Parachute Fails

The U. S. Air Mail started its night flying service July 1, 1924. In spite of pessimistic predictions, its pilots managed to fly 1,200,000 miles without the loss of a life. A fatal parachute jump has now broken the record of safety. Clarence O. Gilbert, a onetime flying Army sergeant, was in the Air Mail pilot's reserve and was pressed into service during the holiday rush. He flew away from May wood Field, Chicago, at 7:10 one evening and, sailing westward, encountered a blinding snowstorm near Kaneville, Ill. His motor failed. A pilot under such conditions is helpless. He cannot tell where there is a spot to land; he cannot guess whether the earth is thousands of feet away or grazing the wheels of his landing carriage. Sergeant Gilbert, moreover, was not familiar with the route. He decided that a crash was unavoidable. He jumped!

Early prejudice against parachutes has entirely disappeared, since they are now as nearly fool-proof as possible. The members of the Caterpillar Club (men who have escaped a catastrophe by means of the chute) now number hundreds. Every Army and Navy pilot and many flying civilians are instructed in its use. The great Lieut. John R. Macready himself owed his life to this device. When his motor failed over the city of Dayton, his ghostly warning cry of "Hullo, there below!" frightened the men seeking his remains in his wrecked airplane.

The pilot or observer sits encased in a web harness, firmly adjusted to his body by straps and buckles. Above is a small container of canvas duck in which the great silken fabric, of 24-ft. diameter when open, is cleverly packed. A "pilot chute" --an umbrella-like contrivance with spring release--rushes easily out of the container, catches the wind and hauls the main chute out in a second or so. The great supporting surface opens up in an instant. Carefully arranged silk shrouds, made of Japanese silk (the strongest and lightest of textiles) pass continuously from a ring on one side of the harness to the parachute itself and back to the harness again. The pilot sits, then, as if in a swing. He can prevent oscillations, can steer to a certain extent, can avoid trees, buildings and can be almost comfortable. He can, experience has shown again and again, drop 600 ft. without losing a particle of consciousness. He has indeed to rehearse his movements, but the pulling of the conveniently placed "rip cord"--a flexible cable which releases the pilot chute--is the easiest and most natural thing to do.

But he must jump, wait and then pull the rip cord. Otherwise the parachute may become entangled in the tail surfaces of the plane. This is undoubtedly what Sergeant Gilbert failed to dp. The instinctive impulse to pull the rip cord prevailed over careful training and the shrouds were cut by the sharp cables of the plane's rear end.

Pilot R. L. Wagner, who had been flying above him, reported the wreck.

The service shuddered but carried on.