showboater, a man who “loved the limelight . . . [and] the society of other women.”
Post wasn’t troubled by his wife’s vow to squeeze him for every last penny. What ever happened, it couldn’t be worse than what he’d experienced on October 11, 1908.
There were many ways to die in a balloon, as the New York Times had insensitively pointed out in July 1910 when it listed the thirty-five fatalities in the last four years. One could drown, as Paul Nocquet had in April 1906 when his balloon dropped into Gilgo Bay in Long Island; one might be struck by lightning, as poor Lieutenant Ulivelli was near Rome in 1907; one could explode in a ball of fire as two British balloonists had during an exhibition in London in 1908; or one might be swept out to sea, to vanish forever, as was the case with Frank Elkins in 1909, last seen heading out over the Pacific Ocean.
Perhaps the most terrifying prospect of all was the plummet, the sudden fall from the sky with the balloonists powerless to do anything but scream. Aviators could, at least, struggle with the controls of their machine, allowing themselves a sliver of a sense that their fate was in their own hands.
When Augustus Post had been invited by Holland Forbes to be his copilot in the 1908 International Balloon Cup race, Post had accepted without hesitation. Forbes was a good man in Post’s estimation, the vice president of the Aero Club of America, and an accomplished sportsman who owned his own balloon, the Conqueror . The pair sailed to Germany, spending much of the voyage with their heads in a series of foreign-language phrase books they had been sent by the race organizers. Taking off from Berlin, the contestants were liable to end up anywhere from Scandinavia to the Sahara, so it was advisable to be as much of a polyglot as possible.
The day of the race was a Sunday, warm and sunny, and Berlin was teeming with spectators. The Conqueror was the ninth balloon to start, and at 3:40 P.M. it rose into the air to a great cheer. When the balloon reached four thousand feet, Post noted the height in his logbook and also entered the barometer reading. He heard Forbes cluck with delight and say, “How nicely it works!” Suddenly Post felt the basket tremble. He looked up and saw the bottom of the balloon beginning to shrivel as a large tear appeared on one side of the varnished cotton. “She’s gone,” said Post calmly. As the gas rushed out of the tear “like the blowing off of a steam boiler,” Post jumped to his feet and reached for the appendix cord, a rope that acted as a safety mechanism and tightened if pressure was lost so the balloon would keep its shape and not fold up. But the appendix cord hadn’t been designed for such a catastrophe as they now faced. With the balloon holed, turning it into a giant parachute was their only small chance of survival. Post slipped the cord through its knot and it rose inside to the top of the balloon.
To the tens of thousands of spectators on the ground death appeared assured. A woman standing close to the correspondent from the New York Times screamed, “They are killed!” and turned her face from the sky. The reporter watched transfixed as for two thousand feet they “shot down like a bullet.” In the basket Forbes began to cut away the bags of ballast sand that hung from the four corners in a pathetic attempt to halt their descent. Post queried, what about the spectators below, might not they be hit by falling bags? Forbes ignored Post and continued to offload their ballast. Post looked up at the balloon, begging it to come to their aid, and suddenly it did. The New York Times reporter gasped with thousands of others as “the envelope appeared to take, first, a triangular shape, and then was transformed into a sort of parachute at the top of the net, and the progress of the wrecked balloon was considerably arrested.” Post and Forbes felt they were under a large mushroom as the netting over the balloon held firm
Post wasn’t troubled by his wife’s vow to squeeze him for every last penny. What ever happened, it couldn’t be worse than what he’d experienced on October 11, 1908.
There were many ways to die in a balloon, as the New York Times had insensitively pointed out in July 1910 when it listed the thirty-five fatalities in the last four years. One could drown, as Paul Nocquet had in April 1906 when his balloon dropped into Gilgo Bay in Long Island; one might be struck by lightning, as poor Lieutenant Ulivelli was near Rome in 1907; one could explode in a ball of fire as two British balloonists had during an exhibition in London in 1908; or one might be swept out to sea, to vanish forever, as was the case with Frank Elkins in 1909, last seen heading out over the Pacific Ocean.
Perhaps the most terrifying prospect of all was the plummet, the sudden fall from the sky with the balloonists powerless to do anything but scream. Aviators could, at least, struggle with the controls of their machine, allowing themselves a sliver of a sense that their fate was in their own hands.
When Augustus Post had been invited by Holland Forbes to be his copilot in the 1908 International Balloon Cup race, Post had accepted without hesitation. Forbes was a good man in Post’s estimation, the vice president of the Aero Club of America, and an accomplished sportsman who owned his own balloon, the Conqueror . The pair sailed to Germany, spending much of the voyage with their heads in a series of foreign-language phrase books they had been sent by the race organizers. Taking off from Berlin, the contestants were liable to end up anywhere from Scandinavia to the Sahara, so it was advisable to be as much of a polyglot as possible.
The day of the race was a Sunday, warm and sunny, and Berlin was teeming with spectators. The Conqueror was the ninth balloon to start, and at 3:40 P.M. it rose into the air to a great cheer. When the balloon reached four thousand feet, Post noted the height in his logbook and also entered the barometer reading. He heard Forbes cluck with delight and say, “How nicely it works!” Suddenly Post felt the basket tremble. He looked up and saw the bottom of the balloon beginning to shrivel as a large tear appeared on one side of the varnished cotton. “She’s gone,” said Post calmly. As the gas rushed out of the tear “like the blowing off of a steam boiler,” Post jumped to his feet and reached for the appendix cord, a rope that acted as a safety mechanism and tightened if pressure was lost so the balloon would keep its shape and not fold up. But the appendix cord hadn’t been designed for such a catastrophe as they now faced. With the balloon holed, turning it into a giant parachute was their only small chance of survival. Post slipped the cord through its knot and it rose inside to the top of the balloon.
To the tens of thousands of spectators on the ground death appeared assured. A woman standing close to the correspondent from the New York Times screamed, “They are killed!” and turned her face from the sky. The reporter watched transfixed as for two thousand feet they “shot down like a bullet.” In the basket Forbes began to cut away the bags of ballast sand that hung from the four corners in a pathetic attempt to halt their descent. Post queried, what about the spectators below, might not they be hit by falling bags? Forbes ignored Post and continued to offload their ballast. Post looked up at the balloon, begging it to come to their aid, and suddenly it did. The New York Times reporter gasped with thousands of others as “the envelope appeared to take, first, a triangular shape, and then was transformed into a sort of parachute at the top of the net, and the progress of the wrecked balloon was considerably arrested.” Post and Forbes felt they were under a large mushroom as the netting over the balloon held firm
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