Alcock and Brown 2: Our Names Will Be Mashed Together Forevermore

Hugo and the Sunrise.

Alcock was a man of action who had been sidelined for a year as a POW during the First World War. When he returned to England after the war's end, he was sidelined again, this time by his service. The Royal Flying Corps and the Royal Naval Air Service had merged into the Royal Air Force, and were keeping Alcock in barracks while trying to work out who was still needed. Meanwhile, the dream that had sustained Alcock through imprisonment - winning the race to be first to fly nonstop across the Atlantic - was now being pursued by others on both sides of the ocean. Some of these others were old friends of Alcock from his prewar flying days.

In 1919, this sidelining got a little worse for Alcock, as the US Navy let it be known they were preparing for a transatlantic flight. Close reading would have shown this effort to be more paper tiger than bald eagle, as far as the race was concerned. Undersecretary of the Navy Franklin Roosevelt made it clear that the US Navy was legally restrained from competing in contests involving cash prizes. What's more, aside from aircraft engines, America aeronautics was less advanced than aeronautical industry in Europe in 1919; America lacked an indigenous aircraft that could complete flight directly. The plan was instead to make a multiple stop flight via the Azores and Portugal to England. Still, even paper tigers worked up the British Lion, who began bellowing about GREATNESS and BRITAIN and OUR OCEAN and the like. This certainly fired public interest in the race, as well as sold a shit-ton of newspapers.

By March 1919, a otherwise unoccupied Alcock could have made a close study of possible rivals in the trans-Atlantic race. By March 1st 1919, these were known to be Sopwith, Handley-Page, Martinsyde, Short, Boulton-Paul, Felixstowe and Fairey, (British) Sundstedt, (a man, Swedish) and America with its Curtiss flying boats. The RAF also possessed two airships, the R33 and R34, that could make the flight anytime, and America also had, in secret, a backup blimp.

Three of the British contenders would make it to Newfoundland.

Sopwith with the Sopwith Atlantic. Sopwith, still based out of Alcock's old aerodrome of Brooklands , had modified a single engine bomber of theirs, the B.1. The B.1 had been a single seat bomber built as a private venture in 1917, a bomber version of Sopwith's Cuckoo torpedo bomber. The B.1 failed to find a customer, with the RNAS buying a single aircraft. The B.1 GT Atlantic {guys, can you maybe try a little harder on the name} had a widened fuselage to fit a tandem cockpit, and fuel tanks instead of bombs, which was an especially easy mod as the B.1 had an internal bomb bay. Sopwith engineers also gave the Atlantic some additional nifty features: the landing gear could be jettisoned after takeoff, reducing drag,  and the cockpit around the pilot and navigator was detachable and water-tight, making a lifeboat if the aircraft had to ditch. It used one Rolls-Royce Eagle V12 engine, making 360 horsepower. The Atlantic's flight crew was Australian-born Harry Hawker, Sopwith's chief test pilot and Alcock's friend from the old days, plus Lt. Cmdr. Kenneth Mackenzie Grieve, a Royal Navy navigator.

It also sort of looked like a toaster with wings.

Martinsyde with the Raymor. Martinsyde got its name from its founding partners, H.P. Martin and George Handasyde, and their firm had been making motorcycles and airplanes since 1908. The Raymor was a modification of the Martinsyde Buzzard which, in a pattern you'll soon notice, was designed for World War 1 but was introduced too late for combat. The Buzzard would likely have been more famous had the war continued, as the scout aircraft was reckoned so impressive that orders for several thousand aircraft had been booked before a single plane was operationally deployed. These orders were cancelled after the armistice - the RAF liked the Sopwith Snipe better for its economical running costs.

The Buzzard was a biplane scout (what we'd call a fighter today) that managed to be easy to fly, maneuverable, and yet very fast. Its engine was a Rolls-Royce Falcon V12, a downsized version of the Eagle V12 used by other competitors, displacing only 14.2 L but still making 285 hp. The Raymor was modified for two, and given an extended fuel capacity.The name came from a portmanteau of its Pilot/Navigator team, Rayham and Morgan. Freddie Rayham was another old compatriot of Alcock's from the prewar days, and Captain C.W. Fairfax Morgan, AKA Fax Morgan, (not joking), who was a RNAS flyer and navigator.

Martinsyde Raymor. It had a tandem open cockpit.

In April 1919, when the Atlantic was test flying and the Vickers works was building Vimy #13, Rayham and Morgan were doing another sort of test. Both men topped the Raymor with fuel, climbed into their flying togs, collected the food they intended to bring with them, and then started up the Raymor's engine and climbed into their seats. There they sat, engine at full power, all day, through the night, and into the next morning, not disembarking until the engine ran dry. Then the engine was taken apart and checked for problems. The engine was found to be in perfect working condition, and the team considered themselves ready for the Atlantic.

Oh, and you should know the HP V/1500 was very large.

Handley-Page with the V/1500. The V/1500 was the successor to the O/400: a heavy bomber that just missed being used in the Great War, with aircraft being shipped to operational units in early November 1918. In fact, a raid by three V/1500s had been planned to attack Berlin, but bad weather caused the attack to be cancelled. Scheduled for the next day, it was cancelled again when the armistice was declared on November 11th, 1918.

Like really large (Sopwith Camel in foreground.)

Handley-Page had wasted no time in reconsidering its design for the expected civilian market, so setting aside one aircraft for the transatlantic race was simple. By the time Alcock was demobbed, Major Herbert Brackley had been appointed crew commander and was already conducting test flights to calculate fuel consumption. The wartime V/1500 had a crew of eight or nine, but the Atlantic challenger restricted itself to five: Major Brackley, Vice-Admiral Mark Kerr, RN, Lt. Col. E.W. Steadman, and Major Tryggve Gran, a Norwegian arctic explorer who was one of the survivors participants of Scott's final Antarctic expedition. The V/1500 used four Rolls-Royce Eagle V12s, two in a pusher and two in a tractor configuration.

Big.

Finally, the Royal Naval Air Service released Alcock on March 10th, 1919. The next day, Alcock returned to the Brooklands aerodrome, and went to Vickers, where he met Max Muller [who was Scottish despite the name], a prewar acquaintance now in charge of the Vickers works there. Taking shape on the shop floor was a potential transatlantic aircraft; the problem was that Vickers lacked a flight crew. Alcock had soon convinced Muller that he was that pilot.

The airplane was a Vickers Vimy, a biplane bomber that like its rivals that was just a smidge too late for the Great War.  The Vimy design was commissioned in 1917, and can be thought of as a smaller, neater HP O/400, being about 2/3rds the size but having slightly greater attack range and bomb payload. Developed with help from the first commercially available wind tunnel, the Vimy  would have been a significant combat aircraft had the war continued: it was planned that the Vimy would be a heavy bomber, and assume an anti-ship torpedo bomber role. 1000 had been ordered, but only about 112 would be completed under wartime contracts, and only 12 had been finished thus far. The bomber would have a successful post war career: the RAF selected the Vimy as their standard heavy bomber over the O/400 [mainly due to cheaper maintenance costs], and RAF Vimys flew in the third Afghan war, and also established a perilous airmail route between Cairo and Baghdad.

A standard Vickers Vimy. As target tugs the Vimy would stay in RAF service until the 1930s.

The Vimy in flight.

The fact that the Vimy was efficient and modern is of course relative: it was still a big honkin' biplane made from spruce wood and canvas. It had a similar configuration to the O/400 and even used the same engines: Rolls-Royce Eagle V-12s making 360 hp. In Great War trim, it mounted four defensive machine guns and could carry 2476 lbs [1123 kg] of bombs.In this spec the bomber had a 900 mile [1448 km] range, flying at 80 mph [129 km/h]. The trans-Atlantic special Vickers constructed made a few alterations. Armament was dropped and extra fuel tanks added in the former bomb bay, and a wind-driven electrical generator was added. The generator was necessary as early 20th century engines got the electricity for their spark plugs via a magneto around their driveshaft. This gave the plugs all the power they needed - but had no surplus. The Vimy was to have electric lights and heated flight suits, as well as a wireless set, so the generator was essential. The Vimy also had its cockpit modified to a side-by-side configuration. Compared to its rivals, the Vimy was a excellent compromise between proven technology and new advances.

With the aircraft mostly complete and a pilot like Alcock, one more thing was needed: a navigator. All the professional teams had figured wisely that this competition needed not only a crack pilot, but also a crack navigator if they were to have a realistic chance of winning.

This is how Arthur Brown enters the story.

Arthur Brown in uniform.

Alcock and _________

Arthur Witten Brown is often described as Alcock's opposite, and in some ways, he was. The intellectual Dr. Martuin to Alcock's hot-blooded Captain Aubery, Brown was more interested than Alcock in the abstract and the theoretical. While Alcock discovered his passion for flying early, Brown had a diversity of interests, only some of which would get him the navigator's seat in the transatlantic flight. But I think to just emphasize the opposites of the men is to overstate their differences. They both had many similarities, starting with growing up in Manchester, and both decided to be engineers in their teens, and in a similarity a writer would reject as too on the nose, both were POWs in the great war set upon the challenges of a transatlantic flight to stave off boredom. They were undoubtedly an excellent team, as both men complemented each other's strengths.

Arthur Brown was born in Glasgow in 1886, the only child of American parents. Soon after the family moved to a suburb of Manchester, where Brown's father, an electrical engineer, was establishing a factory for his employer, Westinghouse. Brown grew up in Britain, an introvert who's reserve would be shed in the company of friends to reveal a warm and insatiably curious boy. He had lots of interests, including flight, though for our narration the most important one was his hobby of experimenting with color photography. Like Alcock, when Brown left school he apprenticed as an engineer in Manchester, (Westinghouse, naturally) and knew Norman Crossland (of Norman Crossland engineering, who became later a patron of Alcock's flying ambition.)  Brown would frequently borrow Crossland's motorcycle for trips to the country. Brown also took courses at the Manchester Technical Institute. Once he was accepted as an engineer, Westinghouse sent Brown to South Africa, were he worked two happy, uneventful years until returning to the UK in the summer of 1914.

You can get how the Great War was viewed in 1914 when you learn that Brown - watcher of birds, avid reader, poetry fan - renounced his American citizenship so he could become a soldier in it. He trained in a 'pal' battalion and was commissioned in the Manchester regiment in January 1915 as a Lieutenant. I tried to find out about Brown's time in the British Army, but basically found nothing aside from what formation he was attached to. The Manchester Regiment were line infantry, and Brown arrived at the front just in time (January 1915) to get stuck in a series of battles that in April would culminate in the 2nd Battle of Ypers, famous for being the first example of chemical warfare. From what I could piece together, Brown served until May 1915, when he volunteered for the Royal Flying Corps. His education as an engineer and his photography hobby saw Brown escape the mud to become an RFC observer for No. 2 Squadron, flying unarmed B.E.2c biplanes.

Though why Brown would want to leave all this remains obscure.

While being an observer was definitely making better use of Brown's skills, it is here he picked up a new interest: air navigation. While the Napoleon-era Royal Navy sailing ships could navigate and predict their travel times with near modern accuracy, air navigation was based entirely on spotting landmarks and dead reckoning and as everyone was learning, this was not very good. Brown's intellect jumped on this new problem.

In the meantime, the rest of Brown, along with the pilot of his B.E.2, Lt. Medlicott, were flying photography and recon missions and often having to flee from German fighters. The first time Brown and Lt. Medlicott were shot down, some flak shrapnel punctured their B.E.2's fuel tank, killing the engine and setting the aircraft on fire. Brown and Medlicott managed to come down on the British side of the line - but the landing gear of their aircraft hit telegraph wires, and flipped both pilot and observer out of their cockpits. Both were uninjured. The second, less lucky shootdown happened on the 10th of November 1915. On a cold and overcast day, Brown and Medlicott were supposed to recon German positions escorted by RFC fighters. Their B.E.2 made it to the rendezvous point, but their escort did not show. Instead of scrubbing the mission, Brown and Medlicott carried on - and soon had a brace of German fighters on their tail. Forced down behind German lines, their biplane flipped, and Brown broke his leg. Medlicott hauled Brown out of the wrecked aircraft, but before they could settle if the uninjured Medlicott should make a run for it, German troops showed up and ended the argument.

Both men, now POWs, were sent to a POW camp deep in Germany, where Brown spent six weeks in the hospital. Exactly like Alcock, Brown found himself with nothing to do, and to get through the tedium, decided to get deep into this aircraft navigation problem, using the trans-Atlantic race as a goal. Brown would spend three years as a POW, first in Germany and then in Switzerland as part of a prisoner exchange. During this time, Brown got the bad news that his limp was permanent - for the rest of his life, Brown would need a cane to get around. But it wasn't all bad: the Red Cross allowed him to keep in touch with his parents, who sent care packages and soon, books on navigation and necessities like pen and paper. As Brown had been sent to a RFC-centric camp, like Brown soon was discussing his navigation problems with knowledgeable POWs. Lt. Medlicott's hobby was escape, and he would go on to make 13 unsuccessful escape attempts, and one more attempt where he was shot and killed by camp guards.

Finally, in the fall of 1917, Brown was repatriated to England. As his injury excluded him from front-line roles, Brown got himself reassigned to the Munitions Ministry,  where he landed in the Aviation production department, and was soon working on aircraft engine designs. Brown's boss was a Col. Kennedy, and Kennedy had two daughters. Before 1918 ended, Brown was engaged to one of them, Kathleen.

The war ended in November 1918, and while obviously a good thing, it left Brown unemployed. It was a strange time: Britain was obsessing over new ways to shoot itself in the foot economically, the political gridlock made forming governments or getting things done very difficult, and it really sucked to be unemployed in Manchester. In addition to all that, demobilized soldiers were returning to make competition all that more intense, and apparently not being able to join the firm football team was a real disadvantage. The deadliest wave of the Spanish Flu pandemic had just ended, so being alive after that was definitely a plus. Brown persevered for the reason so many men have persevered throughout history: because there was a lovely lass there believing in him.

Finally, Brown sat down with Max Muller at Vickers at the end of March, 1919. It is unclear to me if Vickers was advertising for a general aviation position or specifically for a transatlantic navigator; it makes a better story if Brown walked in only knowing that they had a position on offer, not one that lined up with his personal obsession, so let's go with that. Once the challenges of aerial navigation came up, the formerly reserved Brown warmed to the discussion, and Muller soon knew he had his man. Alcock and Brown met, and soon they were discussing routes and navigation challenges, with Brown sketching with his cane a map of the North Atlantic in the dirt on the shop floor. The two men liked each other well enough, and bonded by their interest and determination,  they soon threw themselves into preparation.

That's Good, But We're Still Well Behind

Next door, the Sopwith boys had made their first test flight just a few days after Alcock appeared at the Vickers works, and a few days after that did a 1800 miles [2897 km] test flight, about the distance between Newfoundland and Ireland.  By the time March had ended, Sopwith was boxing up their aircraft to ship across the Atlantic. Also by the end of March, two other teams were already on the boat to Newfoundland. The press was already speculating that the next best flight window would be April 19th.

Alcock, being the pilot and all around dab hand with aircraft, slept at the factory while Vickers put together Vimy #13, transatlantic special. Thanks to the number, Alcock and Brown would soon adopt black cats, the number thirteen, and presumably walking under ladders as their personal good luck charms. Brown, meanwhile, had his commission, so to speak, and was soon haunting Whilehall, and accosting people with obscure navigation questions. Once the Royal Navy men had sounded Brown's depth of knowledge [and Brown countered their 'walking away very fast' with 'cunning bathroom ambushes']  the RN became enthusiastic supporters, lending charts and instruments. The wireless radio for the Vimy was borrowed from the Air Ministry. There was also lots of opportunities for meetings with weather officials, sponsors (such as Shell, who was providing the fuel), and engine maker Rolls-Royce. The weather officials were somewhat notable, as at first the British government was doing literally nothing for the contest, aside from keeping its aircraft out of it. Then it was decided extra meteorology, shared with everyone, would be something worth doing, and a meteorological team was being dispatched to St. John's. At the end of the day, Alcock, Brown, and Muller would go out to a pub with the ten or so mechanics who would be the field crew, and would get some food and some beer of quality, and generally catch up with the doings of the day. Brown when he could got away to spend time with Kathleen, who was absorbing information on the topic of aviation at a fantastic rate.

On Good Friday, April 18th 1919, the Vimy took flight for the first time.

Over the next few days, the Vickers team did all the flight tests and by the end of April, the Vimy was boxed up with numerous spares to be shipped to St. John's. On May 4th, 1919, the Vimy advance team (Alcock, Brown, three mechanics from Vickers plus one from Rolls-Royce) departed on the Ocean liner Mauretania for Halifax, with the other seven team members sailing on the freighter S.S. Glendevon with the Vimy at a later date, bound for St. John's direct. Spring had not only come to Britain, it was the start of a gloriously long heatwave.

So many teams had many plans, and all were racing to the start line. While all the teams did empirical experiments and elaborate preparation to make sure their entry had a real shot, they all had one blind spot. It was a blind spot shared by the British media, and indeed by the Daily Mail and its contest.

None of these people making plans had been to Newfoundland. In the race to get a working airplane flight tested all had assumed the capital, St. John's, which was on the same latitude as France, after all, would have spring well under way by, say, March, and it would be an English spring, filled with sunshine, and that St. John's would be surrounded by nice flat fields which would serve as an ideal starting point.

These assumptions would be...problematic. 

Apparently, the image British people had of St. John's in their heads.

Big Chonky Sidebar: the Other Competitors

The Shirl dropping a torpedo. The 'heavy' RN torpedoes were designed to destroy armored warships, like cruisers and battleships.

Short's entry was the Short Shamrock. The Shamrock was a modified Short Shirl, the Shirl being a biplane shipboard torpedo bomber built too late for the First World War.  Designed to carry the Admiralty's standard 645 kg (1,423 lb) torpedo. The Shamrock was rebuilt to take a tandem cockpit for pilot and navigator, and replaced its torpedo with a gigantic suppository shaped fuel tank. This gave the Shamrock "still-air" range of over 5,000 km. This was reckoned to be great enough that the Shamrock was going to fly west from Ireland instead of east from Newfoundland. The Shirl used a single Rolls-Royce Eagle engine, a Mk. 7 V12 making 385 hp. Its pilot/navigator team was a Major J.C.P. Wood, and a Captain Wyllie.

Short Shamrock with a trans-Atlantic fuel tank. The man standing on the wing checking the engine gives a good sense of scale.

There's also this alternate suppository design.

On the same day the A&B Vimy made its first test flight, the Shamrock came up short. The Shamrock's crew had decided to attempt a Atlantic crossing against the prevailing winds, from east to west. Then, on the flight to Ireland, just 2 miles off of the coast of Britain, the engine stopped working, and the aircraft had to ditch. The crew was soon being rescued by local fishermen, and the Shamrock was salvaged, but was a wreck needing a complete reconstruction, effectively knocking Short out of the race.

Sunrise in New Jersey.

Aside from Americans, the other foreigner with a airplane together was Swedish Captain Hugo Sundstedt. Sundstedt was a pilot much in the mold of John Alcock: a enthusiastic flyer who thanks partially to luck and partially to hard work had become a pioneer of aviation in his native land. With the backing of a Norwegian shipping magnate, Christoffer Hannevig, Sundstedt had gone to America and had a firm design and construct what would be called the Sundstedt-Hannevig Sunrise.

The Sunrise was a biplane floatplane who's secret advantage was lightness. While it had a similar wingspan to the NC-4, it weighed just half of the Curtiss design. This light weight meant it needed less power to fly, and thus could get better fuel economy. To quote this blog over here: 

The Sunrise was a huge aircraft for its time, its upper wing spanning 100 ft. However, its empty weight was 7000 lbs., less than half the 15,874 lbs. of the comparably sized U.S. Navy-Curtiss NC-4. Fully loaded with fuel and crew, the contrast was even more remarkable, approximately 13,000 versus 28,000 lbs.

This minimalist philosophy carried over to the engines, two inline 6 Scott-Hall motors making 220 horsepower, and the fancy enclosed fuselage. In a decision I expect Sundstedt would have regretted, the fuselage didn't allow people to stand. In fact, the fuel capacity of the Sunshine was maybe a little too minimalist, as Sundstedt figured the airplane had a range of ~ 2500-2800 km [1600 – 1760 miles], which is a bit worrying if you consider the distance between St. John's and Ireland is about 2700 km [1700 miles.] While all the potential racers except Short hoped to use the prevailing west-to-east wind, Sundstedt thought he had another ace up his sleeve: Sundstedt was something of a scientist, and had previously done research into air currents. The Captain thought there was a steady 60-70 km/h wind blowing from west to east across the Atlantic at about ten thousand feet. So the extra-light kite Sundstedt was constructing was also to ride this wind across the Atlantic with a comfortable safety margin.

This photo has the date 4/11/1919.

 While I can't nail down dates or what precisely happened, the Sunshine in April or May 1919 did itself serious damage, with the twin floats having to be rebuilt. The delay was fatal to competing in the Atlantic race.

Boulton-Paul, like Sundstedt, also aimed not only to win, but to use a new design to do it.

They had created in 1918 a new light bomber called the Bourges to replace the Airco DH.10. The war ended, however, and that was that. Boulton Paul then pivoted to the trans-Atlantic race, where components of the Bourges were recycled into a new design. It remained a biplane twin engine aircraft, but as Boulton Paul hoped to sell the new design as an airliner, they decided to incorporate as much new technology as they could.

The Boulton Paul Atlantic for starters, had an enclosed cockpit. {You were warned; see me after class.} Behind this cockpit was a cabin for a radio operator and navigator/backup pilot. It also had a provision for a fourth position for an observer, who lay flat beneath the cockpit, observing though their own window. Behind that was a fairly colossal amount of fuel tankage, with a design range of 3,850 miles (6,195 km), which meant that in theory the Atlantic could have flown from Ireland to America in a single hop. The fuel system also had a fast-purge option, which in the event of a ocean ditching might allow the now-empty fuel tanks to serve as a flotation device. The BP Atlantic engines were Napier Lions, in a W12 configuration making 450 horsepower each, about 1/4th more power than other aircraft. This extra power and aerodynamics meant the Atlantic had a designed cruise speed of 116 mph (187 km/h), which was approximately 1/3 faster than its rivals. After the first two hours of flight, the Atlantic could stay airborne on one engine, or on two engines on half-throttle.

This strategy of high tech new-ish design had one flaw: it was a hell of a lot of work with a unknown yet ferocious deadline hanging over the project, which meant that in their rush to completion, something was neglected. That something  turned out to be testing, specifically the fuel system. Thanks to a flaw previously undetected, running both engines at full throttle would fuel starve one of them. This was discovered on the Atlantic's first takeoff, when one engine failed and the biplane side-slipped into the ground, wrecking itself.

R34, a copy of German R-class Zeppelins.

I should also mention the lighter-than-air aircraft, and maybe more specifically why they only crossed the Atlantic after the prize was won.  The British had two rigid airships, the R33 and the R34. The R34 would not only fly the Atlantic a few weeks after Alcock and Brown, it became the first aircraft to fly east to west, and the first to make a return trip. The problem was that British airships and blimps (the British had several very capable later war designs) were all government manufactured, and the Daily Mail contest was specifically about being a spur to private industry. My impression is that the British would have only prepared a LTA attempt only after private industry had given it a go, as both airships were made by the Royal Airship works. I think this tracks with the reluctance of the government to back the Felixstowe Fury.

Another C-series blimp in what looks like Lakehurst NAS, New Jersey.

Unbeknownst to anyone, the USN also had a secret airship. As a contingency against the failure of its flying boats, it would be flying a blimp, the C-5, to Newfoundland. The C-series blimps had been meant for patrol, but in practice served more as an experiment in building capable naval blimps. Used mainly for training air crews, the end of the Great War saw them repurposed for training and experimentation. The C-class had a crew of four in open cockpits and two 150 hp engines, and displaced 181,000 ft³ (5,125 m³), with a useful lift of 1,837 kg (4,050 lb). It was this payload capacity that gave the C-class ocean-crossing range of 2,320 km (1,440 miles) though the plan seems to have been to fly to the Azores, not make the direct flight.

The front of sister ship C-2's gondola. As you can see, not luxurious. Also probably hearing damage.

 Moving from lightweight and buoyant, we have the heavyweights. The Americans were going to use their Curtiss Navy flying boats to attempt a flight, staging themselves from the town of Trepassey, on the Avalon Peninsula's southern tip. Meanwhile, Felixstowe, the British Government's flying boat research center, lead by John Cyril Porte, had constructed the Felixstowe Fury. Both flying boats were extremely large, and were close relations with each other. Glenn Curtis and Porte were old collaborators, thanks to the Daily Mail's trans-Atlantic prize.

Glenn Curtiss was America's other most important aviation pioneer, and as was probably inevitable, he hated the Wright Brothers. The Wright brothers held patents that they said gave them the right to collect royalties from everybody flying airplanes, and Curtiss was the pioneer selected by the Wrights to deliver the legal beat-down for patent infringement. The acrimony between Curtiss and the Wrights was such that Orville later would say Wilbur's early death was due in large part to the stress of these lawsuits. Curtiss for his part at one point counterfeited a flying boat design another inventor had been working on before the Wright Brothers made their historic flight, all to try and take away the prize of saying the Brothers had been the first powered airplane flyers. This is a level of drama even the Kardashians would opt out of (though probably not Kanye West.)

Yeah, Curtiss looks like he'd be a chill dude in the face of lawsuits.

 Oh, my point: in addition to being an Aviation Pioneer, Curtiss had been experimenting with flying boats.

This is the peak intensity of male emotions in 1913. Porte is left, Curtiss is right.

 John Cyril Porte was a former Royal Navy officer and engineer who had been retired early thanks to tuberculosis. In 1911, he and Curtiss teamed up to create flying boats, with the goal of creating a transatlantic aircraft. The plane both men built with money from Rodman Wanamaker, [when the hell did we stop naming kids Rodman], a Department Store Magnate, was an impressive step foreward for 1913. The cockpit was enclosed. Because the vector of thrust was so offset from the hull, and as a result as speed was gained the hull plowed ever deeper,  the two men used sponsons to buoy up the hull at speed. It had a theoretical range of  1,100 mi (1,770 km), and was going to attempt the Atlantic on the 5th of August, 1914----

----only to see the First World War break out on July 28th and the subsequent cancelling of the contest. Rats.

The aircraft in question, with some mos def not OSHA-compliant work going on top, between the engines.

 Porte was recalled to the Royal Navy, and wasted very little time in convincing the Royal Navy that they needed these new flying boats. The two America aircraft were militarized and sent to the UK, and Curtiss found the US Navy ordering copies, too. This was the start of the 'H' series of flying boats, with the America types being called H-2s by the British, and subsequent aircraft starting with H-4. Both navies used the 'H' series for patrol, anti-submarine attack, and  Search and Rescue (SAR) missions.  The British liked the American flying boats, but disliked their boat-ish qualities, and assigned Porte to the new naval aviation station at Felixstowe to refine the design. This soon turned into a licensed variant, the Felixstowe F series. Both aircraft types were similar to each other, being big biplane flying boats used for patrol. Porte and Curtiss freely shared their discoveries with each other, so the family of aircraft evolved into extremely capable machines.

A Felixstowe F1. Unlike the RFC, the flying boats of the RNAS embraced some bomb-ass dazzle camo schemes.

Curtiss NC. If the Atlantic Race was a Mario Kart, this is what Bowser would fly.

The NC-4 was the latest iteration of this series. When America joined the Great War, there had been some talk of moving the license built Handley-Page and Caproni bombers by flying over the Atlantic than rather packing them in crates to ship. The USN got in on this act, and asked Curtiss to design a new large patrol flying boat capable of traversing the Atlantic if need be. Using the newly available American Liberty V12 aircraft engine, Curtiss created a three to four engine flying boat known as the "Naval Curtiss" or NC series. (Oh, ah, side note: Curtiss seemed to despite naming conventions, so if you are confused about the H series being different aircraft types and the newest type having a completely different name and a number that doesn't denote type but literally which one was built first, you are not alone.) NC 1 through 4 were built too late for the Great War, but now like the C series blimp, were seen as excellent experimental aircraft.

Visually, imagine the NC series as the bastard child of a DH 2 and a American threshing machine.

The USN planned to fly its aircraft to Newfoundland, staging the C-5 out of St. John's, and the flying boats out of Trepassey, NL, a community on the Avalon Peninsula's South-East tip. The plan was then to fly to the Azores. Since the US Navy was managing this, it had marshaled a not-so-small fleet of ships in support, establishing a picket line of destroyers from NL to the Azores by May 1919 to assist any NC aircraft that ended up ditching.

Our other, even larger flying boat can trace its creation back to another Curtiss project. So, after World War One Started, Rodman Wannamaker wanna make a very large airplane, and commissioned Curtiss to design and build it. The result was the world's largest aircraft at one point being a triplane flying boat, called many different names but the wiki calls it the Curtiss-Wanamaker Triplane. Built specifically to compete in the Daily Mail's trans-Atlantic contest once reinstated, [after all this war is going to be over by Christmas] the Triplane has a length of 58 ft 10 in (17.93 m), and a upper wing of 134 ft (41 m). The Royal Navy bought it and had it shipped to the UK, where it was taken to Felixstowe, given four French engines, and its first flight, where it promptly crashed and was written off.

Curtiss-Wanamaker Triplane.

I suspect this is the Curtiss after delivery to England.

Despite this, when Porte decided to build his version of a trans-Atlantic aircraft, he also picked the format of 'gigantic triplane flying boat.' This aircraft was the Fury, though it was also called the Porte Super Baby, showing how even Curtiss' scorn for logical nomanclature had crossed the Atlantic. The Fury was even larger than the Curtiss triplane, 63 ft 2 in (19.26 m) long with a span of 123 ft (37.5 m). Thanks to engine technology it had a 1 metric ton greater payload capacity. Using five Rolls-Royce Eagle engines, it flew for the first time with Porte piloting on 11th November 1918. 

The Felixstowe Fury.

I think it gets extra points for the tri-themed tail.

While it didn't promptly crash, military use was obviously out. In 1919, it was hoped the Fury could join the Atlantic race, but the Fury was doomed to be undone by politics. Felixstowe was a government facility, not a private one, and the British Government didn't want to pay for the expenses a trans-Atlantic flight would rack up. HM's Government also wanted a private entry to win, and officially said no to unleashing the Fury in the race in early May 1919. A new scheme saw an attempt to make a record-breaking flight down to South Africa. Extensive meteorological and logistic support had been arranged in Africa when on August 11th 1919 the Fury was undone, crashing into the harbor and writing itself off, and killing a crewman in the bargain. 

Porte would die in October 1919 of TB, and Curtiss would see his company merged with the Wright Brothers company, causing him to leave aviation entirely. The old gypsy woman had been right about triplane flying boats.

Last and least, Fairey didn't get very far with their entry; I bring it up exclusively as their pilot was named Sydney Pickles, and he had to withdraw from the race for personal reasons. Maybe Pickles' wife was stepping out with a Mr. Branston.

Alcock and Brown: the first two names in Transatlantic Flight

 In Edwardian Britain at the turn of the last century, everybody was, like, super into balloon flying.

The upper class, typically, did the flying, but everybody else was welcome to attend the balloon race, meet, fairground attraction, fete, [that one time a riot], and observe the men ascending into the heavens. Despite it being the pursuit of the rich, the lower classes (if you pardon the pun) loved the sight of a man actually flying. The men flying could soak in the most gentle and settled land through the supernaturally weird perspective afforded by a balloon at 1000 ft. And since the balloon flight was well and truly random, nobody could say where the trip would end. It was an attraction where everybody got a picnic, and a first rate adventure could be had without leaving Buckinghamshire on a summer's day. It even received the ultimate mark of popularity in Victorian/Edwardian Britain: women were forbidden from some aspect of it. Women could go up chaperoned in a balloon, but were forbidden from soloing, because vaginas or something.

So this was all well and good - erm, not the sexist bit, everything else -  but by the 1900s, the balloon was no longer the only flying machine. Both France and Germany had begun extensive research into airships and airplanes, with pioneers often receiving state-backed support. In 1908, The Daily Mail to spur innovation in airplanes, offered 500 pounds to anyone who could fly across the British Channel in one, and at the start of 1909, doubled the prize. A balloon crossing of the channel had already happened a over a century previous in 1785. All an airplane had to do was 37 km [23 miles], but it still took about a year for the challenge to be surmounted. The man who did it was of course Frenchman Loius Blériot, who would claim the prize with his flight of 25th July 1909. His self-constructed monoplane had a 25 hp motor and took 37 minutes to cover the distance. This flight clearly demonstrated to  the far-sighted that these new types of flying were more than just continental eccentricity. Soon these new types of flying would have real applications, both military and commercial. The British Empire didn't get to where it was through complacency!

Unfortunately, the people who made decisions in Britannia...disagreed. And possibly harrumphed.  These men were, like, super into one type of the new aircraft: rigid airships. (My personal theory is that the deciders of the UK were fixated on rigid airships as the most important type of flying machine for cultural reasons.) Outside of those, they thought other aircraft types actually were continental eccentricity, and thought that to spend 2500 pounds on aircraft a waste of taxpayer money, at a time with both the French and German governments were spending about three quarters of a million pounds annually on aircraft research.

Still, they were not the only ones who did things in the Empire. The Daily Mail had done what they had set out to do (advance aircraft research and sell a shitload of newspapers) and so announced a new contest in 1910: a 10,000 pound purse for the man who could fly from London to Manchester. The distance between the two cities was 300 km [186 miles], around 8 times the distance of the cross channel contest. As this was the early 1900s, a nationalist aspect to the race soon grew, with  pilots Claude Graham-White and Louis Paulhan dueling for the honor of Britannia and France respectively. Both racers were allowed only two refueling stops, and had to make the distance in 24 hours. Paulhan was waiting for his airplane to reach him in London, so Graham-White was the first to fly. 

Flying from the a point in Wormwood Scrubs [sidebar: seriously, Wormwood Scrubs?] Graham-White's Farman biplane had no protection for the pilot from cold, and when his plane landed at Bletchley he had turned slightly blue, and his mechanics had to haul him out of the aircraft and plop Graham-White in front of a nice flaming hearth while refueling his aeroplane. Graham-White took off again, only to immediately have engine trouble and be forced down. Henri Farman himself was Graham's crew chief, and with the mechanics they set to the airplane immediately, while Graham-White retired to a hotel in Lichfield. The damage Graham-White took on landing was too great to be repaired in the time limit, so the pilot, airplane, and pit crew took the train back to London to try again.

Louis Paulhan. He has a seat but no seat belt.

Four days later, Paulhan had assembled his airplane and took off from London at 5:20 PM. Graham-White was fast asleep, and was only told around six PM that it was on, but was airborne by 6:30 in pursuit. Reporters had commissioned racing drivers to keep them apace of the two aircraft, sending telegraph messages back to London. Darkness fell, and both pilots landed, Paulhan in Lichfield, and Graham-White in Northhampton, about 40 minutes behind. After a meal, Graham-White decided to do the unheard-of, fly at night, using local cars to light up the field with their headlights, and carefully waiting until the moon appeared from behind a cloud. Graham-White made a successful takeoff, and the reporters tore away in their automobiles, with Daily Mail reporter Harry Harper in the lead in a steam-powered racecar.

Graham-White in his Farnam.

The wind rose, and Graham-White was forced down ten kilometers from Lichfield. Now Louis Paulhan was awakened by the alarming news that Graham-White was stealing a march on him. Paulhan decided to chance the darkness, and despite the wind, also took off into the night, at one point being nearly bucked out of his aircraft by the winds. But by dawn he had made it to Manchester. Crowds had stayed up all night to see who would win the race, and now greeted Paulhan with cheers. 

In this crowd was a 16 year old engineer's apprentice named John Alcock. He had just discovered what he was, like, super into now: being a pilot.

Manchester, 1890.

  
Alcock and Bull Story

John Alcock was born in Manchester, the 5th, of November 1892, to working class parents: Alcock's dad was a coachman for a nobleman. Nicknamed 'Jack' to his friends (I'd say for his enthusiasm and energy but for all I know Alcock's friends beat me in making a dick joke)  Alcock was a stocky, cheerful lad, with red hair and the normal schoolboy obsession awesome machines, namely flying machines and cars that had started appearing in Manchester. He built balloons with his friends out of tissue paper and paste, using cotton wool and methylated spirit to create lifting gas. This interests in all things machine lead him to become (in short) a big nerd on the subject, and in 1908 he left school at 16 to apprentice as an engineer, his family having saved for years to afford the gigantic apprentice fee. (I might as well mention this now, 'engineer was a much broader term back then, applying to what we'd call a mechanic today to what we'd call a university educated engineer, and pretty much everything in between.) The Apprentice Alcock joined the Empress Engineering Company, and about a month after the works was commissioned to build an aeroplane by a local rich person who wanted one of these new 'toys.' As the Empress Company knew nothing about aircraft construction, the result looked very nice but did not fly. A month after this, Alcock, his father and his younger brother were among those in Manchester to stay up waiting to see who would win the London to Manchester aeroplane race.  

This new ambition proved to be the first of many lucky breaks in Alcock's career, as his previous avocation complemented the new direction perfectly: to be a pilot was still to be a mechanic on the ground about 90% of the time. The second stroke of good luck came when the apprentice changed employers to the firm of Norman Crossland, run by Mr. Norman Crossland. Crossland has started the local flying club in addition to being an engineer, and he was as mad for flying as Alcock, so Alcock now had a boss encouraging him. The next stroke of luck came when a flying Frenchman sent an aero engine to Empress Works to be repaired. As a specialized engine, nobody there really was familiar with it - but their former apprentice Alcock. Alcock was allowed to return to the works and oversaw the repair and overhaul of the engine, and personally returned the engine to Maurice Ducrocq, a French aviation pioneer and chief instructor at the first British flying school at the Brooklands aerodome. Mr. Ducrocq was so impressed that soon Alcock had a new job: being Ducrocq's personal mechanic.

This last lucky break put Alcock in Brooklands, and Brooklands was the center of the pre-war airplane world in the UK. Here everyone was a airplane nerd, and thus brothers in obsession, regardless of class or nationality. Some of these nerds included T.O.M. Sopwith, Freddie Raynham, Harry Hawker, and A.V. Roe. Engineering firms saw the potential of the new market,  with Bristol, Vickers, Martinsyde, and Rolls-Royce often visitors to the aerodrome. Alcock leared to fly in 1912, and the way you learned to fly was by hanging onto the airplane behind the pilot's seat, and keeping your hands on the pilot's control column. The saying was "no pilot is any good until they had broken wood", so aside from a few hours of ground instruction, this was everything to a pilot's education in 1912. Having eagerly absorbed all the flying talk around Brooklands and the Brooklands watering hole, the Blue Bird Cafe, Alcock proved brilliant as a pilot, making his first solo after two hours of instruction. Alcock stayed around Brooklands until the war broke out in 1914. He was a pilot, assembled aircraft for A.V. Roe, and participated in testing of aircraft and aircraft engines. Alcock was also was a competitive airplane racer, beating Mr. Sopwith and winning the first race he entered. Clearly Alcock belonged in this crowd.

The Daily Mail continue to issue airplane challenges with money for the victor, and flyers out of Brooklands and elsewhere competed to achieve them. Then, on April Fool's Day 1913, two new prizes were issued: first, a 5000 pound prize for flying around England and Scotland, and second, a 10,000 pound prize for a nonstop flight across the Atlantic. It was open to "aeroplanes, waterplanes, and airships." The contest assumed that thanks to prevailing winds, the flight would be made from Newfoundland to the UK - which at the time included Ireland. Open to all nationalities, this prize attracted a lot of attention from both European and one American pilot, Glenn Curtiss. Curtiss had with his British partner, John Cyril Porte, perfected the America flying boat. While war put a pin in the the duo's ambitions, this isn't the last time we'll hear of this aircraft. The declaration of war in the early fall of 1914 caused the Daily Mail to officially resend the prize.

'Jack' Alcock, Royal Naval Air Service.

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There was no way a man like John Alcock was not going to sign up, so he enlisted in the Royal Naval Air Service (RNAS.) As one of Britain's few expert pilots, he found himself an instructor at the RNAS flying school. He did this for two years, and was by all accounts an excellent teacher, but being a teacher in a flying school meant he rarely got to fly; most of his time was spent repairing aircraft his students had just broken. If not possessing the manic energy of Theodore Roosevelt, Alcock was a man who was happiest when all his considerable energies had an outlet. He was also a man who in peacetime had been a competitive airplane racer, so not being in the middle of the action rather went against his grain.

In December 1915 he received a commission as a Sub-Flight Lieutenant and became head of the Aerobatics school. For Alcock, the lots of flying was good; not actually in combat, not so much. After another year in December 1916, he was promoted to Flight Lieutenant and posted to the Rumanian front. By the time Alcock was in the eastern Mediterranean, that front had collapsed, and he found himself assigned to the No. 2 wing, RNAS, at Mudros on the island of Lemnos in the Aegean Sea.

Once again Alcock's luck was with him, as Mudros did all the flying,  and it's random assortment of aircraft, the leftovers of campaigns across the Mediterranean required ambidextrous piloting. Pilots didn't specialize in combat roles, so over the next ten months Alcock got to fly fighter patrols, recon flights, bombing missions (where Alcock was identified as a good long-distance flyer) ground harassment, and antisubmarine patrol. The book I'm getting this from he also mentioned Alcock "made the most of the local tavernas and found many friends among the descendants of Queen Hypsipyle." Though why the Greek women would be interested in a man named Alcock I haven't the foggiest

An RNAS O/400 in 1918, painted dark navy blue.

On the 8th of June 1917, a new aircraft appeared at Mudros: a Handley-Page O/100 bomber. The O/100 was one of the new breed of specialized bomber aircraft . The fighters of the era look delicate and well proportioned, while the O/100 took those looks and applied them to a Newcastle boxcar mated with a set of 30 m [100 ft] rectangular biplane wings and a box shaped biplane tail. The engines were suspended between the wings, Rolls-Royce Eagle mk. 8 V-12 engines, making 300 hp from 20.3 liters. Three flight crew were defended by three dedicated gunners in three positions, offensively could carry up to 2,000 lb (907 kg) of bombs. The O/100 had a range of approximately 650 km [400 miles], or an eight hour endurance. It's top speed was around 150 km/h [100 mph]. This particular aircraft, #3124, was one of the few that went to the RNAS instead of the RFC, and the Royal Navy had been dreaming up missions for it for at least a year. As Handley-Page refused to build the biplane floats as the RN first requested, even ferrying the aircraft to Greece was an adventure. On this flight it carried seven crewmen and six (imperial) tons of supplies, including the crew's luggage, bedding [they would be camping], tools, a disassembled spare engine, spare wheels, and two replacement propellers lashed to the side of the airplane. This burden often restricted the O/100 to altitudes of hundreds of feet when flying over elevations.It's a sidebar, but it gives you a good idea of what long-distance airplane flying looked like in Alcock's time:

Day One
Manston, UK to Villacoublay, France. Manston is east of London, just north of Dover. Villacoublay is a suburb of Paris near Versailles.

Day Two
Villacoublay to Lyon, France. Here, there was a weather delay. The next leg had them flying over the Rhone valley, who's elevation meant the overloaded O/100 had to wait until conditions were ideal.

Day Three
Next day, the O/100 managed - barely - to fly across the Rhone valley to Frejus - a coastal town near Cannes, where they discovered the landing field was dangerously short, and just managed a non-eventful landing.

Day Four
The shitty thing about landing in an inadequate field is you have to use it again the next day, to take off. This the crew of the O/100 did, and flew the coast of the French Riveria to Pisa in Italy.

Day Five
Flying the Riveria sounds glamorous, but the flight to Rome took place in constant rain. Fortunately the ocean remained at sea level, so the sky gypsies flopped into Rome with few problems.

Day Six
When the British Admirals dreamed up this operation, I'm sure they would have used the phrase "strictest secrecy", but unfortunately nobody told the Italians. The O/100 arrived in Naples with their arrival announced in newspapers and with a large crowd there too greet them.

Day Seven-Eight
A two day lull waiting for the weather to clear.

Day Nine
The overloaded O/100 was able to fly to the 'heel' of Italy, landing at Tarantino.

Day Ten
Now things got difficult. The O/100 few across the Adriatic Sea and attempted to cross Albania's mountains to reach the east coast of Greece. But, the mountains were higher than British charts had told the flyers, and the O/100 had to return to Tarantino.

Day 11
It was decided it would actually be Okay to offload the spare parts, spare wheels, and the spare propellors and send them by sea. This allowed the O/100 to get over the Albanian mountians and reach Ampelakia, a town in Eastern Greece.

Day 12
Finally, the 0/100 reached the island of Lemnos. The total trip had been 3146 km [1955 miles]  in 31.5 hours of flying time.

(Shoulda had an airship.)

The mission of the RNAS O/100 was to attack Constantinople, and two German warships docked there, the cruiser Goben and the battle cruiser Breslau. The mission, attempted at night with diversionary attacks on Gallipoli and Smyrna, achieved total surprise: the Ottomans had never guessed an air attack on their capital was possible, and the city was lit up as in peacetime. It seems the German warships escaped damage (though a U-boat next to Goben was not so lucky) and the O/100 had time first to attack a steamer the Germans were using as a H.Q. and then to attack the Ottoman's Ministry of War building. On their return to Lemnos, the commander, Flight Lt. Savoy, was recalled to Britian to recieve a DFC. The O/100 was now Alcock's to command.

With the two other Flight lieutenants, Aird, and Wise, Alcock flew a series of night bombing missions against the Ottomans. After their initial shock, the Ottomans began placing AA guns around likely targets, and got their German allies to station fighter aircraft nearby. Alcock's O/100 was restricted to low altitude when bombing, so in addition to defenses, the O/100 also had to do rather sphincter-clenching things like navigate hills in bad visibility and low altitude. Still, Alcock's bomber flew many night missions, with the Maintenance crews working all day to keep the O/100 ready. In his spare time, Alcock started a new project. Using spare parts kicking around the airfield, Alcock started improvising his own fighter design. The fuselage was mostly castoffs from other models of Sopwith, with a biplane's wings, but set low enough that the pilot actually looked out over the upper wing. It used a spare German bomber engine as a power plant.

The aircraft Alcock almost completed. Sometimes called the Alcock Scout, or the Sopwith Mouse, Alcock's friends would complete and use it. Its low-drag approach gave it a 32 km/h [20 mph] speed advantage over other fighters at the aerodrome. The Mouse was written off in a bad landing in the spring of 1918.

 Speaking of Germans, The German Air Force retaliated against these night raids with several attacks on Lemnos: one time the O/100 returned at dawn, its crew dreaming of breakfast only to discover the Kitchen had taken a direct hit the night before. On September 30th, 1917, at dawn, Alcock was feeling low, sick with Pappataci fever, and was still in his pajamas. Three German float planes appeared over the aerodrome. Alcock immediately got airborne in a Sopwith Camel, and shot down two of the Germans, driving a third off. He then landed, still in his pajamas. This feat would earn Alcock the Distinguished Flying Cross - though this would in fact be his last day 'in business' at Lemnos. 

That same day, the O/100 was to attack Adrianople, [now Edirne, Turkey], a town near the Bulgarian border, where the main rail yard connecting Constantinople with Germany was. The O/100 flew into the dark again, but after it made landfall one of the O/100's wooden propellers shattered with no warning. The crew abandoned their mission and steered for home (or at least to the Royal navy destroyer between Lemnos and the Dardanelles), but it was not to be. The O/100 made it to the coast, but then other engine overheated and seized, and the O/100 flopped into the sea close to shore near the old Gallipoli battlefield. Signals with flares brought sporadic rifle fire from Turkish soldiers instead of the Royal Navy, and by dawn the  O/100 sank. The three men swam to shore. Without supplies and exhausted, they gave themselves up to the Turks.

Between the Cushions of the Ottoman Empire

So being captured, and stripped of all your clothes, and marched a few kilometers at bayonet point through slate-y gravel paths and arriving in front of the Ottoman Major with bloody puttees definitely sucks all by itself. But remember that Alcock was running a fever and suffering flu symptoms on top of that.

The squadron back at Lemnos knew only the the O/100 had crashed near Gallipoli. After a few anxious days, good news came from an unexpected quarter.

A few days later, a German fighter flew high over the aerodrome and dropped a single quarter-full sandbag. In the sandbag were two notes: one written in English and again in Turkish, and a very short note from Alcock and company: "We are prisoners-of-war. All in good health. (Signed) J. Alcock, H. Aird, S.J. Wise." The bilingual note was from the Germans, who proposed delivering any personal effects, tobacco, soap etc. the aerodrome wanted to send to the POWs, and gave a signal and a time for a drop-off over the German aerodrome. The next day, November 4th, 1917, a British Pilot in a Sopwith Camel fired off two red flares, and dropped the supplies at the German air base at Chanak. It turns out the German aerodrome was directly next to the Ottoman POW camp. As the captured RNAS men were fellow flyers, the Germans hosted the three RNAS flyers in their mess, and volunteered to send a message to Lemnos for them. The commander of the Ottoman garrison, General Ferik Pasha, made sure the British POWs got and kept their supplies. The German pilots also tried to get the Navy flyers transferred to a German POW camp, but the Ottomans were quite cross at the RNAS for bombing Constantinople, so that was a nonstarter. Before being shipped to Constantinople, the German and RNAS pilots even posed for a photo together.

The trip to Constantinople was taken in a tramp steamer, filled with soldiers, peasants, and livestock. Alcock still had Pappataci fever.

More fun waited for the Navy flyers in Constantinople. First, their was more picture taking, this time involuntary: the POWs paraded in front of the movie cameras as the villains who bombed the Ottoman capital. Then, the prisoners got to meet the Ottoman Minister of War, Djavid Bey. Bey gave them coffee and cigarettes (to be fair to the Turks, every time the Navy men met a new official, they got coffee and cigarettes) and told them that the Navy flyers would be well taken care of, and that because of unspecified indignities done to Turkish officers by the Entente, they would be staying in a Turkish prison rather than a POW camp. Alcock asked for insecticide and lice power, and Bey replied "Yup!" Alcock did not get insecticide or lice powder.

The Navy flyers spent a month in the lousy (in both senses) Turkish prison, and it's Alcock got his first taste of serious downtime. Prison is hard to bear anyway, and without an outlet for activity, Alcock turned inward, dreaming of flying the Atlantic. His experience with the O/100 fired his imagination as to what a real transatlantic aircraft would need, and would discuss for hours ideas with his two fellow POWs.

At the end of the month, an improbable combination of marching bands and a state visit by Kaiser Wilhelm II saw an upgrade in accommodation. The after taking an oath that they would not try to escape, the Navy fliers were sent to the town of Kedos [Gediz], where surviving British POWs from the siege of Kut had been billeted. There was no camp and few guards; the town was so remote that escape was unlikely, so the POWs were free to busy themselves and wander as they would. They soon made friends of the local citizens, and Alcock was soon building things for others to his heart's content. The two other navy fliers busy themselves as well. Flight Lt. Wise's hobby was horology, and soon he had a brisk trade in repairing watches and constructing visual aids for engineering lectures. Canadian Flight Lt. Aird soon found his thing organizing amateur theatricals, which were popular with the POWs and the town alike.

These theatricals are why the whole town was empty on the night of the fire. Aird had managed to get a complete score from a contemporary hit west end musical, and things were going swimmingly until the start of the third act, when the blaze was noticed. Then POWs and townsfolk then worked together to save what they could. Morning saw both populations reduced to the same state: both had their lives and the clothes on their backs, but that was about it. The Navy pilots found the remains of the telegraph office, and managed to restore the telegraph to working order, sending a message about the calamity to the Turks.

This seems to have turned the RNAS flyers in the eyes of the Ottomans from "the Constantinople bombers" to "some decent dudes", and at the end of September 1918 when a prisoner exchange with the entente was proposed, Alcock was high on the list to exchange. Since the Ottoman empire was in a terminal recline, this meant Alcock and his fellow POWs had to walk to the port city of Smyrna, escorted by soldiers. The soldiers, ironically, were for the protection of the British POWs: bandits had become endemic to Western Anatolian mountains. Once everybody got to Smyera, the ship the POWs had been expecting to meet had not arrived. It was at this point the Turkish soldiers said "good luck with that" and left. Fortunately, the local expat community took the soldiers in, and kept them fed until a ship could be found to get them back to London.

Once Alcock returned to London on the 16th of December 1918, he discovered the race across the Atlantic was back on. The Daily Mail had re-instituted the prize on the 17th of July 1918. The rationale was the same: in addition to selling newspapers, the contest sought to stimulate aircraft development. The basic rules were any aircraft (that is, airplane, hydroplane, or airship) could attempt the crossing of some 3026 km [1,880 miles] (with Newfoundland and Ireland being allowed as start and end points.) The crossing had to be nonstop, and it had to take 72 hours or less. The purse was once again 10,000 pounds, but soon other organizations would donate to make the grand total 13,000 pounds [about 850,000 pounds in today's money, or $1.4 million dollars Canadian.]

So Alcock had to remain at barracks, waiting to be demobilized, while reading about the plans of others to be the first across the Atlantic. Pilots that Alcock had raced with in prewar had found sponsors and were making definite plans. Clearly Alcock was not the only man, like, super into this race.

Special thanks to Balloon Fish, who helped me out - a lot - understanding both the flight of the O/100 to the Aegean and Alcock's background.