Liveblogging 1939, August, I: Technical Appendix: Stooping to Conquer

According to the 12th Edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, the edition that actually was what the Eleventh Edition is often claimed to be, in the late 1930s, in the wake of the recent success of the National Grid, the city of Birmingham had begun to offer a new civic utility: high pressure water on tap at 800lb/sq into run hydraulic machinery directly off city mains.

By the Constantinesco principle of wave transmission, the next step would surely have been alternating-pressure transmission. You could run a differential analyzer with that....

Anyway, roads not taken, roads taken and placed under erasure. Here's Not-Rosie-the-Riveter:

Aviation, November 1943

Because I am who I am, I own this photocopy as an answer to excessive reliance on the notorious Fedden Report, the intended punchline being rather that these engineers are graduates of a nine week night school class. If you're not consumed with the desire to punch the awful Correlli Barnett in the face, you might look at this and conclude that there is a social issue at stake. Anyway, it eluded me at the time. Here is Martha Robertson, of Vega Aircraft.

 I'm not the gender history guy, but I will try to take a road through my own country that gets back to this point at the end.



Start with this:

A flight of Curtiss F-8C Helldivers. I've lifted it from some kind of English-language alt-history Finland site becase MGM apparently can't be bothered to get any good airplane stills out of 1932's Hell Divers, the first starring role of Clark and the dive bomber. Although, in spite of the title, the Helldiver was not designed as a dive bomber. The basic premise of the biplane being a structure that was light and lifty enough to get into the air behind a lawnmower engine, practically any biplane, like a paper airplane, could be all but stood on its nose and pointed at the ground, and would zoom out of its dive in good time. 

Not a bad way to pick up chicks, MGM thought, as it took a small cheque from the navy to make something fast and cheap to get Gable's face on the marquee. The navy lads stooging about Los Angeles probably thought it had advantages for bomb aiming, that it might even be a way of sinking ships, granted a design that could actually fly from a carrier deck, a mission that challenged the Helldiver, like many early would-be carrier planes.  

Postblogging 1939, August, I: In a Pickle

Source: Originally from Air Enthusiast no. 124

My Dearest Reggie:

Thanks for yours of Friday last. With your purchases, that portion of the family bullion sent to America and so dedicated has now been turned fully invested, per Grandfather's instructions, into what strikes me as a prudent mix of real estate, stocks and private loans. The broad stroke of details on the American side are enclosed, as well as of what little use there is of my investments here in Britain, which continue to go slowly for lack of liquidity, much to the frustration of Imperial Chemical Industries, who now intimate to me that unless what they characterise as private family quarrels are resolved soon, they will miss the chance to do work beneath the water level until next summer, and miss the chance to supply the 1940 Atlantic season.

This does not strike me as much of an argument. The Atlantic will be bridged next year, with or without 100 octane fuel, and, in any case, it can be purchased from Houdry. We might be a little short if there is a war, but a war powers act will supersede the courts, albeit, unless Herr Hitler moves soon, of the chance of late summer construction this year, hence of plant operations next.  But since the talk is that the "Big Push" will be deferred to 1942, I see no reason to be alarmed about a shortage of high octane fuel in the summer of 1940.

Meanwhile, in the American case, I should pre-emptively defend our decision to omit key details. In essence, Grandfather has taken my advice on the kind of firms in which we should invest, and made his own stipulation that a good portion of the investment should be close to home. I have explained to him that this means we are now, as a family, committed to a Pacific war. I believe that we should invest in radio and suchlike, and, obviously, there is hardly likely to be an electrical engineering industry springing up on its own amidst the orchards of Santa Clara! We depend upon the United States Navy as a patron, and in the mean time, our investing must be done with a light touch. Two gentlemen building an electronic sound generator in a automobile garage against the hope of moving-picture work are hardly likely to issue a stock prospectus! On the other hand, if their next contracts related to the needs of a fleet of war construction on an equal footing with the last war, one can see at once how the loan on a handshake of a paltry $538 might prove disproportionately profitable, and on the other hand why all concerned might prefer that there be no risk of the sheriffs appearing at the door.

Speaking of matters of war brings me naturally to love, especially in connection with plots set in motion by yourself, Easton has been out of town, making a lightning trip to Berlin. He flew back just two days ago, to mix and mingle with other entrants for the King's Cup, and thus missed an exciting episode, as Fat Chow's surveillance bore fruit here in London, only to be dashed, in events simultaneously exhilarating and distressing. I will fill in the details later, but for now will only add that your meddling seems to have guessed affairs of the heart aright. Your son and Fat Chow had to physically restrain Easton from dashing out to confront trouble. Fat Chow, however, can be an old woman to a surprising degree, urging rash heads to wait on "Miss G.C," of all people.

[Mildly NSFW]

Postblogging July, 1939, II: A Technical Appendix: Freakin' Like It's 1939 (Edited)

Edit: Made it better by making fun of people.

Original Industrial Aviation image drawn by Reynold Brown and hosted by Randy Wilson.

The chief technical designer at Republic Aviation, Nicholas Mastrangelo (and there's a name that would tell a story if Google would only yield to it) described the Republic P-47 as "[the] culmination of the knowledge gained by years of high speed airplane design." Someone else, who talks like a mid-century ad man (or comic book writer, the difference is moot) put it less modestly:

Introduced as a high altitude, offensive fighter, the P-47 with eight .50 cal machine guns, was later equipped with supports for rocket tubes and a cluster of demolition bombs. It can also function as a ground strafer, tank buster, tunnel buster, hedge hopper, and dive bomber. With a bomb load of 2000 lb. capacity, its weight is more than 7 tons. Powered by a 2000 hp, 18-cylinder Pratt & Whitney engine, its speed is in excess of 425 mph; range more than 1000 miles; ceiling about 40,000 ft. Wing span is 41 ft.; lenght 36 ft., 1 ¾". Propeller may be either Curtiss-Wright electric or Hamilton Standard, hydraulically controlled, constant-speed, four-blade assemblies. (Hamilton Standard type shown here).

Just so you know that the USAAF had a plane to fill the vital "hedge hopper" and "tunnel buster" roles.

 If you're struck by the idea of hedge-hopping in an aeroplane with a wing loading of 58.3 lb/sq. foot (compare 49.4 for a fully tricked out FW190 or 39.9 for a De Havilland Mosquito),* I assume it's because you're some girly-man European. Ask yourself: am I a cheese-eating surrender monkey, or do I like cal .50s? I think the answer will fall out of the exercise quite neatly.

And now I am done being unfair to Mastrangelo and Republic Aviation. Alexander Seversky at the height of the Depression, won a fighter contract with the P-35, went on to get the P-43 flying, and was well into seeing it developed into the P-47 Thunderbolt, a plane that was only freakishly gargantuan because nothing smaller could support the engine and supercharging configuration into which Wright Field had locked America's domestically-designed pursuit force. At which point he was forced out of his own company by "financier Paul Moore," to quote Wikipedia. 

It could have been worse. The P-47's rival was an "air superiority" type that had to form up in defensive circles when intercepted by enemy pursuit:

And when the iron requirements of thrust-to-weight ratio were relaxed by the addition of "night fighter" to the specification, the West Coast decided that the futuristic looks of the Lockheed Lightning were so cool that they justified a fighter that was bigger than a medium bomber. What must have been especially aggravating for Seversky is the planes that the War Department ordered in preference to the P-43. The Curtiss P-40 at least extended an existing line of pursuit fighters, capitalising on existing expertise, but only at the expense of accepting a GM engine with an obsolescent single-speed supercharger. The other winner was by a first-time entrant that combined the same engine choice with a freakish, doomed configuration.***

So I've said "freakish" several times. That brings me to the actual topic of this post, to wrap around eventually to War Department procurement policy.

Postblogging 1939, July, II: "A guy could have a pretty good weekend in Vegas with all that stuff"

My Dearest Reggie:

Secrets do sometimes travel fast. Or, sometimes, they take a year or more to emerge.

Postblogging 1939, July, 1, Technical Appendix: The Sky's the Limit

Not the Nemean Lion: A Napier Sea Lion, posted at Enginehistory.org by New Zealand's own Bill Bishop

And just by way of contrast,

The Sabre has appeared on these pages before. That's because it's arguably the most complicated production piston aereoengine of World War II. (Talk about running prototypes, though, and the sky's the limit.) Although I've already thrown up this contrast once before in this series, it is still worth a reflective pause to think about the company that was still representing itself to the world through the Napier Sea Lion, above, while it was running a prototype Sabre in its workshop. Also, for reasons that I will not get into, because I'm a little ashamed at how slow has been my progress, I need to acknowledge the assistance of Dr. Stephen Miller of Berkeley, and he has asked for a plug for the effort to revive the Nemean Games at Athens.

Here it is:
www.nemeangames.org.

Now it's time to talk about planes and engines.

Postblogging 1939: July, 1939, I: Two Speeds

Per Wikipedia

My Dearest Reggie:

I am heartily glad to hear by wire that this letter will find you home and healthy in Vancouver. This gives me an opportunity to share what I have learned this month, which is a great deal. I have learned this month that there are speeds for the old and speeds for the young, speeds for one political economy, and, more specifically, low-altitude speeds for an aeroengine supercharger or a wing flap-slat, and, with another gear or setting, a high-altitude speed as well. I rather poke fun below, and I am told that, had I been paying attention, I would know about the Rolls-Royce "two speed superchargers" by now. The point, however, your son says, is brought out by an indiscreet cartoon published in the first week of the month by The Aeroplane. Even if the technology originates with Farman in France, the implications of the metallurgy of the new Farman-Rolls-Royce supercharger and of the Youngman Flap, also indiscreetly revealed by that paper, is of a combustion-turbine airliner, perhaps while we are still  young enough to fly. As for political economies,  one is ever more pressed to ask whether or not this is a direct consequence of just how large a national defence loan the government is willing to take out. (Yes, I did see Maynard socially this month, but, rest assured that he did not lecture us. On the contrary, a copy of The Economist in hand, I drew him out for the enlightenment of my young Cambridge art historian friend.)

Speaking of speeds for the old --I shall leave you hanging for a bit about what I mean by that, and well you deserve it, you scoundrel-- as much as we share those happy boyhood memories of summers by the Arrow Lake, we can also share memories of being summoned away to Grandfather's side in our first war. Another war is very clearly on the horizon. we can hope, and we can work towards the end of seeing it reverse the verdict of the first. It must have been frustrating to be rusticated in its earliest stages. It would be even more frustrating for me if you derail our family's efforts with your signature rashness

As you may have been informed, Grandfather called Cousin Easton down from San Francisco to Chi'a Ta-wan to upbrade him for his overly familiar relations with "Miss J.C." The rather obvious point was made that until such time as we can schedule earthquakes to our needs, we must beware that side of our family that will profit if secrets come to light. In his customarily indirect (or, to be literary, "insidious") fashion, Grandfather has scotched the romance by ordering Cousin Easton to Hongkong to take over operations as from the end of manoeuvres in Europe. 

Old Europe: God Speed the Plough

From blueridgegenealogy.com. 

The question being, when did Americans decide that "going down in the river to pray" was a Christian thing? We don't know. Here's a source to very tentatively suggest that it might have "American Indian" roots.

Well, duh. How do we make sense of Pontiac's Rebellion "facing east from Indian country?' Gregory Evan Dowd even has his warrior going down to the river. To pray?

He suggests that we take seriously all those dream visions of warriors diving into the river and coming out at the lodge of the Master of Life. Dow also thinks that it is important that we are getting these anecdotes through intermediaries linked to Connecticut's New Light movement. I agree. My problem is only that Dowd follows the unfortunate trend to make these things strange, "in order to recapture the Indian's poiunt of view," where I would suggest just listening to Alison Krause and encountering the numinous. That the New Light influenced the divers of Pontiac's rebellion is obvious. That the connection is syncretism in the sense spelled out by Richard White is clear. I'm just asking that we understand that dult full-immersion baptism in the running waters of the local creek is not a weird thing born of the weird American proclivity to break up into small sects. It's whispers reaching across two continents coming down from Aztlan, of the sacredness of corn hoed from the thick river soil, and of paths through the bramble, cleared by fire, that lead the buffalo onto the prairie. I ask for that because this morning at dawn, the sachem came out of the sky house on the top of the pyramid, blew smoke to the four directions, and told us to celebrate the Green Corn. 

I choose archaic terms. In no way is the President a sachem, and in no way is the pyramid on the Great Seal a reference to the great mounds. Summer idylls are not the Green Corn festival. To be sure, a comb drawn down a cob of (Chilliwack) corn will draw milky white, and everyone who has the time will go away to the lake. The point is that we will then float over deep waters like a historian over history.

That's an analogy I like. History is down there in the blue water, in the weeds. But the historians slide over the surface, going where they list, from wharf to the shore buoy to the beach and back. The weeds obsess us. Harmless as they are, they are frightening, reaching up to brush our legs no matter where we are. In our imaginations, anyway. The point is that we don't have to be above the weeds to imagine that they're there. The historical fact of the weeds can slip between the ages as easily as we slide across the surface of the water. It means what we need it to mean.

Now, I mark a different agricultural calendar here on the western shore of North American than in Old Europe. There, matters are a bit different. Wheat is a spring crop, not a summer one. The wheat is long since gathered in, and the great work of summer is ploughing. The ploughshare will turn the dark Earth up as many times as there is labour to do it.

 It is something that people have been doing . . . . a long time. As long as there's been worked iron, maybe? That iron ploughshare was like a patch of weeds at the bottom of the lake, wherever you need it to be as you swim across the surface. Or we could take it seriously. It should be a big deal, if you take the idea that you build history from the bottom up seriously. The first iron ploughs. Ought they not have changed everything? According to another of those awesome studies coming out of the flowering of the Turkish academy, on the Upper Tigris about 3500 years ago, it did. (For those who read Turkish, or Google Translate gibberish.)