Charles Manly was in charge. He took particular care with these final preparations, for he was about to risk his life a second time aboard the ungainly craft taking shape on the launcher.
At about four-thirty, Manly went into conference with Langley, who had come out to the houseboat with a small party of friends and Smithsonian employees. The winter sky was darkening rapidly, and the gusts were so severe that it was impossible to keep the houseboat pointed into the wind. Both men were aware that the test could not be postponed—funds were gone, and the entire team had become something of a laughingstock. Conditions were far from perfect, but they were ready to go.
Manly stripped off his outer clothes. He would make the flight clad in a cork-lined jacket, union suit, stockings, and light shoes. Whether he succeeded or failed he faced a dunking in the icy waters of the Potomac and had no intention of being weighed down by heavy garments.
The would-be aviator carefully picked his way through the jumble of bracing wires and took a seat in the flimsy cockpit. As Manly ran up the engine, Langley escorted his friends and guests back to the small boats so that they could either applaud a turning point in history or assist in Manly’s rescue.
Satisfied with the sound of the engine and the operation of the controls, Manly gave the signal for release at about 4:45 P.M. He sped down the sixty-foot track, felt a sharp jerk, and immediately found himself staring straight up at the sky as the machine flipped over onto its back and dropped into the water.
Manly hung from the cockpit sides and entered the water feet first. In spite of his precautions, he was trapped beneath the surface with his jacket caught on a metal fitting. Ripping the garment off, he struggled through the maze of broken wood and wire only to reach the surface beneath an ice cake. Diving, he finally emerged in the open water some distance from the floating wreckage, just in time to see a concerned workman plunge under the remains of the craft to rescue him. Both men were quickly fished out of the water and carried to safety aboard the houseboat. Manly was uninjured, but so cold that Dr. F. S. Nash had to cut the clothes from his body.
The Langley Aerodrome was also ready to fly in the winter of 1903—or so its designer believed. Twice, on October 7 and December 8, the machine crashed into the Potomac. One reporter said it had the flying characteristics of “a handful of mortar.”
Moments later, wrapped in a blanket and fortified with whiskey, this genteel son of a university professor startled the group by delivering a “most voluble series of blasphemies.” Samuel Pierpont Langley’s twenty-year quest for the flying machine was over.19
Orv arrived back in camp at one o’clock on the afternoon of December 11, having made the trip from Dayton in only two days. The machine was fully reassembled the next day. There was not enough wind to attempt a flight, but they ran it up and down the track to check the speed, damaging the tailframe in the process. The wind was still too light to attempt a flight on December 13. They spent most of the day reading. Adam Etheridge, a lifesaver from the Kill Devil Hills station, appeared in camp that afternoon to show his wife and children the flying machine that was the talk up and down the beach.
They spent the morning of December 14 finishing repairs on the tail and starting truck. Then, at one-thirty, they tacked a large red flag up on the side of the hanger, signaling the lifesavers down on the beach that they were about to attempt a flight and could use a hand. Bob Westcott, John T. Daniels, Tom Beacham, Will Dough, and “Uncle Benny” O’Neal strolled into camp a few minutes later with several young boys who had been hanging around the station that morning.
The Wrights had decided that rather than fly from the flats near camp, they would take advantage of gravity, laying their rail down the lower slopes of the big hill. That would mean moving their fragile 700-pound machine about a quarter of a mile. It was hard work, and took some forty minutes. By 2:40 that afternoon the machine sat tied on the end of the rail, some 150 feet up the 9-degree slope. They started up the engine—the sudden clatter sending the boys skittering out of sight.
While the engine warmed up, the brothers stepped off by themselves for a moment. One of them fished a coin out of his pocket. Wilbur won the toss and climbed into the pilot’s position. Orv walked to the right wingtip. Will looked to both sides and reached forward to flip open the clip that held the restraining rope. Nothing happened. The weight of the machine headed downhill was putting too much pressure on the release clip. Orv called three lifesavers over and gently pushed the machine a few inches back up the slope to get some slack in the line.
Will started down the track before the crew was really prepared. Orv grabbed the upright as best he could and ran alongside to steady the craft as it rode down the rail. Before they had gone forty feet it was moving too fast for him to keep up. The machine rose into the air, and nosed sharply up to an altitude of perhaps fifteen feet. Flying at much too high an angle of attack, it slowed, stopped, and fell back to earth some sixty feet from the end of the rail.
The left wingtip struck first, swinging the craft around until the front skids hit the soft sand hard enough to splinter one of the elevator supports. Wilbur, stunned but uninjured, remained in place for a few seconds with the engine still running and the propellers ticking over. He finally reached forward and cut the engine. The first trial was over.
Just before the battle—December 14, 1903. The airplane is mounted on “the Grand Junction Railroad,” a 60-foot monorail laid down the slope of the Big Kill Devil Hill. Wilbur stalled the machine just after takeoff, aborting the Wrights’ first attempt at powered flight.
December 15 was spent making repairs to the machine. The work went quickly, but the slack wind ruled out any attempt at a second start. Orv hiked up the dunes to the village to send a wire home to Dayton: “Misjudgment at start reduced flight one hundred twelve power and control ample rudder only injured success assured keep quiet.”20
The repairs were completed by noon on December 16. They spent the afternoon with the machine set up on the rail, waiting for the wind to pick up. The downhill launch had been a mistake. Not only would it compromise their claim to an unassisted sustained flight, but the excessive launch speed compounded the difficulties of takeoff. This time they set up the rail less than a hundred feet from the corner of the old shed.
Much of the tension was gone. Will had assured Milton and Katharine that “There is now no question [but] of final success.”21 But that final success did not come on December 16. After waiting several hours for the proper conditions, they gave up for the day.
They were up and about early on the morning of December 17. The day dawned cold and clear. A frigid 24-mile per hour wind swept out of the north, freezing the pools of standing water that had collected in the sand hollows. The Wrights were accustomed to the cold. Over a month before, Will had described how they managed at night to Milton: “In addition to … 1, 2, 3, and 4 blanket nights, we now have 5 blanket nights, & 5 blankets & 2 quilts. Next come 5 blankets, 2 quilts & a fire; then 5, 2, fire, & hot water jug…. Next comes the addition of sleeping without undressing, then shoes & hats, and finally overcoats.”22
The crew of the U.S. Lifesaving Service Station, Kill Devil Hills, N.C., made up the world’s first aircraft ground crew. Proud men—and hard—they are shown here in 1900.
The morning began with a familiar round of chores. While one man washed and shaved, the other fed chunks of driftwood into the makeshift stove that doubled for heating and cooking. Within half an hour both were dressed in white shirts, celluloid collars, and ties. Hoping that the bitter wind might abate, they remained indoors until about ten o’clock, when they decided to make a second try at flying.
As before, they tacked up the signal banner to summon the lifesavers, then set to work hauling out the sections of launch rail and pinning them down on the sand. Before they were quite ready, Adam Etheridge, John Daniels, and Will Dough walked into camp. They were accompanied by W. C. Brinkley, a lumber buyer from Manteo who had hiked over to the station to survey the t
imbers of a wrecked vessel, and Johnny Moore, a young man who lived with his widowed mother in a shack in the Nags Head woods.
Surfman Bob Westcott had the duty at Kill Devil Hills Lifesaving Station that morning; he would split his time between preparations for lunch and watching the activity in the dunes through his spyglass. Four miles down the beach at the Kitty Hawk station, Captain S. J. Payne also had a glass trained on the little party gathered around the sheds. The area was flat, and he could see that there was some activity, but could not tell precisely what was going on. Payne supposed they must be planning to try the flying machine again.
Two others, Bill Tate and Alpheus Drinkwater, had also been invited. Tate, who had not been in camp for some days, intended to stop by that afternoon once his chores were out of the way. Drinkwater was out of sight down the beach, watching the remains of one of the first U.S. Navy submarines, the Moccasin (A-4), which had broken loose and washed ashore while under tow. A federal employee, Drinkwater had been instructed to keep an eye on the sub until the Navy arrived. Convinced there was a promotion in it, he declined the Wrights’ invitation to come up to camp that morning.
By ten-thirty the machine was set up at the head of the launch rail. A few drops of gasoline were pumped into each cylinder; the battery box was hoisted onto the wing and attached to the engine. After a final check all round, Wilbur and Orville walked to the rear and pulled the propellers through in unison. The engine coughed to life.
While the engine was warming up, the brothers withdrew. One of the lifesavers recalled that “we couldn’t help notice how they held on to each other’s hand, sort 0’ like two folks parting who weren’t sure they’d ever see one another again.”23
They shook hands and Orv climbed into place beside the engine, prone on the lower wing with his feet braced against a board tacked to the rear spar. He shifted his hips from side to side, checking the wing warping and rudder, then moved the elevator up and down. His right hand rested on a horizontal lever that had only three positions—right, center, and left. When pointing to the pilot’s right, the cock connecting the fuel line to the engine was closed. To start the engine, the lever was moved to the center. When the pilot was ready to begin flight, he moved the lever one notch farther to the left, slipping the line that held the machine in place so it could move down the rail. At the same time, a stopwatch, anemometer, and propeller revolution counter were set in motion.
With Orv in place, Will turned and walked to the small group of spectators. He dispatched Daniels to man the camera pointed at the end of the rail. Orv had arranged his large box camera on its tripod before starting, and outlined the procedure; if the craft left the rail, Daniels had only to snap the shutter. Standing there shivering in the cold, he could not possibly have guessed that he was about to take one of the most famous photographs in history.
Wilbur walked back to the men with a final request—“not to look too sad, but to … laugh and holler and clap … and try to cheer Orville up when he started.” The elder brother then strode to the right wing-tip, removing the small wooden bench that had been supporting that side of the aircraft.
Kill Devil Hills, N.C., 10:35 A.M., December 17, 1903. Surfman John T. Daniels, pressed into service as a photographer, caught the machine just as it left the rail, with Wilbur in mid-stride. The result is perhaps the most reproduced photograph of all time.
At about 10:35, Orv shifted the lever to the left. Slowly, much more slowly than on December 14, the machine began to move down the rail into the teeth of a wind that was now gusting up to 27 miles per hour. Wilbur had no trouble keeping up with the craft, which rose from the track after only a forty-foot run. Daniels snapped the photo catching Will in mid-stride, apparently a bit startled by what was happening. He is the center of attention, the object to which the eye is drawn. That is as it should be.
The lifesavers broke into a ragged cheer. Bob Westcott, still watching through his telescope, let out a whoop of his own. The griddle cakes he was preparing for lunch that day were burned.
It was over very quickly. The airplane floundered forward, rising and falling for 12 seconds until it struck the sand only 120 feet from the point at which it had left the rail. You could have thrown a ball farther but, for the Wrights, it was enough. For the first time in history, an airplane had taken off, moved forward under its own power, and landed at a point at least as high as that from which it had started—all under the complete control of the pilot. On this isolated, windswept beach, a man had flown.
The 1903 airplane, its elevator support broken in a hard landing following the fourth and final flight of December 17, 1903—852 feet in 59 seconds.
The small group ran forward to congratulate Orv. Then it was back to work, carrying the machine to the starting point for another trial. But first the Wrights invited everyone inside for a bit of warmth. When they reemerged at 11:20, Will took his place for a flight of 195 feet. Twenty minutes later, Orv was back in the cradle, covering 200 feet in 15 seconds. At about noon, Will tried again, with spectacular success: he flew 852 feet in 59 seconds, demonstrating beyond any doubt that the machine was capable of sustained flight.
The distance for the men carrying the machine back to the starting point was longer this time. When it was done, they paused for a moment to catch their breath. The brothers, confident now, discussed the possibility of a really long flight—perhaps all the way down the beach to the telegraph at the Kitty Hawk weather station.
Suddenly, a gust of wind raised one wingtip high into the air. Daniels, who was standing closest, jumped to catch a strut and was carried along. The engine broke loose as the disintegrating machine rolled over backward to the accompaniment of Daniels’s screams and the sound of snapping wires and splintering wood. When the dust settled, the world’s first airplane lay transformed into a twisted mass of wreckage. Daniels, at least, was uninjured. For the rest of his life, he would remind anyone willing to listen that he had survived the first airplane crash.
The Wrights and their volunteer crew dragged what was left back into the hangar. The earlier aircraft, the gliders of 1900–02, had simply been abandoned at the site. This time they would ship the remains home to Dayton.
Having done all they could, the lifesavers walked back to their station. Johnny Moore, determined to be the first to break the news, sprinted down the beach toward Kitty Hawk. Encountering Bill Tate, he called out: “They done it! They done it! Damn’d if they ain’t flew!”24
The Wrights ate a quiet, unhurried lunch, then strolled to Kitty Hawk themselves. They called on friends to confirm the reports of their success, but not before sending a telegram to the bishop. There was only one telegraph in Kitty Hawk, the Weather Bureau instrument that Joe Dosher used to communicate with the main office in Norfolk each day. Dosher, who had been the Wrights’ first friend and contact on the Outer Banks, was on duty that afternoon. He agreed to send the message on to Bureau headquarters in Norfolk, where it would be passed to the Western Union operator for transmission to Dayton.
Just as the Wrights were leaving the Weather Bureau shack to walk on into the village, Dosher called them back. The Norfolk operator, Jim Gray, had sent a return message, asking if he could share the news with a reporter at the Norfolk Virginian-Pilot. The answer was an emphatic no.25
The Wrights had already arranged for the release of their story. Orv had given instructions to the family back in November—“If we should succeed in making a flight, and telegraph, we will expect Lorin as our press agent (!) to notify the papers and the Associated Press.” By early December, Milton was busy “getting typewriter copies of the description of the Wright flyer, and copies of a sketch of the inventors” ready for distribution to newsmen.26
Carrie was working in the kitchen at 7 Hawthorn when the telegram arrived at half past five on the evening of December 17. She immediately took it upstairs to Milton. At some point during the roundabout transmission process Orville’s name had been misspelled, but the basic message was clear. They had do
ne it.
Success four flights thursday morning # all against twenty one mile wind started from Level with engine power alone # average speed through air thirty one miles longest 57 [sic] seconds inform Press home ####Christmas.
Orevelle Wright27
Milton was all smiles when Katharine arrived home from school a few minutes later. Carrie agreed to hold supper while she walked the telegram and a copy of the bishop’s press release over to Lorin’s house. Along the way she stopped to telegraph the news to Chanute. The message was delivered to his home just after eight o’clock that evening.28 His response was immediate—and typical:
I am deeply grateful to you for your telegram of this date advising me of the successful flights of your brothers. It fills me with pleasure. I am sorely tempted to make the achievement public, but will defer doing so in order that they may be the first to announce their success. I earnestly hope they will do still better.29
Lorin went downtown to the offices of the Dayton Journal after supper and was directed to the desk of Frank Tunison, local representative of the Associated Press. Tunison was uninterested. His comment to Lorin became legend in newspaper circles: “Fifty-seven seconds, hey? If it had been fifty-seven minutes then it might have been a news item.” Seven decades later, Lorin’s daughter Ivonette could “still remember the depressed expression on my father’s face when he returned.”30
Had it been up to Tunison, the story might never have gotten out. Back in Norfolk, however, Ed Dean proved more enterprising. Dean was a friend of Jim Gray, the Norfolk operator Joe Dosher had asked to relay the Wrights’ message on to Western Union. Gray told Dean about the telegram despite his instructions. Dean in turn approached his city editor, Keville Glennan, who agreed that the story was too good to pass up. The two men spent the next few hours fleshing out the sparse and enigmatic details of the telegram. Harry Moore, who worked in the Virginian-Pilot circulation department, also took a hand in composing the news account.
The Bishop's Boys: A Life of Wilbur and Orville Wright Page 30
