The history of modern aviation is one of undaunted courage and unprecedented achievement: the Wright Brothers, the flying aces of the Great War, the rise of commercial aviation, the Berlin Airlift, the space race... these are all tremendous tales steeped in legend and reverence.
There are, however, certain other episodes in aviation history that are somewhat less than fantastic. Some things, it would appear, are simply not meant to take flight. Here are a few things that probably should've stayed on the ground:
Hindenburg. Taking her maiden flight in March of 1936, LZ 129 Hindenburg met her infamous end just over a year later, exploding into flames while docking at Lakehurst Naval Air Station in Manchester Township, New Jersey. Conceived as the future of air travel, the German airships roamed the sky, ferrying passengers to exotic destinations in the lap of luxury. Initially designed for the use of non-flammable helium as a lift gas, German designers were forced to modify the Hindenburg-class airships to use primarily hydrogen after it became clear the United States (then the world's foremost supplier of helium) would not lift its embargo on the export of helium to Germany. When it was all said and done, Hindenburg's destruction took just 37 seconds after the airship's extremely flammable hydrogen gas ignited under circumstances which remain unclear to this day. Next time, use helium.
French People. This is something of a no-brainer. In the wide world of aviation, the line is fairly well delineated between what is meant to be airborne and what is not. The French are clearly one of those things meant to keep two feet solidly planted on terra firma at all times. Take François Reichelt, for example. An Austrian-born French tailor, he conducted early tests to develop a parachute capable of saving early aviators from low-altitude bailouts. Competing for a 10,000 franc prize, Reichelt worked to perfect and reduce the weight of his design, tests of which were almost universally unsuccessful. While a French aeronautical organization charged that his design was given too weak of a canopy, Reichelt maintained that the limited height from which he was able to test did not allow enough time for the system to work properly. Desperate to halt the slaughter of his test dummies, Reichelt eagerly applied for permission to conduct tests off the Eiffel Tower, receiving clearance in February of 1912. Thus, on February 4 at 7 A.M., Reichelt arrived at the Eiffel Tower, modeling his suit for the cameras. Counter to the specific orders of the Paris police, Reichelt did not use test dummies, surprising his friends and audience with his decision to conduct the jump himself. At 8:22, surrounded by a crowd of nearly 30 onlookers--including members of the press--Reichelt climbed to the first deck of the Eiffel Tower, faced the Siene, tested the breeze, adjusted his parachute apparatus, and jumped to his death. You can see a video of the entire debacle here.
Luftwaffe. I mean, seriously.
The Spruce Goose. Any aircraft with 'Goose' in the name should probably not be flown. Geese, by definition, are one of Nature's least glamorous birds of flight. Fittingly, the Hughes H-4 Hercules was a decidedly unglamorous aircraft, a tremendous behemoth of a plane constructed almost entirely out of wood. Intended to transport troops and supplies over the dangerous waters of the North Atlantic during World War II, a working prototype was not completed until well after the war's end. Ultimately, the Spruce Goose made just one flight, lifting off to an altitude of about 70 ft. during taxi tests in Southern California.
The Pinto Plane. Christened the AVE Mizar (after the Mizar-Alcor stellar sextuple star system), the Pinto Plane hoped to bring the flying car into the realm of reality. To assemble this aviation wonder, engineers mounted the rear portion of a Cessna Skymaster onto the roof of a standard Ford Pinto. The Mizar wing assembly was detachable, allowing for the pilot to quickly transition from plane to car and back again simply by bolting and unbolting the wings. While this sounds convenient, it ultimately led to the Mizar's tragic undoing: during a test flight in September of 1973, the Pinto detached from the right wing strut, bringing the Mizar back down to Earth in a torrent of flames, killing both the designer and his pilot.
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