The Algernon Blackwood Collection (Annotated)

2: Hawks Keeps On A’ Gliding

2: Hawks Keeps On A’ Gliding

Everybody said it couldn’t be done. I was considered a fool, a lunatic. The idea of a glider being towed across the United States by an airplane was preposterous. German glider pilots of renown told me I could never gain sufficient altitude to cross the Rocky Mountains.

I listened attentively to all of the advice, which was well meant for my safety. Nobody was with me and I was urged to abandon my crazy plans. But I wanted to do the job, and that made a lot of difference. I was convinced that I could do it, so I carried on.

The glider was constructed. It was stressed to withstand a terminal velocity of 125 miles an hour. The wingspan was 50 feet, within which a radio antenna was strung. A telephone system was hooked up so that there could be a two-way conversation between me and the pilot, who would be 500 feet away in the tow plane. I had the cockpit of the glider fixed up with a quick detachable hatch, which made it into a cabin machine. This was the first time in the history of gliders that such tactics were employed.

On the nose, a safety catch and release were placed, so that I could cut the glider loose from the towing plane at will. The pilot of the tow plane would then wind in the cable on the reel provided in his ship, and we would be two separate units floating about in space, one with a motor and the other without. Yes, I was convinced that the idea was feasible, and I could demonstrate gliding and soaring along my route from coast to coast.

I made out a schedule to leave San Diego, California, on March 31, 1930, and announced at the same time that I would arrive in New York City at four o’clock on the afternoon of April 6th—same year! With these plans made public, I was considered more insane than ever and the unbelievers multiplied.

Exactly on schedule my tow plane dragged me into the air, and we were off on a unique journey. The first day went like clockwork and I reached Tucson, Arizona, for the night. On the take-off, the second day, our cable broke right at the tow plane’s tail, forcing me to glide back to the airport with 500 feet of cable dangling from the nose of my glider. I carried it as far as I could, but finally had to cut it loose when it became apparent that I would not reach the airport if I persisted in trying to carry the steel cable.

Another cable was provided through the air express and on the third day I was off to make up for lost time. I was also off for one of the most terrifying experiences of my flying career.

The first hour out of Tucson was made without anything unusual happening. Then the air began to get very rough. I was being tossed all over the sky, swishing back and forth at the end of that tow cable. For a while, I took matters as the normal course of events. I had been in rough air before and saw nothing to become concerned about. But the air became more and more turbulent, the bumping and jouncing about more vicious. I happened to look out at my wingtips, the part beyond the bracing struts. I was horrified! They were flexing up and down like a bird’s wings. I was terrified that they would snap off.

The air became worse and worse and I was kept so busy trying to keep the flimsy glider on an even keel that I couldn’t keep watching those bending wings. All I could do was to think about them, and I did plenty of that!

“Slow down all you can!” I shouted through the ‘phone to the pilot of the tow plane.

“I have already,” he replied.

“I’m having a tough time back here,” I continued. “This thing may disintegrate at any moment, so keep your eye on me. I may have to bail out.”

“Okay,” soothed the pilot, and with that I looked at my airspeed indicator and it was crawling up to 100 miles an hour. That was faster than I wanted to go.

“I told you to keep her down to a hundred or less,” I bellowed at the pilot ahead of me.

“That’s all I’m doing now,” he shouted back, a little peeved. “Why do you have to keep jerking at my tail all the time?”

“If you were back here, you’d understand,” I answered hotly. “You’re sure you’re not doing more than a hundred?”

“Yes, a hundred and no more. And, Mister, I can’t do any less and keep control of this jalopy the way you’re pulling on my tail.”

“Well,” I thought, “there is no use getting mad at each other at a time like this. There has to be close cooperation.” I began to realize what was causing it all. We were in a line squall and they are mighty vicious. All we could do would be to fly at our minimum speed and try to ease through.

But I was having my troubles. My glider seemed to want to go faster than the plane towing me. There was no rhyme or reason for this, but regardless of whatever I could do to avert it, I was gaining on the ship which was ahead and slightly below me. It wasn’t long before I was flying alongside the ship. The cable that was fastening us together described a perfect horseshoe to the rear.

“Funny,” I thought. “Pretty soon I’ll be pulling that Waco!”

It wasn’t funny though. The pilot of the tow ship looked over at me in amazement, shouting “What the devil are you doing over there?”

“I can’t help it,” I said. “This contraption wants to fly faster than you. I am at no miles an hour now!”

All of a sudden it seemed as though unseen forces were unleashed and were making every endeavor to tear both ships to pieces. I have never flown through such terrible currents. My rate of climb registered an ascent of 1,000 feet a minute.

“Nose your ship down and throttle down,” I yelled at the tow plane pilot. “I can’t stand this! I’ll lose my wings if it keeps up much longer!”

He obeyed without saying anything, but I could hear him mumbling to himself. My rate of climb didn’t change a bit. There we were, his motor throttled, both of us nosed down as if we were trying to come in for a landing, and still we were being carried upward at the rate of a thousand feet a minute. It was uncanny! I wondered what would become of us. Maybe I had done wrong. Maybe this flight couldn’t be accomplished. I was weakening and losing my nerve. I was scared.

About to give up, I shouted to the pilot across from me:

“Cut your motor clear off!”

“All right,” he answered, and did so. “Still doing a hundr ... no, she’s going up to a hundred and fifteen!”

I glanced at my own airspeed indicator. Sure enough, our speed was increasing, since my instrument read the same and was steadily increasing—115, 120, and then up to 125 miles an hour. My glider had reached its terminal velocity. It had reached its limit of endurance. Anything could happen now.

Would it hold together just a little longer until we got out of that line squall? I speculated nervously while venturing a glance at my wingtips. They were flapping up and down like the wings of a bird in full flight. I felt the ring of my parachute and checked the harness. Yes, I was getting ready to pile over the side. “This glider can’t stand much more!” I thought.

What a situation! The tow plane and the glider flying almost side by side at 8,000 feet, both noses pointed down, the motor of the tow plane cut off, and yet both machines being hurled upwards by a terrific current at the rate of 1,000 feet per minute. Violent currents, wind, and bumps were being unmerciful to both craft. We were like little corks on the ocean, bobbing all over the sky, and helpless to run out of the situation. We just had to wait, be patient, and take it.

I began to feel that I had been foolish. Beads of cold perspiration were dripping from my face. My heart was beating double-time up in my mouth. I was tense and, frankly, very much frightened. I began to wonder just how I was going to get out when the glider gave way.

Would that hatch function and detach as it was supposed to do? Would those flexing wings just fold up over my head and crush me right there in mid-air, not giving me a chance to free myself for the parachute leap? I had heard of that happening before. I felt weak and trembling, and was about to tell the tow plane pilot that I was going to cut loose in preparation for a jump.

By now we were at 10,000 feet. I had gotten myself in such a jitter that I felt all my nerve going. I was even afraid of bailing out, clinging to the controls of the glider like a drowning man to a straw.

“Think it’s letting up some,” came a voice through the phone.

I glanced at the airspeed indicator. It read a hundred, and I noted we were descending. I peeked nervously at the wingtips. They were normal. I breathed a sigh, and then took a good long look. Yes, the fluttering had subsided. We had ridden out of the storm. I was mute and silently thanking God for having taken care of us.

“Don’t you think we can give her the gun, now, Frank?” the tow plane pilot said.

“Yes, sure,” I responded. “Let’s keep up here where it’s nice and smooth. I’m about all in!”

The motor was cut in and along we went. The balance of that flight was made without incident to compare with this terrifying experience. I arrived in New York on schedule, over Van Cortland Park exactly at four o’clock on the afternoon of April 6, 1930.

I had traveled 2,800 miles in a glider. Such an experiment had never been accomplished before. I doubt if it will ever be attempted again. Twenty stops were made between San Diego and New York, at each of which I would cut loose from the tow plane and give a demonstration of soaring. Sometimes, I would remain aloft as long as an hour, only leaving those helpful currents which were keeping me up because it was necessary to hook up with the engine of this sky train and proceed to the next town. The schedule had to be maintained.

I had called my glider “Eaglet,” and it proved itself sturdy and well named. I had a lot of affection for that little machine and greatly felt its loss when I had to reluctantly surrender it to the Smithsonian Institution, where it now hangs.

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