Tono Bungay

All my later work in aeronautics is associated in my memory with the quality of Beatrice, with her incidenta] presence, with things she said and did and things I thought of that had reference to her.

In the spring of that year I had got to a flying machine that lacked nothing but longitudinal stability.  My model flew like a bird for fifty or a hundred yards or so, and then either dived and broke its nose or, what was commoner, reared up, slid back and smashed its propeller.  The rhythm of the pitching puzzled me.  I felt it must obey some laws not yet quite clearly stated.  I became therefore a student of theory and literature for a time; I hit upon the string of considerations that led me to what is called Ponderevo’s Principle and my F.R.S., and I worked this out in three long papers.  Meanwhile I made a lot of turn-table and glider models and started in upon an idea of combining gas-bags and gliders.  Balloon work was new to me.  I had made one or two ascents in the balloons of the Aero Club before I started my gasometer and the balloon shed and gave Cothope a couple of months with Sir Peter Rumchase.  My uncle found part of the money for these developments; he was growing interested and competitive in this business because of Lord Boom’s prize and the amount of reclame involved, and it was at his request that I named my first navigable balloon Lord Roberts Alpha.

Lord Roberts A very nearly terminated all my investigations.  My idea both in this and its more successful and famous younger brother, Lord Roberts B, was to utilise the idea of a contractile balloon with a rigid flat base, a balloon shaped rather like an inverted boat that should almost support the apparatus, but not quite.  The gas-bag was of the chambered sort used for these long forms, and not with an internal balloonette.  The trouble was to make the thing contractile.  This I sought to do by fixing a long, fine-meshed silk net over it that was fastened to be rolled up on two longitudinal rods.  Practically I contracted my sausage gas-bag by netting it down.  The ends were too complex for me to describe here, but I thought them out elaborately and they were very carefully planned.  Lord Roberts A was furnished with a single big screw forward, and there was a rudder aft.  The engine was the first one to be, so to speak, right in the plane of the gas-bag.  I lay immediately under the balloon on a sort of glider framework, far away from either engine or rudder, controlling them by wire-pulls constructed on the principle of the well-known Bowden brake of the cyclist.

But Lord Roberts A has been pretty exhaustively figured and described in various aeronautical publications.  The unforeseen defect was the badness of the work in the silk netting.  It tore aft as soon as I began to contract the balloon, and the last two segments immediately bulged through the hole, exactly as an inner tube will bulge through the ruptured outer cover of a pneumatic tire, and then the sharp edge of the torn net cut the oiled-silk of the distended last segment along a weak seam and burst it with a loud report.

Up to that point the whole thing had been going on extremely well.  As a navigable balloon and before I contracted it, the Lord Roberts A was an unqualified success.  It had run out of the shed admirably at nine or ten miles an hour or more, and although there was a gentle southwester blowing, it had gone up and turned and faced it as well as any craft of the sort I have ever seen.

I lay in my customary glider position, horizontal and face downward, and the invisibility of all the machinery gave an extraordinary effect of independent levitation.  Only by looking up, as it were, and turning my head back could I see the flat aeroplane bottom of the balloon and the rapid successive passages, swish, swish, swish of the vans of the propeller.  I made a wide circle over Lady Grove and Duffield and out towards Effingham and came back quite successfully to the starting-point.

Down below in the October sunlight were my sheds and the little group that had been summoned to witness the start, their faces craned upward and most of them scrutinising my expression through field-glasses.  I could see Carnaby and Beatrice on horseback, and two girls I did not know with them; Cothope and three or four workmen I employed; my aunt and Mrs. Levinstein, who was staying with her, on foot, and Dimmock, the veterinary surgeon, and one or two others.  My shadow moved a little to the north of them like the shadow of a fish.  At Lady Grove the servants were out on the lawn, and the Duffield school playground swarmed with children too indifferent to aeronautics to cease their playing.  But in the Crest Hill direction—­the place looked extraordinarily squat and ugly from above—­there were knots and strings of staring workmen everywhere—­not one of them working, but all agape. (But now I write it, it occurs to me that perhaps it was their dinner hour; it was certainly near twelve.) I hung for a moment or so enjoying the soar, then turned about to face a clear stretch of open down, let the engine out to full speed and set my rollers at work rolling in the net, and so tightening the gas-bags.  Instantly the pace quickened with the diminished resistance…

In that moment before the bang I think I must have been really flying.  Before the net ripped, just in the instant when my balloon was at its systole, the whole apparatus was, I am convinced, heavier than air.  That, however, is a claim that has been disputed, and in any case this sort of priority is a very trivial thing.

Then came a sudden retardation, instantly followed by an inexpressibly disconcerting tilt downward of the machine.  That I still recall with horror.  I couldn’t see what was happening at all and I couldn’t imagine.  It was a mysterious, inexplicable dive.  The thing, it seemed, without rhyme or reason, was kicking up its heels in the air.  The bang followed immediately, and I perceived I was falling rapidly.

I was too much taken by surprise to think of the proper cause of the report.  I don’t even know what I made of it.  I was obsessed, I suppose, by that perpetual dread of the modern aeronaut, a flash between engine and balloon.  Yet obviously I wasn’t wrapped in flames.  I ought to have realised instantly it wasn’t that.  I did, at any rate, whatever other impressions there were, release the winding of the outer net and let the balloon expand again, and that no doubt did something to break my fall.  I don’t remember doing that.  Indeed, all I do remember is the giddy effect upon the landscape of falling swiftly upon it down a flat spiral, the hurried rush of fields and trees and cottages on my left shoulder and the overhung feeling as if the whole apparatus was pressing down the top of my head.  I didn’t stop or attempt to stop the screw.  That was going on, swish, swish, swish all the time.

Cothope really knows more about the fall than I do.  He describes the easterly start, the tilt, and the appearance and bursting of a sort of bladder aft.  Then down I swooped, very swiftly, but not nearly so steeply as I imagined I was doing.  “Fifteen or twenty degrees,” said Cothope, “to be exact.”  From him it was that I learnt that I let the nets loose again, and so arrested my fall.  He thinks I was more in control of myself than I remember.

But I do not see why I should have forgotten so excellent a resolution.  His impression is that I was really steering and trying to drop into the Farthing Down beeches.  “You hit the trees,” he said, “and the whole affair stood on its nose among them, and then very slowly crumpled up.  I saw you’d been jerked out, as I thought, and I didn’t stay for more.  I rushed for my bicycle.”

As a matter of fact, it was purely accidental that I came down in the woods.  I am reasonably certain that I had no more control then than a thing in a parcel.  I remember I felt a sort of wincing, “Now it comes!” as the trees rushed up to me.  If I remember that, I should remember steering.  Then the propeller smashed, everything stopped with a jerk, and I was falling into a mass of yellowing leaves, and Lord Roberts A, so it seemed to me, was going back into the sky.

I felt twigs and things hit me in the face, but I didn’t feel injured at the time; I clutched at things that broke, tumbled through a froth of green and yellow into a shadowy world of great bark-covered arms, and there, snatching wildly, got a grip on a fair round branch, and hung.

I became intensely alert and clear-headed.  I held by that branch for a moment and then looked about me, and caught at another, and then found myself holding to a practicable fork.  I swung forward to that and got a leg around it below its junction, and so was able presently to clamber down, climbing very coolly and deliberately.  I dropped ten feet or so from the lowest branch and fell on my feet.  “That’s all right,” I said, and stared up through the tree to see what I could of the deflated and crumpled remains that had once been Lord Roberts A festooned on the branches it had broken.  “Gods!” I said, “what a tumble!”

I wiped something that trickled from my face and was shocked to see my hand covered with blood.  I looked at myself and saw what seemed to me an astonishing quantity of blood running down my arm and shoulder.  I perceived my mouth was full of blood.  It’s a queer moment when one realises one is hurt, and perhaps badly hurt, and has still to discover just how far one is hurt.  I explored my face carefully and found unfamiliar contours on the left side.  The broken end of a branch had driven right through my cheek, damaging my cheek and teeth and gums, and left a splinter of itself stuck, like an explorer’s fartherest-point flag, in the upper maxillary.  That and a sprained wrist were all my damage.  But I bled as though I had been chopped to pieces, and it seemed to me that my face had been driven in.  I can’t describe just the horrible disgust I felt at that.

“This blood must be stopped, anyhow,” I said, thickheadedly.

“I wonder where there’s a spider’s web”—­an odd twist for my mind to take.  But it was the only treatment that occurred to me.

I must have conceived some idea of going home unaided, because I was thirty yards from the tree before I dropped.

Then a kind of black disc appeared in the middle of the world and rushed out to the edge of things and blotted them out.  I don’t remember falling down.  I fainted from excitement, disgust at my injury and loss of blood, and lay there until Cothope found me.

He was the first to find me, scorching as he did over the downland turf, and making a wide course to get the Carnaby plantations at their narrowest.  Then presently, while he was trying to apply the methodical teachings of the St. John’s Ambulance classes to a rather abnormal case, Beatrice came galloping through the trees full-tilt, with Lord Carnaby hard behind her, and she was hatless, muddy from a fall, and white as death.  “And cool as a cucumber, too,” said Cothope, turning it over in his mind as he told me.

(“They never seem quite to have their heads, and never seem quite to lose ’em,” said Cothope, generalising about the sex.)

Also he witnessed she acted with remarkable decision.  The question was whether I should be taken to the house her step-mother occupied at Bedley Corner, the Carnaby dower house, or down to Carnaby’s place at Easting.  Beatrice had no doubt in the matter, for she meant to nurse me.  Carnaby didn’t seem to want that to happen.  “She would have it wasn’t half so far,” said Cothope.  “She faced us out….

“I hate to be faced out of my opinion, so I’ve taken a pedometer over it since.  It’s exactly forty-three yards further.

“Lord Carnaby looked at her pretty straight,” said Cothope, finishing the picture; “and then he give in.”