Slide Rule (15 page)
Authors: Nevil Shute
Wednesday July 30th, 8.40 a.m. zone time (G.M.T.-2) Position is about 54° 20’N and 35°W. We altered course a little in the night to steer rather more northwards, heading for Belle Isle at the north of Newfoundland and the entrance to the St. Lawrence. This because the meteorological chart made up at 1 a.m. disclosed a shallow depression east of Newfoundland. By going round the top of this we shall get a following wind, and this we have now actually got and have had for about a couple of hours. We are cruising at 50 knots on four engines, but are making good 74 knots over the ground, on practically a due westerly course. This is fine, and we hope to pick up Belle Isle about 900 miles from here this evening. We are running in thick fog.
Gasbag 7 appears to be leaking as it was when we
started and has risen a good bit; the others are holding well.
I slept splendidly in pyjamas, sheets, sleeping bag, and blanket from 11 p.m. to 7.30 a.m. There has been no motion of the ship whatever on this flight. Pumped petrol before turning in and again before breakfast this morning. The comfort of this flight is almost staggering. Sleep all night in bed, get up, shave in hot water, dress and eat a normal breakfast served in a Christian way. If this water collector can be developed, as I think it can, we may be able to have baths in future ships.
11.0 a.m. zone time (G.M.T.-3) We had a sweepstake on the day’s run, noon to noon G.M.T. Eldridge won it with 1095 sea miles; we are doing much better now.
Everything in the ship is satisfactory. In the fins this morning I came on Deverell repairing a little chafed hole in the cover about the size of a penny; the crew are continually on the look out for incipient damage of this sort and take it before it has time to get very far. They did a little sewing and doping on the top elastic hinge strip of the port elevator yesterday in anticipation of damage that had not yet happened. A good, keen crew.
We have just stopped the aft engine in the aft car and put on one of the wing car engines to replace it, still running on four engines. A flexible water pipe to the radiator is chafing on the car structure and something has to be done about it. This is the first time we have had to stop an engine for adjustment or repair; the job will take about an hour.
4.30 p.m. zone time (G.M.T.-4) The fair wind has
gone and we have a 20 knot wind against us, very nearly dead ahead; this is in accordance with our prediction from the depression centred about Hudson Bay. We have put on power and are now running on six engines, the forward ones at 1500 r.p.m. and the aft ones at 1600 r.p.m. This gives us about 58 knots (or 66 m.p.h.) and we are making good about 42 knots over the ground. Belle Isle is just about 100 sea miles ahead.
It has turned cold and grey; visibility is moderate between frequent rain showers. At this speed pumping petrol is serious work; in a larger ship it will be necessary to put in mechanical pumps.
Thursday July 31st 2.30 a.m. zone time. We are well inside Newfoundland running up the St. Lawrence River: had asked to be called to help pump petrol. We are still running on 6 engines at 58 knots, but have a head wind and are only making good about 36 knots over the ground. Johnston is asleep in a chair in the saloon, in Teddy and uniform cap. He is a splendid navigator and works like a horse; I believe he had only two hours’ sleep last night.
A Teddy was a combination flying suit used only in airships; it was made of Teddy Bear fleece inside and out. Airships were normally unheated and were difficult to heat technically, though we had an elementary electrical heating system in R.100. I had a Teddy issued to me for the flight; I never had occasion to wear it, but it was a very warm and comforting garment for those who had to stand motionless on watch. Squadron Leader E. L. Johnston was probably the most experienced navigator in the Royal Air Force at that time. He was killed in R.101.
12.45 p.m. zone time. We have been troubled with
leaks in Gasbags 7 and 8 since we started, and 7 has risen to about 3 ft below E longitudinal. So the crew set out to find them, and Hobbs succeeded in getting to and mending 3 holes in Bag 7 and 2 holes in Bag 8. They were all 3 inch slits along E radial wire. To help him reach the holes we rose to 3000 feet, to bring the bag to him. A good show on his part; those holes would fully account for the loss of gas.
These holes were on the flat surface of the gasbags, as it might be on the flat end of a cylindrical cheese. If they had been on the sides of the bag it would have been easy to find and repair them. To reach these holes meant a somewhat hazardous climb along the radial wires between the bags, with some danger of being gassed by the hydrogen issuing from the holes. Hydrogen is fairly easily detected, however; it has a peculiar warning of its presence, more of a savour than a smell. I do not think it is toxic; a man gassed by hydrogen recovers quite quickly in clean air. The danger in this case lay in falling, for it was impossible to provide the rigger with any form of safety line.
(Written at) 10.20 p.m. zone time.
Dies irae, dies illa
. At about 3 p.m., off Courdes Island, 50 miles from Quebec, we got in to a wind which headed us from off some high hills on the north shore.
I should explain that this was a northerly wind. The north shore of the St. Lawrence at this point is mountainous with ranges up to 5000 ft high; this cold north wind was cascading down over these hills into the hot air of the valley, producing a region of considerable turbulence.
This was very bumpy, and gave us the worst motion
that the ship has yet had. In pitch she oscillated rapidly over about 10°, coupled with a good deal of yawing and rolling. We were cruising at 58 knots and had just increased to about 60 knots a minute or two before. To ease the motion we headed over to the south side away from the hills and soon got out of the disturbed air. Our height was about 1200 feet and she hunted over about 300 feet.
Immediately afterwards the starboard and aft cars rang for assistance and pointed out tears in the fins.
The fins of R.100 were not visible from the control car, but could be seen from the engine cars.
I went aft with Meager and Wann; speed was reduced. In the lower fin two tapes had torn away making 3 ft slits. I left Wann to watch these and went on after Meager to the starboard fin. Here there was a large hole on the backbone girder, lower surface, near 14. Meager went down to get help, and I went out along 14 finpost in to the backbone and managed to pull the loose, beating fabric inboard and stop the spread till riggers came with Meager and relieved me.
Captain G. F. Meager was the first officer of the ship, and a great friend.
Meager asked me to go and have a look at the port fin while he went to the top fin. I went by way of Frame 15, and found a hole large enough to drive a bus through, in the lower surface, centred on 13a. It extended from the radius to the backbone, and about fifteen feet long. The tapes were sound but the fabric was hanging in rags, and the whole was beating badly.
The fins were formed on girders which stuck through
the ship in a cruciform manner. The outer ends of these girders were connected with a backbone girder, which formed the outer longitudinal edge of the fin. On this structure a system of wires was stretched. The fabric cover was then laid on the fin and tightened down to this wiring system by means of cord lashings.
Throughout the ship the panels of the outer cover were reinforced with T tapes sewn to the fabric, the tapes running in lines three feet apart. These tapes carried eyelets every foot of their length, by which the cover was lashed to the wiring system. What had happened now was that the outer cover fabric had blown off the tapes. The radius referred to was where the fin cover joined the hull cover at the base of the fin. The hole measured about 15 ft by 12 ft.
Went down to the keel and found Meager and Moncrieff; top fin was O.K. As soon as the starboard and lower fins were sewn and sealed the full staff of riggers came to the port fin, with several engineers. At one time we had fifteen men up there.
The hole was in the lower surface of the fin, which was about four feet thick on the average, tapering to less thickness at the outer edge by the backbone girder. The job therefore required the riggers to climb about on wires like tight-rope walkers, with nothing but the waters of the St. Lawrence a thousand feet below. They wore safety belts, with which they could sometimes hitch themselves on to a wire.
We made good all round (the hole) first; laced upper and lower hull covers to the apex boom of longitudinals D and E, and laced the top and bottom fin covers up to finpost 14 to make a leading edge if the whole of 13a
went. Then, by climbing out, managed to ‘furl’ the rags of fabric on the tapes and reduce fluttering. Then passed a rope or two out at the most forward split and in at the aft split, and bowsed inwards, and so tautened the tapes. Finally passed a sheet of cotton, nearly large enough to fill the hole, out at forward slit and managed to tie it to the tapes and so make good the majority of the hole. When finished it didn’t flap much at 45 knots. After 2 hours standing still just stemming the wind we were able to get ahead a bit, and make good about 20 knots over ground.
The sheet of cotton fabric was carried on board for just such an emergency; it was already provided with tapes and eyelets round the edge and all over it. It was, in fact, a sort of collision mat. I think we had two of them on board; we had a lot more when we started home for England! I cannot remember why it was of cotton, for the rest of the hull fabric was linen. I think we were cruising at about 20 m.p.h. while all this was going on.
Quebec was reached at about 6 p.m. A smaller town than I should have thought; they were massed on all the promenades and in the parks to see us, and a tremendous hooting and sirens. Luckily our relatively sound fin was towards the town!
Headed for Montreal; it was nearly dark by 7.30. Had a sherry with Burney, Booth, and Scott. They had wirelessed us that a thunderstorm was coming to us, not a very large one. While we were drinking our sherry the first pitch was felt, and Booth and Scott went down in to the control car. Height about 1200 ft, speed 40 knots. Burney and I went out in to the promenade. The ship then hit a vertical gust and began to rise rapidly. Elevators were put hard down to keep her
down, till she reached an angle of about 20° nose down. In that position she rose rapidly to 4500 ft, the last 1000 ft being covered in 15 seconds according to Giblett. She then steadied and was brought under control in heavy rain. In this rise the ship swung eight points from her course.
Supper was laid on the centre table of the saloon and shot off, downstairs, up the corridor, till some of it reached Frame 2.
I think the ship must have been at least 35° nose down for a bit of cold meat or a slice of bread to get as far up the nose curvature of the ship as this.
Two twelve foot tears were made in the lower fabric of the starboard fin, which were repaired later. The lights went out and put the ship in to complete darkness for ten minutes, adding to the difficulties. It rained so hard that .3 ton of water came in to the collector in ten minutes.
This was quite a small, normal thunderstorm—so far as we know at present. A rate of rise 4000 ft/min on the ship when driven nose down was achieved, according to good evidence. This would seem to indicate air currents of higher velocity than this.
Since then we have dodged three others, and are now heading for Montreal and hope to moor at dawn. Further comment on these experiences may be deferred till we are all less tired.
I remember the look of that storm very well. It stretched across our path as a bank of clouds apparently about fifteen miles long, slightly bronze in colour and raining underneath. At that time little was known about the violent air currents in and around line squalls; a great deal has been
learned since then by brave men soaring in sailplanes. Major Scott was in charge of flying operations, over the captain of the ship. I was in the control car with him before we went up for the sherry, and heard him make the decision to go through it rather than fly round it; we had ample fuel and there was no occasion to take the ship, already damaged, through this storm. In my view, even with the lesser knowledge of those days, Scott should have known better and this decision was a reckless one.
Major Scott was in charge of the last flight of R.101, and was killed in her. That flight started in poor weather, and two hours after the start of the flight, six hours before the airship crashed, a very bad forecast was issued to the ship by radio which might well have caused him to decide to turn back to Cardington and start again when the weather had moderated. If I say that I think he showed bad judgment on this previous occasion it is not to blacken the character of a brave and a likeable man, but because after twenty-five years it should be possible to write candidly about human frailties in the interests of history. Aircraft do not crash of themselves. They come to grief because men are foolish, or vain, or lazy, or irresolute, or reckless. One crash in a thousand may be unavoidable because God wills it so—not more than that. After twenty-five years it should be possible to write truthfully about the other ones.
As at all grave times, there was a lighter side. When the ship plunged nose down a relay of the lighting system jumped out extinguishing all lights, and the same motion upset a five-gallon drum of red dope which had been left open in the crew’s quarters immediately above the control car, having been used for the fin repairs. There was an emergency lighting system in the control car of small orange bulbs over the essential instruments, and this kept going. The situation in the control car therefore was that
the ship was so far nose down that it was necessary to hold on, apparently plunging straight into the ground, in thick cloud and rain, with the altimeter going madly the wrong way, completely out of control. At that moment, in the faint orange light, a torrent of sticky red fluid resembling blood poured down into the control car. Grand Guignol could not have done better.