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davantage.] At that moment, a gust forces me downwards. It seems to me I am finished. But Death obviously does not want me just yet.
By an incredible chance, the motor slowly restarts. I am saved. My brother aviators, you must never despair. My opinion of how the day will end forms very clearly: I will not have reached Manchester. I decide, however, to follow my route until I cannot make any more significant progress. It is in a state of acute physical exhaustion, but with firm resolve, that I leave this hellish place. The cylinder failures quickly return and grow worse. I am unable to fly any further like this. Sixty kilometres from Manchester, near the village of Settle, I find an excellent field, in a glorious setting, which looks better than many of the aerodromes I have met with since Hendon. In it I see some unusual obstacles; that is, bulls and sheep. How will these animals, normally so docile, but irritable if annoyed by a fly, receive me? I land quietly in a distant part of the field. The bulls continue to graze. The sheep, less disdainful, raise their heads and consider me with unmistakable interest. I have escaped from serious danger twice in half an hour. I am grounded, but without a scratch and full of resolve to press on. Within five minutes a multitude of people have run up from Settle, and from I don't know where. The public houses[? maisons particulières] and schools empty themselves. Everybody puts themselves eagerly at my disposal. I make a choice. These ones will carry some telegrams for me to the nearest post office, and those will buy petrol for me. A young man with a bright expression serves as my mechanic. He refuels the machine and checks the spark plugs. After one hour, forty-five minutes of repairs, I am ready to get away. The country people hold onto the fuselage and turn the propeller, delighted to be assisting in a take off. A joyful feeling wells up to recompense me for my hard work. I get airborne without difficulty. More mountains, more precipices. The route is easy, but I fly low, just a few metres above the ground, to the Malvern Hills. The rain which surprises me 2 or 3 kilometres from Manchester, does not inconvenience me at all. What is more, I do not even have to look for the airfield at Stafford Park. Even if the committee had not marked out the usual white cross, there are the tents and a considerable crowd. My first concern is to find out at what time Védrines left the aerodrome. “We still haven't seen him, “ they reply. They wish to drag me off for the tour of the field and a presentation. I hold on tightly to my monoplane, anxious to check it over. Of the three mechanics who were waiting for me, two have left for Settle. I make use of the third. While he works under my direction, I stretch out, sheltered by a tent. The flaps are open but some policemen keep the public at a distance. After a light sleep, I go out and receive a prize of 100 pounds from the president of the Manchester Handkerchief Society. Manchester - Bristol : 225 kilometres (5 h, 42'). - Through a calm and clear atmosphere, I only just attain 500 metres. There are definitely one or several systems in a bad state [un ou plusieurs organes en mauvais état]. My overheating “Gnome” reminds me of it constantly. And I am unable to climb higher to cool it. For two hours, its working condition does not alter but at last I descend despite all by efforts. I come down, successively, to 450, 400, 300 metres. How to rectify this critical situation? I have recourse to subterfuges. I cut the ignition and descend further, in a glide, to cool the motor. Then, I recover the altitude lost by making use of the slight gain in speed. These climbs and descents keep me at 300 metres or more. I also employ a better method: with flicks of elevator [à coups de stabilisateur] I go to 600 metres. By this tactic, I fly over the Severn Estuary. With the night, I make out the white cross of the aerodrome at Bristol. It is 8 h. 37'. My courageous rival has still not appeared. |
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