The Airplane - Jay Spenser [23]
Louis Blériot, France’s foremost early aviation pioneer.
National Air and Space Museum, Smithsonian Institution
Blériot crashed so many times that a British journalist proclaimed him “the most daring aviator in the world.”4 This experience actually served him well, as he became a master at avoiding broken bones and other serious injuries. “I always throw myself upon one of the wings of my machine when there is a mishap,” he explained, “and although this breaks the wing, it causes me to alight safely.”5
The day before Latham ended up in the water, Blériot set a speed record at Douai in his Model XII monoplane. During that flight, an asbestos shield came loose from the airplane’s exhaust pipe, resulting in third-degree burns to his left foot. It was the second time in three weeks it had happened, and the previous injury had not healed, making this new one all the more painful. But Blériot was out of funds; if he was to keep flying, he had to compete for the Daily Mail prize money.
Alice Blériot was her husband’s devoted supporter. Squashing her fears as a wife and mother, she selflessly helped him fulfill his dreams. In an ironic twist of fate, it was she who had made it possible for Louis to compete against Latham at Calais. While visiting friends, she had saved a young child’s life by dashing to a balcony rail and snagging him just as he was about to topple off. As it turned out, the father—a wealthy Haitian planter—had an interest in aviation and wrote a check allowing Blériot to purchase the engine he needed.
Hobbling on crutches, Blériot arrived at Calais on July 21, 1909, accompanied by Alice and other helpers. His Model XII twice having injured him, Blériot instead brought his Model XI, another monoplane he had designed.
The English Channel is known for its poor weather, but this year was exceptionally bad. On July 25, however, Blériot was awakened at two-thirty in the morning with the news that stars shone in the sky. Dressing with difficulty because of his injury, Blériot arrived at the makeshift flying field where mechanics had already wheeled the small Model XI out of its tent hangar and were readying it for flight. Strapping on his helmet, Blériot took the ship up for a quick test hop. Fuel and oil were again topped off, and he set out for England. It was four-thirty and dawn was breaking.
Hubert Latham also would have flown on this date except that a friend dozed off at the wrong time and his wake-up call came late. His feelings when he heard Blériot’s machine already in the air can only be imagined. By the time he too was ready, visibility had fallen and no further flying was possible.
Blériot, meantime, found himself flying in a haze over singularly uninviting waves. For ten long minutes, no land was in sight in any direction. Finally he spotted England and made a leftward course correction for wind that had blown him too far east. His intended landing field was easy to spot because of Dover Castle, one of the largest medieval fortifications in the world.
Settling over a gently sloping valley, Blériot touched down a little after five. His machine was damaged in the landing, but he emerged unscathed. Bleary-eyed and covered with oil thrown by its engine, he hopped on one foot as he released the crutches strapped to its fuselage.
Blériot conquered the English Channel on July 25, 1909.
National Air and Space Museum, Smithsonian Institution
He did not look the part of an intrepid aviator, but that didn’t matter. The world went wild, just as it would with