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W. Earl Hall World War II stories, 1944
Letter #47
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slug-Big Plane-4 By W. EARL HALL Globe-Gazette Managing Editor Letter No. 47 Over the Atlantic--As the notes for this letter are being jotted down in the spacious cabin of a Boeing Clipper, on the last leg of a flight from South Ireland to a point not far from our national capital, an 87 mile an hour hurricane is raging about us. That's the information I have from the navigator's panel. Amazingly enough, I wouldn't know it if he hadn't told me. Though we're heading squarely into the gale--more violent than any I've ever experienced on land--our monster plane is riding more smoothly than the B. & O. Capital Limited which a little less than 2 months ago carried me from Chicago to Washington. The up and down motion isn't as pronounced as it was an hour or two ago when from some 200 or 300 miles we were over the lake country of Nova Scotia. Air is habitually bumpier over land than over sea. It seems that the only effect of a wind, except the tornado variety, is either to increase or cut down the speed of a Clipper, depending on whether it's a headwind or a tailwind or a quartering wind. If a plane's cruising speed is 150 miles an hour and it encounters a 50 mile headwind, it automatically is reduced to 100 miles an hour. A tail wind of the same velocity would step up the ship's speed to 200 miles an hour. Incidentally the speed of our plane at the moment these notes are being written is approximately 65 miles an hour. And that's what you call loafing on a trans-ocean flight. On this particular flight we have been dogged by adverse winds. We're taking just one night short of a full week for a trip from London which normally would be made in a little more than 2 days. Once, after a 24 hour delay in South Ireland, we got out over the Atlantic to within 20 miles of the midway point and had to turn back. The 70 mile an hour headwind had cut too deeply into our fuel supply. We flew out at 75 miles an hour and back at 225. My heart fairly aches as I think of the 3,500 gallons of precious gasoline consumed on this futile jaunt. What it wouldn't do in the tank of my automobile! And I presume I rank as Iowa's version of "Wrong Way" Corrigan--the American flyer who a few years ago started out from New York to San Francisco and ended up in Ireland, according to his own version. In my case I've crossed the Atlantic twice to get across once! I went to bed on this Clipper one night expecting to awake on the North American continent. When I peered out the window of my commodious berth, however, I beheld what appeared to be an amazing phenomenon--the sun rising in the west. You've guessed it. We were back to the place from which we were started. And our 5 unscheduled days in the region of the River Shannon were not without their compensation. I came to know and understand a kindly race of people. But more about that later in a special commentary. But getting back to "Wrong Way Corrigan," I'm not so sure that his story was a phoney as I used to be. As I near my destination, here's my own testimonial: I've seen the ocean only once in approximately 6,000 miles above it--and that only a few minutes ago. Clouds have blanketed it by day and both clouds and darkness by night. The delay to which our party of 20 has been subjected, I should explain in fairness to ocean travel, was the first experienced by this line on this route for more than 6 months. I just happened to be unlucky. Or was I? The comforts of aerial trans-ocean travel are wonderful almost beyond description. The berths are more roomy than on a Pullman; the food is tasty; the lounging cabin, about 12 by 12, offers every facility for reading, cards or what have you. On short hops, when sleeping accommodations are not required, this ship can carry as many as 70 passengers. Personnel on board at this time includes 20 passengers and 12 crew members. The fleecy cloud layer below is a continuous panorama of beauty.
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slug-Big Plane-4 By W. EARL HALL Globe-Gazette Managing Editor Letter No. 47 Over the Atlantic--As the notes for this letter are being jotted down in the spacious cabin of a Boeing Clipper, on the last leg of a flight from South Ireland to a point not far from our national capital, an 87 mile an hour hurricane is raging about us. That's the information I have from the navigator's panel. Amazingly enough, I wouldn't know it if he hadn't told me. Though we're heading squarely into the gale--more violent than any I've ever experienced on land--our monster plane is riding more smoothly than the B. & O. Capital Limited which a little less than 2 months ago carried me from Chicago to Washington. The up and down motion isn't as pronounced as it was an hour or two ago when from some 200 or 300 miles we were over the lake country of Nova Scotia. Air is habitually bumpier over land than over sea. It seems that the only effect of a wind, except the tornado variety, is either to increase or cut down the speed of a Clipper, depending on whether it's a headwind or a tailwind or a quartering wind. If a plane's cruising speed is 150 miles an hour and it encounters a 50 mile headwind, it automatically is reduced to 100 miles an hour. A tail wind of the same velocity would step up the ship's speed to 200 miles an hour. Incidentally the speed of our plane at the moment these notes are being written is approximately 65 miles an hour. And that's what you call loafing on a trans-ocean flight. On this particular flight we have been dogged by adverse winds. We're taking just one night short of a full week for a trip from London which normally would be made in a little more than 2 days. Once, after a 24 hour delay in South Ireland, we got out over the Atlantic to within 20 miles of the midway point and had to turn back. The 70 mile an hour headwind had cut too deeply into our fuel supply. We flew out at 75 miles an hour and back at 225. My heart fairly aches as I think of the 3,500 gallons of precious gasoline consumed on this futile jaunt. What it wouldn't do in the tank of my automobile! And I presume I rank as Iowa's version of "Wrong Way" Corrigan--the American flyer who a few years ago started out from New York to San Francisco and ended up in Ireland, according to his own version. In my case I've crossed the Atlantic twice to get across once! I went to bed on this Clipper one night expecting to awake on the North American continent. When I peered out the window of my commodious berth, however, I beheld what appeared to be an amazing phenomenon--the sun rising in the west. You've guessed it. We were back to the place from which we were started. And our 5 unscheduled days in the region of the River Shannon were not without their compensation. I came to know and understand a kindly race of people. But more about that later in a special commentary. But getting back to "Wrong Way Corrigan," I'm not so sure that his story was a phoney as I used to be. As I near my destination, here's my own testimonial: I've seen the ocean only once in approximately 6,000 miles above it--and that only a few minutes ago. Clouds have blanketed it by day and both clouds and darkness by night. The delay to which our party of 20 has been subjected, I should explain in fairness to ocean travel, was the first experienced by this line on this route for more than 6 months. I just happened to be unlucky. Or was I? The comforts of aerial trans-ocean travel are wonderful almost beyond description. The berths are more roomy than on a Pullman; the food is tasty; the lounging cabin, about 12 by 12, offers every facility for reading, cards or what have you. On short hops, when sleeping accommodations are not required, this ship can carry as many as 70 passengers. Personnel on board at this time includes 20 passengers and 12 crew members. The fleecy cloud layer below is a continuous panorama of beauty.
World War II Diaries and Letters
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