Page 98 - KBHA Bulletin 10

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every part of his machine is working with the smoothness that is an absolute essential if
he wishes to fly well.
The Bristol was in the hangar when the “crowd” arrived. The hangar is merely a
large marquee pattern tent, erected for the purpose of sheltering the biplane when it is at
rest. Mr. Weston was there with his chief constructor and half-a-dozen helpers. The
weather during the day had been far from satisfactory, and it was not until close upon
five o’clock that it was decided to go flying. The rain had stopped and the sky was
clearer by this time. There was a slight gusty breeze which blew from all quarters.
At any rate the machine was carefully wheeled out of the hangar and taken to the
far end of the training course, a few hundred yards from the grand stand. The pilot had a
look at his charge, and issued instructions to those who were keeping it steady until the
moment for the start arrived.

SOARING SKYWARD
Finally, Mr. Weston climbed into his seat and gave the word. The constructor
tugged at the propeller, but the engine refused to start. He gave another pull and the
engine just spat. For the third time he coaxed the ash propeller and, incidentally, the
engine. And then the “Gnome” started. It began spitting out viciously and intermittently.
Every second the intervals between the “feu de joie” – it was like the crackling of
hundreds of rifles – grew less and less.
The engine crackled and spat, making an ear-splitting din, and then these sounds
suddenly gave way to a steady buzzing hum, and the “Gnome’s” seven cylinders,
having been warmed up, got to business in real earnest. Snowy clouds of smoke were
carried away by the wind, the engine racing madly, kept up its awful noise, and the trail
of the propeller was just a circular blur.
Mr. Weston waved his hand. Those who had been steadying the machine and
bearing up against the young cyclone created by the propeller, let go their grip. Off went
the Bristol along the ground for a short distance, and then -
One had to look upward for the machine. It wasn’t very high, but it was sailing
along as gracefully as the most fastidious could desire. It rose ten, twenty, thirty, forty,
and finally fifty feet, with a course set for the grand stand. From above came the buzz of
that serviceable little engine. For a hundred and fifty yards the biplane soared through
the air. Then the pilot appeared to find that something was wrong, and the machine
dropped towards the ground. Everybody waited for the bump, but there was none. The
rubber-tyred wheels found ground, and the roar of the engine stopped. That was all.

MORE PETROL WANTED
The crowd made for the pilot and the machine, all anxious to know what had
happened. By the way, one gets far more exercise chasing biplanes at work than hunting
for a golf ball. “What’s happened?” asked the first – breathless with excitement and the
run – who reached the spot.
Technicalities were bandied about, but the real point was that the tank wanted
more petrol. There was not enough of the liquid, and, therefore – for some reason or
other – the pressure wasn’t sufficient. So they got the petrol and filled the tank, and
another helper, encased in overalls, tackled a few nuts with a spanner. After everything