sliding inward or skidding outward during a banking turn. If the string
inclined toward the pilot, it indicated a loss of forward speed and
danger of a stall.
The engine, which was practically the
same as that in the 1908 plane, was controlled by a foot pedal placed on
the footrest crossbar out in front, midway between the two seats. The
pedal was connected to the magneto and served to advance or retard the
spark. In order to start the engine, it was necessary for someone on the
ground to hold a piece of waste, saturated with gasoline, over an open
tube into which air was sucked as the engine was turned over by cranking
both propellers. The gasoline tank held enough fuel (thirteen gallons)
for a flight of three and one-half hours.
The launching apparatus remained the
same as before, with a monorail and weight tower. On windy days the
airplane was headed into the wind, balanced on the monorail, and set in
motion by the propellers without the use of the catapult. On calm days
the catapult was used. The skids rested on a small car with two grooved
wheels set tandem on the rail. A rope, hooked to the car, ran through a
pulley at the front end of the starting track, under the track and
through a pulley at the other end; it then passed through a third pulley
at the top of a 30-foot pyramid of braced posts, which stood about 10
feet behind the monorail. Weights, totaling almost 2,000 pounds, were
attached to the end of the rope which hung down inside the pyramid. The
plane was started by drawing it back to the beginning of the track, the
weights were hoisted by a block and tackle, the propellers were started,
and the weights were allowed to drop. The force of the falling weight,
plus the power of the propellers, pulled the plane rapidly along the
track. When flying speed was reached, the pilot pulled back on the
elevator lever and the plane soared into the air.
It took a month for the Wrights to
assemble the machine and test fly it until they were satisfied with its
performance. As before, I hung around them every day and pestered them
with questions. They tinkered and fussed and muttered to themselves from
dawn to dusk, and it seemed as if they would never say they were ready
to go. There were many delays of their practice flights because of high
winds or rain showers, and those of us on the Aeronautical Board were
kidded unmercifully for being "birdmen sitting on the wall," which we
seemed to be doing a lot of.
To while away the time, I read a book
about flying, written by an Englishman named Lancaster. The questions I
asked the Wrights were based on what I had read. Finally, Wilbur stopped
working after I had put a question to him, and asked, "What in the world
have you been reading to ask something like that?"
"Everything I can lay my hands on," I
replied.
Obviously exasperated, Wilbur said,
"There are no books worth reading on the subject of flying. You get your
hands on that machine over there if you really want to learn about it."
This was a rare invitation for the
Wrights to extend to anyone, and I was delighted. I donned my coveralls,
stuck a pair of pliers, a screw driver, cotton waste, and a bar of soap
in my pockets as I had done before, and got to work.
Close-mouthed and quiet, the only thing
the Wrights liked to discuss was their machine and the forthcoming
tests. They had no interest in socializing in Washington, and as far as
I know never accepted a single invitation during the test period. They
granted no interviews with the press, and turned all requests away.
Orville was the more talkative of the
two, which wasn't saying much. He was amiable and kind-faced. Wilbur,
prematurely bald, about forty then, had deeper furrows in his face and
seemed to look at you with a kind of reserved suspicion. When you spoke
to the two of them, it would be Orville who would answer, and Wilbur
would either nod his assent or add an incomplete sentence as his way of
corroborating what his younger brother had said. At no time did I ever
hear either of them ever render a hasty or ill-considered answer to any
question I asked, and sometimes they would take so long to reply that I
wondered if they had heard me.
Apparently, the brothers Wright had
decided as a matter of family honor that Orville would fly all the tests
at Myer, because I don't recall Wilbur ever flying the new model until
after the tests were completed. After a number of short flights, Orville
made an endurance flight of one hour, twenty minutes, on July 20. On the
twenty-seventh he announced that he was ready to resume the tests where
he had left off the year before. With Frank Lahm as passenger, he flew
one hour, twelve minutes, and forty seconds, thus more than fulfilling
the requirement to remain in the air for an hour with a passenger. It
established a new record for a two-man flight.
Next and last specification to be
satisfied was the speed test over a measured five-mile course. Because
of my previous map-making experience, Major Squier asked me to lay out
the course. I chose a rise of ground at Alexandria, Virginia, almost due
south of Fort Myer, called Shooter's Hill, to be used as a turning
point. It is the present site of the George Washington Masonic Memorial,
the cornerstone of which had been laid not long before. I chose this
site because it was above the surrounding terrain and should have been
easy to navigate toward at an altitude of 100 or so feet. I arranged for
a temporary telephone as well as a telegraph line between the two
points, the latter to be used for sending a signal at the exact second
the plane crossed the measured mark at Alexandria. The telegraph
instrument was actually placed on the Masonic Memorial cornerstone.
Remembering my dirigible experience, I
was concerned that we would wander off our course from Myer to
Alexandria, so I arranged for a small captive balloon to be ascended
from Shooter's Hill and one anchored about halfway between the two
points. Finally, it was announced on July 29 that the cross-country
speed test would be attempted the next day. The only question among the
board members was who was to be the navigator-passenger on this
all-important flight. It was decided that the Wrights should make their
choice. They did: me.
I would like to think that I was chosen
on the basis of intellectual and technical ability, but I found out
later that it was my short stature, light weight, and map-reading
experience that had tipped the decision in my favor. A heavier man
would have added weight to the plane which would have slowed it down. A
man who couldn't read a map and had not been aloft before might get the
pilot lost, add unnecessary distance to the flight, and thus decrease
the speed average. A 10 per cent bonus was riding on every mile they
could squeeze past 40 miles an hour.
About 7,000 people showed up on the
afternoon of July 30, which was less than usual. Rain showers
discouraged many from making the trip because they knew that the Wrights
never flew if the weather was unfavorable. About four o'clock it looked
as though the sky was clearing and the wind was dying down. Orville told
the board members he would be ready in about one hour and a half. Maj.
Charles McK. Saltzman and Lieut. George C. Sweet, a Navy observer,
quickly drove to Shooter's Hill with the field telephone to let us know
when everything was ready there. The Wrights pushed their machine to the
starting rail and made many adjustments to the engine and guy wires. I
put two stop watches around my neck and got into the passenger seat. I
strapped a box compass to my left thigh, lashed an aneroid barometer to
my right thigh, and jammed a map into my belt.
Orville warmed up the engine until he
was satisfied with it, and climbed aboard. "If I have any trouble," he
shouted above the roar of the engine, "I'll land in a field or the
thickest clump of trees I can find."
I nodded and gulped. I had picked a
course with no fields of any kind en route. It was too late to do
anything about it now, so I grabbed the edge of the seat with both hands
and waited. Orville revved up the engine, released the trigger, and the
machine started down the rail. We skimmed over the grass for a few feet
to gain speed, and then climbed for altitude. As we started to circle,
Wilbur ran to the center of the field below us with a stop watch in one
hand and a signal flag in the other. We made two complete circles of the
field, gaining altitude (125 feet), and then Orville swung sharply over
the starting line. I flicked one stop watch and pointed out the exact
course we should follow to Shooter's Hill.
All twenty-five horses in the engine
were functioning perfectly as we skimmed over the treetops toward the
first balloon. The air was bumpy, and I had the feeling that there were
moments when Orville didn't have full control of the machine as we
dipped groundward. It was as if someone on the ground had a string
attached to us and would pull it occasionally as they would a kite. But
each time Orville would raise the elevators slightly, and we would gain
back the lost altitude.
We reached Shooter's Hill all right, and
I flicked the second stop watch. There was a crowd on the brow of the
hill, and I could see them wave their umbrellas and handkerchiefs. It
seemed to me that the angle of bank of the plane was awfully steep as we
rounded the turn and the wing tip was much too close to the tops of the
trees. A down draft hit us, and I thought we were going to cartwheel
into them for sure. We straightened out, however, and started back for
Myer. Going down wind now, our ground speed increased and Orville
climbed until we reached 400 feet—a world's altitude record. As we
neared Myer, Orville nosed down to pick up speed, and aimed at the
starting tower. I flicked the stop watch off as we crossed the starting
line and relaxed as he made a circle over Arlington Cemetery, cut off
the engine, and glided in for a fairly smooth landing amid a cloud of
dust.
Wilbur rushed up to us, and it was the
first time I ever saw him with a smile on his face. I learned later that
he had experienced some excruciating moments of doubt when we had
disappeared below the level of the trees around the parade ground on our
outward trip.
The crowd was larger when we landed than
when we had departed. President Taft had not been present for the
takeoff but had seen us land, and sent a messenger through the crowds to
us with a note of congratulation. I had the feeling, though, that some
of the citizens present were disappointed. From my experience with the
crowds that had witnessed the previous test nights, I had no doubt that
many of them were disappointed that we had not landed in Arlington
Cemetery and thus provided them with a real old-fashioned Roman holiday
with all the bloody trimmings.
As soon as the board members could get
together, we compared our stop watches and determined that the official
speed to Alexandria had been 37.735 miles per hour; on the return trip
it was calculated at 47.431 miles per hour, with the average officially
computed at 42.583 miles per hour. Major Squier asked the Wrights if
they wanted to make another trial since the specification allowed them
three chances. They replied that they would stand on this, their first
cross-country flight.
Since they had flown more than 42 miles
per hour, it was thought that they would be eligible to collect a bonus
of $7,500; however, some government lawyer disallowed the fraction above
the 42 miles per hour and they qualified for only $5,000 above their bid
price of $25,000. On August 2, 1909, Aeroplane No. 1 was officially
accepted into the inventory of the United States Army. Just as important
was the fact that we had established three world records for the United
States that date: one for a two-man flight at 42.583 miles per hour;
another for a cross-country flight of 10 miles; and a third for an
altitude record of 400 feet which I verified with the reading of the
aneroid barometer strapped to my leg. July 30, 1909, was truly a
significant day in American aviation.
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Lt. Benjamin_Delahauf_Foulois in early 1911. At the time this photo was
taken, the US Army still had only one airplane and Foulois was the sole
active US military pilot.
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