Read Online Marked for Death by James Hamilton-Paterson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Hamilton-Paterson
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improved. It is now possible to view the whole development of aviation during the First World War as a direct consequence of the static trench and artillery warfare on the ground, with rapidly escalating demands for aircraft to fill different and more demanding tactical roles. By early 1915 more accurate anti-aircraft defences were forcing pilots up to 8,000 feet or so, over twice as high as they had been used to flying a mere six months earlier. But at 8,000 feet accurate observation by eye of what was happening within the intricate network of trenches was very difficult, particularly as so much was increasingly disguised from aerial spying by the burgeoning art of camouflage. An observer peering over the side of his cockpit, attempting to stop his goggles being torn off his face in the seventy-mile-an-hour gale while trying to draw maps and take pencil notes on flapping paper with frozen fingers – this was clearly no way to conduct a vital military survey. Thus cameras became more and more important while gaining in intricacy, size and weight, which in turn necessitated better aircraft performance at altitude.
Aeroplanes became increasingly vital for artillery observation, too, which meant it was essential to have quick and accurate communication with the gunners on the ground. No longer could an airborne spotter rely on signalling their hits and misses by shooting off a series of colour-coded flares from his Very pistol. He needed to carry a wireless transmitter, which in turn meant still more weight and improved engine and airframe design to cope with it. In time, aircraft with bombing capabilities were expected to fly to more distant targets with a heavier bomb load, which also meant having to fly higher to avoid anti-aircraft fire. Once aircraft were armed with effective machine guns, observation machines and bombers also needed them for theirown defence, as well as increased speed and the ability to climb fast in order to avoid trouble. By the war’s end combat aircraft were regularly reaching 22,000 feet, an unimaginable height only four years earlier.
In this escalating fashion the developing war on the ground fed directly into the way aircraft were built, and it all happened at a breakneck pace. The rival air forces watched each other closely for any new technology, eagerly tore apart their opponents’ latest downed aircraft for its secrets, tried always to keep one step ahead. Serious aeronautical institutions like that at Farnborough did their best to work out the intricacies of flight theory; but in the companies that actually built the aircraft, practice was often more the product of hunches and bright ideas than of theory, and not all the hunches worked. Thus, aviation from 1903 to at least the end of the First World War can be seen as a constant series of experiments as little by little the basics of twentieth-century aerodynamics came together in a solid body of knowledge. The science of flight certainly did not stop there; but a good deal of the raw spadework was achieved in that first air war, albeit at prodigious cost in money and lives.
Many aspects of aircraft design were dictated by factors that had nothing to do with aerodynamics. The sundry French – and particularly British – ‘pusher’ machines were made necessary simply because at the time they had no synchronisation gear allowing a machine gun to fire forward through the propeller arc, therefore the propeller was most easily placed behind. They were not beautiful, those pusher biplanes with a blunt nacelle sticking out in front like a canoe while behind that an open trellis-work of bare metal tubing enclosed a yawning space wide enough to accommodate a whirling eight- or nine-foot diameter propeller. This trellis joined together some fourteen feet behind to support a fabric-covered tail. Pusher aircraft like the D.H.2 were often good for what they were, and usefully manoeuvrable, and at any time other than war they probably offered a
Aeroplanes became increasingly vital for artillery observation, too, which meant it was essential to have quick and accurate communication with the gunners on the ground. No longer could an airborne spotter rely on signalling their hits and misses by shooting off a series of colour-coded flares from his Very pistol. He needed to carry a wireless transmitter, which in turn meant still more weight and improved engine and airframe design to cope with it. In time, aircraft with bombing capabilities were expected to fly to more distant targets with a heavier bomb load, which also meant having to fly higher to avoid anti-aircraft fire. Once aircraft were armed with effective machine guns, observation machines and bombers also needed them for theirown defence, as well as increased speed and the ability to climb fast in order to avoid trouble. By the war’s end combat aircraft were regularly reaching 22,000 feet, an unimaginable height only four years earlier.
In this escalating fashion the developing war on the ground fed directly into the way aircraft were built, and it all happened at a breakneck pace. The rival air forces watched each other closely for any new technology, eagerly tore apart their opponents’ latest downed aircraft for its secrets, tried always to keep one step ahead. Serious aeronautical institutions like that at Farnborough did their best to work out the intricacies of flight theory; but in the companies that actually built the aircraft, practice was often more the product of hunches and bright ideas than of theory, and not all the hunches worked. Thus, aviation from 1903 to at least the end of the First World War can be seen as a constant series of experiments as little by little the basics of twentieth-century aerodynamics came together in a solid body of knowledge. The science of flight certainly did not stop there; but a good deal of the raw spadework was achieved in that first air war, albeit at prodigious cost in money and lives.
Many aspects of aircraft design were dictated by factors that had nothing to do with aerodynamics. The sundry French – and particularly British – ‘pusher’ machines were made necessary simply because at the time they had no synchronisation gear allowing a machine gun to fire forward through the propeller arc, therefore the propeller was most easily placed behind. They were not beautiful, those pusher biplanes with a blunt nacelle sticking out in front like a canoe while behind that an open trellis-work of bare metal tubing enclosed a yawning space wide enough to accommodate a whirling eight- or nine-foot diameter propeller. This trellis joined together some fourteen feet behind to support a fabric-covered tail. Pusher aircraft like the D.H.2 were often good for what they were, and usefully manoeuvrable, and at any time other than war they probably offered a
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