The Flight Of The "June Bug"

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The June Bug II

After some initial reluctance, Curtiss agreed to join Bell's team, and the Aerial Experiment Association (AEA) was born. Selfridge summarized their goal: "to get into the air." Mrs. Bell, the unofficial sixth member, sold a house lot she owned in Washington, D.C., to fund the operation. Each man would take the lead in designing an aircraft, and the others would assist. With each aircraft, they would build on what had been learned from its predecessors.

Bell had a starting point-a tetrahedral kite "big as a house" at Baddeck. It might fly, but his younger colleagues apparently recognized from the start that it would never be practical. When the kite was wrecked in an unpowered test flight, it gave the younger men an excuse to move winter operations to Hammondsport, New York, in the Finger Lakes region. There, they would concentrate on aeroplanes, though not one of the five had actually laid eyes on one.

By March 1908, they were ready. Red Wing was built in the Curtiss plant with Selfridge as lead designers role he was awarded in recognition of his brush with death as pilot of Bell's kite. The new machine was a biplane with upper and lower wingtips angled toward each other. It had a 45hp, 145-pound Curtiss V-8 pusher engine. Red Wing, or Aerodrome no. 1, had a front elevator and a rear rudder, but there were no wing warpers or ailerons-no provision at all for lateral stability. It was equipped with skids, like the Wright aeroplanes, but the AEA had decided against assisted takeoffs such as the Wrights preferred.

"Bell's boys" created the aircraft carrier before they had even flown, perching Red Wing on the small steamer Springstead for a voyage to solid ice on Lake Keuka. Selfridge was away on Army busi ness in Washington, so Casey Baldwin got the nod and flew it 312 feet-making him, by most historical accounts, the first man outside the Wright camp to fly in the western hemisphere.

When Red Wing crashed on its second flight, the team turned to Aerodrome no. 2, White Wing, with Casey Baldwin taking the lead. This employed the engine from its predecessor, but incorporated two important new features. White Wing was the first airplane in America to use wheels; indeed, it pioneered the tricycle landing gear, apparently borrowed from a propeller-driven "wind wagon" invented earlier by Curtiss. It also had movable surfaces outboard of the wingtips-America's first ailerons, and the AEA's solution to lateral stability.

Ailerons were being used in Europe, and the Wright wing warp ing was a less efficient application of the same principle. The AEA "wingtips," as Bell forcefully stated, were an independent development and an important step in extending the airplane's practicality. The first attempts in May failed to get airborne until Bell realized that the fabric was too porous (they were learning everything from scratch). Doping solved the problem, and Baldwin flew again, followed by Selfridge, making the first powered flight by a U.S. military man. Curtiss celebrated his 30th birthday by making his first flight, with Selfridge elatedly reporting that the motorcycle man had steered both right and left with the airplane "in perfect control at all times."

Red Wing got them into the air; with White Wing, they were starting to fly; or they were until McCurdy took his turn. The Canadian had already taken a lot of ribbing for his habit of falling off motorcycles, and even needing crutches for a time. On May 23, he wrecked White Wing after flying 183 yards. Nothing was lost, however, as the Association had learned enough. They turned to Aerodrome no. 3.

To the casual eye, no. 3 was simply a modification of White Wing. The wing surface was reduced and the aileron surface increased. The frame and wheelbase were stretched a little, and a cloth windscreen was removed; lead designer Curtiss liked to see where he was going. He also rigged up a shoulder yoke and strap to engage the ailerons. The pilot would lean into a turn or away from an undesired dip, imitating the movements of a motorcycle operator. The movements were instinctive, and the results were elegant. They were also a simple transition for cycling experts. By mid-June, Aerodrome no. 3 was under a tent at Stony Brook

Farm, just south of Hammondsport, where vintner Harry Champlin had loaned his trotting-horse track. Curtiss drove Mrs. Malinda Bennit out to see his creation. In 1900, she had given the fatherless 22-year-old rent-free use of a small shop on the Hammondsport square. The Curtiss business had prospered, and he begged his old patron to name the new machine.

It must have been something of a letdown when the elderly widow protested that her old head wasn't up to the task. Dr. Bell stepped in and christened no. 3 June Bug. It may have looked much like White

Wing, but Curtiss, by his own testimony, had profited immensely from that single flight. Those seemingly minor improvements had dramatically increased performance. By June 21, Curtiss had made at least three flights, the longest being 1,266 feet at 34mph. It gratified AEA members and villagers that Mrs. Bell, recovering from an illness, was on hand for that eminently successful effort.

The fabric was varnished, tingeing the wings yellow. On June 25, Curtiss flew 2,125 feet in the morning and 3,420 feet in the evening. Flights were now limited only by the length of cleared field, and Curtiss had at last surpassed a kilometer. Selfridge announced, "We have telegraphed and telephoned Secretary Aero Club of America that we are now ready to try for the Scientific American cup. Hurrah!"

This announcement caused a stir in New York City, where the Aero Club and Scientific American both had headquarters. The magazine had offered a trophy for an unassisted takeoff followed by a one-kilometer straight flight, which Curtiss had just beaten in an unofficial effort. The Wright brothers had flown as far as 24 miles in a circular pattern, but their efforts were also unofficial; moreover, they were still using a monorail launcher. Officials offered to hold off Curtiss if the Wrights would quickly make an effort. Orville responded that they could substitute wheels for skids, but he expressed his confidence that future airplanes would continue to be launched from special apparatus rather than from wheels on ground. He was also busy preparing for U.S. Army trials at the end of the summer this would make the trophy effort a "great inconvenience." He promised to outfit one machine with wheels "at the first opportunity."

Scientific American and the Aero Club resignedly returned to Curtiss and McCurdy, who further exasperated them by insisting that the trial take place in Hammondsport, rather than in New York City. Bell's boys were definitely a threat to good order. Curtiss, usually reserved in public, jubilantly told his townsfolk, "We'll fly the June Bug on the Fourth of July. Advertise it. Invite everybody interested in flight. Draw a crowd to Hammondsport and prove to the world that we can really fly."

Thus it was that autos, horse-drawn conveyances and special trains converged on Stony Brook Farm that Saturday, July some arriving as early as 5 a.m.-and eventually delivered a 1,000 spectators. The Aero Club sent 22 members. Aviation luminaries such as Charles Manley, Augustus Herring and Tom Baldwin were on hand, as was a representative of the German government. The Bells were represented by their daughter and son-in-law, David Fairchild, of the Agriculture Department. A movie crew was standing by, eager to catch the first footage of an American airplane in flight.

The only missing element was Curtiss. His daredevil reputation-they called him "The Hell Rider" on a motorcycle track-overlooked the fact that he carefully studied his racecourses and meticulously planned his speed and maneuvers for every point. Crowds and competitors gasped at his daring, but he never made a move without first having calculated that it could be done safely.

The rain was wrong, and the wind was wrong. Special trains, annoyed officials, public promises, angry neighbors mattered not a whit. Conditions were not good. Until they were, Glenn Curtiss wouldn't fly.

Arriving dignitaries were whisked to "places of entertainment by automobile. Fairchild whiled away his time photographing inside the Curtiss plant, giving us our best look at the motorcycle operation. The crowd, mollified by the Pleasant Valley Co.'s generosity, controlled its impatience until late afternoon, when the newly minted aviator at last arrived on the scene. The wind and the rain had died down. Curtiss was satisfied at last.

Officials gave Curtiss permission to weave around obstacles such as vineyards, but they insisted that the kilometer be measured in a straight line; this meant that flying distance would be longer. Takeoff, around 7 p.m., was followed by near disaster.

Curtiss, although shoving down on the elevator for all he was worth, unexpectedly shot up to 40 feet-higher than the AEA boys were accustomed to flying; this considerably frightened his wife. The tail had been attached at the wrong angle, and Curtiss cut his engine and landed ignominiously 1,000 feet short of his goal.

There was no shortage of volunteers to push the machine back to its starting point The tail was readjusted, and at 7:30 p.m., Curtiss again straddled the pilots bench. Ahead of him, a photographer set up his camera-just short of the kilometer mark.

Curtiss generally kept his feelings to himself, but it's fair to assume that the long wait, the expectant crowds and officials, the public promises and the false start had been frustrating; a pessimistic photographer was the final straw! He started the engine.

"Man flies!" wrote Fairchild. Mrs. Fairchild freely admitted that she cried. One woman, engrossed in the spectacle, was struck by a slow-moving train and broke two ribs. At heights between 10 and 20 feet, Curtiss "flew like a real June bug," in his own words. Weaving a little to avoid obstructions, he passed the red one-kilometer flag, and kept going, leaving behind startled family, friends and officials. "Just on account of Mr. B-(Curtiss never identified Mr. B.)," he wrote, "who was standing at the finish with a camera to photograph the machine in case I fell short on the distance, I flew the machine as far as the field would permit, regardless of fences, ditches, etc." He was a mile down the road to Hammondsport when his air-cooled engine reached its limit He had flown at 39mph and used almost a quart of gas. Presumably, he was satisfied with his efforts, for he wrote to Bell, -Me affair of the Fourth went off very nicely." Back in Pleasant Valley, they threw the wine cellars open for a second time.

Curtiss flew again on Sunday afternoon, before a bigger crowd described by the local paper as "... the entire population of Hammondsport and surrounding country." Once again, special trains ran, this time carrying the town band, which filled any gaps in the action. The band had already met a lake steamer full of dignitaries returning from an excursion and played "some of the liveliest airs," while Selfridge and Casey Baldwin "... carried Mr. Curtiss from the steamer, much to the discomfort of the unassuming gentleman." Curtiss attempted a complete turn, but cut his flight short to avoid another of those pesky vineyards.

Graham Bell was already burning up the wires to his patent lawyers. It turned out to be a sensible move because Wilbur Wright wrote to Orville from Europe five days later and stated his opinion that a flyer could not be made practical without using features of their patent, and he recommended that they ask Curtiss "... whether he would like to take a license to operate under our patent for exhibition purposes. I would not offer any manufacturing rights." The curtain was going up on a decade of acrimonious patent wars, and the brothers were shrewdly focusing their attention on Curtiss, rather than on the highly revered Bell.

Bell firmly vetoed a proposal that Curtiss race French aviator Henri Farman and recalled Casey Baldwin to Nova Scotia for further work on kites. McCurdy set to work designing Aerodrome no. 4 in Hammondsport, while Curtiss turned his attention to Tom Baldwin, who was creating the Army's first airship. Lt. Selfridge watched the two Hammondsporters conduct breathtaking acceptance trials at Fort Myer in August, and he joined the acceptance board for the Wright airplane in September.

Orville Wright was disgruntled at having a potential competitor in such a position, but Selfridge clearly knew more about aviation than any other officer. Disaster struck when a propeller snapped in flight, wrecked the airplane and seriously injured Orville Wright and killed Tom Selfridge. He was the first man to die in an airplane accident.

The shaken AEA carried on, experimenting with June Bug as McCurdy slowly honed his flying skills. He wanted a machine that would steer more sensitively, so June Bug was altered by shortening its tail and removing the horizontal stabilizers. The results were so gratifying that the configuration went into the no. 4 design. The June Bug movie reached Hammondsport in late October and prompted another band concert as crowds waited their turn to see it in front of the town hall. The festive air was sobered by film of Selfridge and his little dog.

McCurdy wasn't the only one with new ideas. Curtiss had grown up on 20-mile-long Keuka Lake, so perhaps it was natural that he envisioned water flying. June Bug was refitted with two large canoe-like pontoons and rechristened Loon. Curtiss had built a 4-cylinder, water-cooled engine for the Army dirigible and now produced a water-cooled V-8 for Loon. The radiator consisted of tall standing pipes that required the upper wing to be cut through.

Loon was trundled down to the waterfront-new tail, new engine, new radiator, cut-up wing and all. Several attempts to fly it between November and January proved disappointing. Two years of engineering and experiments would be needed to get an aircraft "unglued" from the water. The hapless McCurdy, working in the dark on the second day of 1909, failed to notice a damaged pontoon; Loon sank in 12 feet of water. "Experiments ended," McCurdy and Curtiss reported to Bell, describing their efforts as a vaudeville performance by moonlight. They also quipped, "submarine test most successful."

June Bug never flew again, but it had served its purposes admirably. Almost a month earlier, McCurdy had taken the first flights in Aerodrome no. 4. While drawing heavily on June Bug, it incorporated the design changes already mentioned. Moreover, its fabric was rubberized silk-an innovation arranged by Tom Baldwin, who had developed it for the Army dirigible. This prompted its memorable name, Silver Dart. The earlier Dromes had been experimental; Silver Dart was built "like a watch," and it represented the culmination of the AEA efforts.

Once McCurdy and Curtiss were satisfied, they shipped the aircraft to Bell's home. On February 23, 1909, it was assembled on the ice at Baddeck Bay. Curtiss and his wife were in the crowd as McCurdy lifted from the surface. The excited Bell jumped up in his sleigh as the crowd cheered the first heavier-than-air (HTA) flight in Canada-indeed, in the British Empire.

McCurdy's insistence on sensitive steering-and his intensive practice-paid off when two girls skated in front of him during his landing approach. Turning easily aside, he landed safely. The man who could not be quite trusted to sit astride a motorcycle properly was soon acknowledged to be among the finest pilots of his time. He went on to make over 100 flights in Silver Dart alone.

The next month, the AEA disbanded; all its goals had been met. Bell was disappointed, but it was unrealistic to expect these energetic young men to remain under his tutelage. Silver Dart was their crowning achievement, but June Bug was their first smashing success.

The picture it leaves us is one a novelist would scorn to create. It's the picture of a young American rising into the air as the cheers of his neighbors mingle with those of visiting dignitaries, making his goal and then pushing on, away from the sight and sound of the crowd, off into untested air paths, to see how far he can go in the bright, welcome sunshine on the Fourth of July.