The Spirit of ST Louis (11 page)

Hall and I are in his bare but spacious drafting room next to the wing loft.

"Now we can't use the standard Ryan fuselage," he says. "Also, the wing span will have to be considerably increased so as to reduce the wing loading for take-off and increase the aspect ratio for range. That means we'll have to move the tail surfaces aft to maintain satisfactory stability and control. And that means the engine will have to be moved forward. When it comes right down to it, I've really got to design a completely new fuselage structure to meet your requirements. We will have to design a different type of landing gear while we're about it," he continues. "The M-2 type of gear would be too heavy when it's designed to go with the longer wing span and to take the load you're going to carry. Here's the type of landing gear I favor for your airplane - - -"

Hall begins to sketch.

"It won't take long to build, and one like this is structurally sound. The loads are efficiently carried to the fuselage, and the wheels are outside of the slipstream—that will cut down the drag." A slightly lopsided monoplane is taking form on the sheet of paper in front of us. "My preliminary calculations indicate that ten feet will have to be added to the wing span to get the airplane off the ground in a reasonable distance with a full fuel load," Hall goes on. "That will increase the range too, of course – – – Say, you know the Clark-Y is a good airfoil – – The main gas tank will have to be located under the wing, in the fuselage, with its center of gravity close to that of the airplane. Now, where are we going to put the cockpits for you and the navigator?"

"I only want one cockpit," I reply. "I'll do the navigating myself."

"You don't plan on making that flight alone, do you?" Hall looks at me, rather startled. "I—I thought you'd need somebody to navigate and be relief pilot. I—I thought it would be much too long for one pilot."

"I've thought about it a good deal," I tell him, "and I believe the chances of success are better with one pilot than with two. I'd rather have extra gasoline than an extra man."

Hall's mind picks up the idea instantly: "Well, of course that would be a big help from the standpoint of weight and performance—particularly range. That would keep the length of the fuselage down to a more reasonable figure. It would probably save about 350 pounds. That's at least fifty gallons more fuel, including tank weight. That would give you a good reserve. I was worried about the reserve you're going to have – – – But are you sure one pilot, alone, can make a flight like that? It's going to be something like forty hours in the air, you know. Say, exactly how far is it between New York and Paris by the route you're going to follow?"

"It's about 3500 miles. We could get a pretty close check by scaling it off a globe. Do you know where there is one?"

"There's a globe at the public library. It only takes a few minutes to drive there. I've got to know what the distance is before I can make any accurate calculations. My car's right outside."

We climb into a rusting, black Buick roadster and head downtown.

"It's 3600 statute miles." The bit of white grocery strip). under my fingers stretches taut along the coast of North America, bends down over a faded blue ocean, and strikes --about at right angles -- the land mass of Europe. It isn't a scientific way of finding the exact distance between two is on the earth's surface, but the answer is accurate enough for our first calculations.

I assumed that the airplane ought to carry fuel for 4000 miles in still air," Hall says. "Maybe that isn't enough. You want to follow the ship lanes. Suppose you run into a wind – – –"

I'm going to fly straight," I tell him. "I don't plan on detouring at all. What's the use flying extra hours over water just to follow the ship lanes? If I run into a head wind, I'll turn back and try again. If the plane can make 4000 miles in still air, that's plenty. That's 400 miles reserve plus whatever till wind I pick up. I won't start without a tail wind."

Hall is figuring on the back of an envelope again.

"Maybe we'd better put in 400 gallons of gasoline instead of 380," he concludes.

3

"We quoted a price of $6000 without engine, and we're going to deliver a plane that will do the job for that price. If It takes a different fuselage and landing gear, we'll build them."

Mahoney leans forward in his office chair. He speaks slowly, seriously. Hall has just finished describing the changes he wants to make in the Ryan M-2 design in order to achieve a range of 4000 miles.

"We can't afford to waste any money," Mahoney says; "but don't forget that the company's reputation goes along with this plane --- Can you make those changes and still get it built in sixty days?"

"It will be a real job; but I think we can if -- if the men will put in a lot of overtime," Hall replies.

"All right, let's get under way as fast as we can." Mahoney turns to me. "You give us the order, and we'll start," he says. "That will make $10,580, with a J-5 engine—special equipment extra, at cost."

4

WESTERN
UNION

SAN DIEGO CALIFORNIA

FEB. 24 1927

HARRY H. KNIGHT

401 OLIVE ST.

ST. LOUIS, MO.

BELIEVE RYAN CAPABLE OF BUILDING PLANE WITH SUFFICIENT PERFORMANCE STOP COST COMPLETE WITH WHIRLWIND ENGINE AND STANDARD INSTRUMENTS IS TEN THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED EIGHTY DOLLARS STOP DELIVERY WITHIN SIXTY DAYS STOP RECOMMEND CLOSING DEAL

LINDBERGH

I check wording and hand my telegram to the girl in the office. I'm ready to cast my lot with the Ryan organization. I believe in Hall's ability; I like Mahoney's enthusiasm. I have confidence in the character of the workmen I've met. This company is a fit partner for our organization in St. Louis. They're as anxious to build a plane that will fly to Paris as I am to fly it there.

5

WESTERN
UNION

ST. LOUIS, MO.

FEB. 25, 1927

C. A. LINDBERGH

CARE RYAN AIRLINES, INC.

3200 BARNETT AVE. SAN DIEGO, CALIF.

YOUR WIRE STOP SUGGEST YOU CLOSE WITH RYAN FOLLOWING TERMS ---

It's from Harry Knight: the deal is closed. The chafing, frustrating weeks of hunting, first for finance and then for a plane, are over. I can turn my attention to the flight itself-- the design and construction of the plane, to outfitting it with instruments and emergency equipment, to studying navigation and the weather conditions I'm likely to encounter along the route I follow.

Aside from the loss of time, there are great advantages in building a new plane instead of buying a standard model. Every part of it can be designed for a single purpose, every line fashioned to the Paris flight. I can inspect each detail before it's covered with fabric and fairings. And by knowing intimately both the strengths and weaknesses of my plane, I'll be able to tax the one and relieve the other according to conditions which arise. By working closely with the engineer, I can build my own experience into the plane's structure, and make the utmost use of the theories he expounds.

6

"There are several items we've got to decide on before I van go ahead with the design."

Donald Hall and I sit down on the long, curving beach at Coronado Strand. It's pleasantly warm in the morning sun. "Where are we going to put the cockpit?"

"I'd like to have it behind the gas tank—about where it is In the M-2," I reply.

"But then you couldn't see straight ahead," he argues. "The tanks would be directly in front of you. I thought you would want to sit behind the engine so as to have the best possible vision."

"You know we always look out at an angle when we take off," I tell him. "The nose of the fuselage blocks out the field straight ahead, anyway. Some of the mail pilots even have their windshield painted black to cut down reflection at night. I don't need straight forward vision - - -"

"I'm not referring to take-off," Hall says. "I know the engine blocks out forward vision like a barn door while the airplane is in a high angle of attack attitude—I've done a little piloting myself. I'm thinking of forward vision in normal flight."

"There's not much need to see ahead in normal flight," reply. "I won't be following any airways. When I'm near flying field, I can watch the sky ahead by making shall banks. Why don't we leave the cockpit in the rear, and fair in? All I need is a window on each side to see out through. The top of the fuselage could be the top of the cockpit. A cockpit like that wouldn't add any resistance at all. I think we ought to give first consideration to efficiency in flight; second, to protection in a crack-up; third, to pilot comfort. I don't see why a cockpit in the rear doesn't cover all three. Besides, I don't like the idea of being sandwiched in between the engine and a gas tank the way you are up forward. If you crack up you haven't got a chance in a place like that. A compass won't work as well, either, close to the engine. I've got to have an accurate compass on this flight."

"All right. The cockpit goes in the rear, then," Hall said. "You're going to be the pilot. I'll depend on your judgment about things like that. I wouldn't want to sit in front of a big gas tank myself. You remember what happened to the old British-type DH-4s, or flying coffins, with the pilot between the engine and gas tank, and the observer aft? They were built in this country during the war, for the Army. I recall the 1919 transcontinental air race, with about forty DH-4s among other types starting. Seven of them cracked up in forced landings. All seven pilots died, and all seven observers lived… Say, an enclosed cockpit that doesn't have any projections from the fuselage ought to increase the cruising speed two or three miles an hour. We might pick up an extra hundred miles of range that way… But what are you going to use the airplane for later on? The passenger arangement won't be good with the pilot behind."

"I know it won't be as good a passenger plane," I reply, "but if we're going to break the world's record for distance we've got to put range above everything else. I haven't even thought about what to do with the plane after I land at Paris; and I'm not going to until I get there …"

"Okay. Now what night-flying equipment do you want to put in the plane?"

"None. Those things are nice to have, but we can't afford the weight."

"How about a parachute?"

"Same answer," I reply. "That would cost almost twenty pounds."

Hall makes some notes on his pad. "Well, if you don't have to carry those things, it will make it a lot easier for me," he says. "Say, I'm not satisfied with the size of the M-2 tail surfaces. They ought to be bigger for a heavy-load take-off, to get good stability in cruising flight. The trouble is I don't have time to design new tail surfaces and get the plane built in two months."

"Do you think it would be dangerous to use the M-2 surfaces?" I ask.

"No, not for an experienced pilot," Hall replies. "But I'd rather do a first-class job all the way around. The stability won't be as good as I'd like to have it."

"Wouldn't bigger surfaces cut down the range?"

"A little, but not very much."

"Let's put everything into range," I say. "I don't need a very stable plane. I'll have to be watching the compass all the time anyway. I don't plan on going to sleep while I fly. Besides, we can't afford to spend time on anything that isn't essential."

"All right; that's decided then. Now it's time to talk about range."

We agree to eliminate from our calculations the uncertainties of wind along the route, and to plan our reserves on basis that it will neither hinder us nor help. We conclude that the minimum requirements for fuel will be enough to fly between New York and Paris over the great-circle route in air. Of course to do that in actual practice requires a theoretical reserve. An engine in flight doesn't operate with perfect settings, and a pilot doesn't navigate with perfect accuracy, or plan on landing with his tanks dry. We decide

that the plane should be designed around a theoretical range of 4000 miles, as Hall originally suggested.

"Well, Charlie, I think we can freeze the design now," Hall tells me. "I'll make a preliminary layout of the general arrangement and show it to you. There isn't going to be much left of the M-2 design, except the wing ribs and the tail surfaces. I want to start on the weight and balance analyses, and I'll have to follow them with the wing and fuselage stress analyses. Then I've got to get the drawings of the wing and fuselage structures out as fast as I can so the shop can start work."

7

The drafting-room door knob rattles. We've got the lock turned. There are loud bangs.

"Don't you fellows ever quit work?" Mahoney asks as I let

him in. "Say, where do you keep the key to this door? I might want to get in here some night."

"There isn't any key," Hall tells him, "at least not since I've been working here. We use a hacksaw blade to get in—just slip it through the crack there, and push."

Mahoney laughs and shakes his head. "I've brought up the paper," he says. There's an article you may want to see. Well, I've got to be downtown in fifteen minutes. Good night."