Earlier this month, I wrote about some of the behind-the-scenes work it took to survey and pack the Arthur C. Clarke Collection for transfer to the National Air and Space Museum. In this post, I wanted to highlight the types of material that make up this wonderful collection. These were all found during my cursory survey of the material; who knows what wonderful items we will uncover as we start the in-depth processing!
We found 27 linear feet of correspondence dating from the 1950s until the 2000s with the preponderance from the late 1960s on. Correspondents varied greatly and included family and friends, literary agents, editors, fellow science fiction writers, scientists, and even teenage fans. You can read one of Clarke’s letters from Stanley Kubrick about the Dawn of Man sequence in 2001: A Space Odyssey.
There are also Clarke’s diaries and address books as well as videotapes and film, including footage relating to Clarke’s scuba diving interests and interviews about space topics. We also found albums of photographs, including one of Clarke as a baby and one of the author with cosmonaut Aleksei Leonov. And, of course, there were manuscript materials for all of his works including page proofs, typed manuscripts, and handwritten notes and outlines.
One of my absolute favorite finds was the handwritten notes and outline of one of my favorite Clarke books, The Fountains of Paradise. I read this book, set in a fictionalized Sri Lanka, while I was in Sri Lanka packing up the collection. To have the pleasure of reading the published book and then to be able to hold Clarke’s original notes and outline while in his home was almost overwhelming and one of the most rewarding moments of my professional life.
Patti Williams is the acquisition archivist for the National Air and Space Museum.
You may know the name Glenn Curtiss in association with early aviation, but did you know he was a pioneer in motorcycle design too?
Curtiss was born in Hammondsport, New York, in 1878, and from a young age exhibited strong mechanical ability. In his teens he was a champion bicycle racer with a keen interest in all things fast. By the time he was in his mid-20s, Curtiss was manufacturing his own motorcycle designs under the name, “Hercules.” The G. H. Curtiss Manufacturing Company competed with the likes of motorcycle powerhouses Harley Davidson and Indian, and Curtiss often defeated them in races. He quickly earned a reputation for designing powerful, lightweight motorcycle engines.
In 1903, a famous balloonist at the time, Thomas Baldwin, was building a dirigible and bought a Curtiss five horsepower motor to power it. In 1904, Baldwin’s California Arrow became the first American dirigible to fly. This was Curtiss’ first direct association with the field of aviation.
In response to several requests from early aeronautical experimenters for engines, Curtiss designed his first V-8 engine. He asked his team to build a motorcycle frame strong enough to hold it, and made plans to see how fast the machine could go. On January 23, 1907, at the Florida Speed Carnival at Ormond Beach, Florida, Curtiss drove the V-8 powered motorcycle to a speed of 218 kilometers per hour (136 miles per hour), a motorcycle land speed record that stood until 1930. Curtiss was dubbed by the newspapers as “the fastest man on Earth.”
For detailed technical information on Curtiss’ V-8-powered motorcycle, read its collections entry on the Museum’s website.
Glenn Curtiss went on to make countless contributions to the field of aviation. He contributed to the development of ailerons, retractable landing gear, tricycle landing gear, and dual pilot controls. He designed and built the first successful pontoon aircraft in America. Curtiss aircraft were the first to take off and land on the deck of a ship. Curtiss built the first U.S. Navy aircraft and trained the first two naval pilots. He was a leading producer of aircraft engines. In 1919, a Curtiss flying boat became the first aircraft to fly across the Atlantic Ocean. During World War I, The Curtiss Aeroplane and Motor Company built 2,000 seaplanes, over 7,000 JN-4D Jenny training aircraft, and over 15,000 engines.
The Glenn H. Curtiss Museum in Hammondsport is dedicated to Curtiss’ life, and its website is an excellent source for more detailed information about him.
Kathleen Hanser is a writer-editor in the Office of Communications at the National Air and Space Museum.
One-hundred years ago, World War I was raging in Europe. In the end, over 17 million lives were lost, among them seven million civilians. More than 40 countries were involved in the most widespread war the world had ever seen, a war that was fought in Europe, the Near East, Africa, East Asia, and on the world’s oceans.
Starting just 11 years after the invention of powered flight, the Great War was the first major conflict in which pilots and airplanes were involved, experiencing their baptism by fire. At the beginning of the war, military applications of the new technology were barely known. At the end of the war, there was a vast array of fighter planes, reconnaissance planes, and bombers. Dogfighting tactics and bombing strategies had been developed, with weapons and armaments now essential elements in military aircraft. World War I transformed fragile flying contraptions, made of wood and fabric, into reliable killing tools, performing at parameters the world could not have imagined just a few years earlier. The image of pilots took on a similar transformation: The intrepid, adventurous birdmen of pre-war years became romantically adored “knights of the air” like Manfred von Richthofen (Germany), Albert Ball (Great Britain), George Guynemer (France), and Eddie Rickenbacker (USA). The lives and kills of these pilot-aces became material for legendary folklore and national propaganda.
I recently returned from Germany where I met with the creators of an amazing online project that allows us to experience this metamorphosis of aviation through the eyes of three ordinary people involved: British pilot Bernard Rice, French pilot Jean Chaput, and German pilot Peter Falkenstein. Three Pilots – One War is a shared project of the Royal Air Force Museum in London, the Musée de l’Air et de l’Espace in Paris Airport/Le Bourget, and the Military History Museum of the German Armed Forces/Air Force in Berlin-Gatow. The website has published the letters of these three pilots exactly 100 years after they were first written. Transcribed and translated in all three languages (English, French, and German), the notes allow a glimpse into the everyday life of three young men who were thrown into the upheaval of war. We read about the banalities and dangers of war life, about them showing courage in battle and missing their loved ones. We experience the pride all three of them feel in being a wartime pilot. Enhanced by other personal documents and information, intimate images of the young men begin to emerge before our eyes as we follow their story. The project will continue until the end of 2018, a worthy endeavor to remember the birth of military aviation, and the lives of three young pilots in the Great War—a war that one of them would not survive.
The National Air and Space Museum holds a large collection of objects related to World War I aviation that complement the stories told in Three Pilots – One War. At the Museum in Washington, DC, our exhibition Legend, Memory, and the Great War in the Air reexamines the romantic notions about early aerial warfare and contrasts it with reality. The exhibition also holds a number of rare aircraft: from Germany the Pfalz D.XII, Albatros D.Va, and Fokker D.VII fighters; from Great Britain the rare Sopwith 7F.1 Snipe fighter; and from France the Voisin Type 8 bomber, the oldest surviving aircraft specifically designed as a bomber. There’s also a SPAD XIII fighter, a type which had been flown by many of the famous Allied pilots of World War I. The SPAD XIII was purchased from its French manufacturer and thus is operationally an American airplane, exclusively flown by an American pilot in an American unit.
Visitors to the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center in Chantilly, Virginia will find World War I aircraft there as well. Among them are a Caudron G.4, one of the very few remaining multi-engine aircraft of this early period; a Nieuport 28C.1, the first fighter aircraft to serve with an American fighter unit under American command in the war; and a Spad XVI, which was piloted by General William “Billy” Mitchell during many observation flights during the last months of the war. Udvar-Hazy holds a German aircraft of World War I, the Halberstadt CL.IV, one of the best ground attack aircraft of the war.
Studying these aircraft and exploring the personal stories of the pilots who flew them illuminates the rapid functional and technological development that military aircraft experienced between 1914 and 1918.
Evelyn Crellin is curator for European Aviation at the National Air and Space Museum. Many thanks to chief curator Peter Jakab for his significant contributions to this blog.
In his memoir Moon Lander, Grumman project manager Thomas Kelly describes the exhilaration at Grumman for winning the contract to build what became the Lunar Module (LM), followed by trepidation when the design team realized the severe weight restraints they had to work under in order to get two astronauts safely to the lunar surface and back to lunar orbit. At the outset, Grumman and NASA worked with an initial estimate of 30,200 pounds, which was within the limits of the Saturn V’s booster capability; but this began to grow ominously as the work progressed. Aircraft engineers were accustomed to a general increase of about 5 to 10 percent from the calculated weight from the engineering drawings to the actual weight of a craft as measured after construction. But “…the inexorable growth in LM weight was threatening the whole Apollo mission” (page 115 of Moon Lander). The weight of the Ascent Stage, initially budgeted at 10,800 pounds, was especially critical. Any additional pound of weight there generated a “multiplier effect” of requiring more propellant, and with that larger and heavier tanks, etc. on the Descent Stage, which in turn required more thrust, hence more propellant and weight, from the upper stages of the Saturn V booster—all the way down to the Saturn’s first stage.
In late summer 1963, the Grumman engineers came up with a breakthrough that, in hindsight, was a critical factor in achieving President Kennedy’s goal of achieving a landing by the end of the decade. That was to remove the seats from the Ascent Stage, and have the crew stand up. The Moon’s gravity was only 1/6th that of Earth’s; during descent and ascent the crew would be subject to no more than 1/3 G. For those G-forces, a person’s legs make excellent shock absorbers. Removing the seats saved weight and enabled the crew to stand closer to the windows, which in turn could be smaller, and therefore lighter and stronger, while still affording an adequate view. It increased the volume available to the crew in the LM dramatically and made it easier for the crew to don and doff their spacesuits before venturing out on to the Moon’s surface. That decision alone did not solve the weight problem, but it helped a lot. It was one of many critical breakthroughs made during the Apollo program that in hindsight seem miraculous, yet also seem to have happened on a daily basis. (In the official NASA history of the LM program, Chariots for Apollo, the authors Courtney G Brooks, James M. Grimwood, and Loyd S. Swenson credit NASA engineers with the idea; Kelly says diplomatically that it was a joint decision, as the teams worked so closely with one another during the planning stages.)
Apollo 12 astronaut Pete Conrad called it a “trolley car configuration,” and enthusiastically supported the design. What did Pete mean by that?
Grumman was an established aircraft manufacturer, located in Bethpage, Long Island (New York). It supplied the U.S. Navy with a number of aircraft, and its experience with designing aircraft that would withstand hard carrier landings probably helped it win the contract for the LM. Most of the Apollo/Saturn development and construction was done in the South or West, but Grumman (and the MIT Instrumentation Laboratory, located in Massachusetts), were the exceptions. Bethpage is about 48 kilometers (30 miles) east of the Brooklyn borough of New York. In the early twentieth century, Brooklyn was crisscrossed by a dense network of trolley cars, which ran on the surface of streets. Snobbish residents of Manhattan, which had more underground subways than surface trolleys, called residents of Brooklyn “Trolley Dodgers.” The local Brooklyn baseball team adopted that moniker, later they shortened it to the “Brooklyn Dodgers.” Here is where Pete Conrad’s observation comes in. Trolley cars were operated not by an “engineer” but by a “motorman,” almost exclusively male. He did not sit in a seat, but rather he stood up (sometimes resting on a tall stool). With his left hand he controlled a device that cut in amounts of electrical current, to regulate the speed—not strictly speaking a throttle but it had the same function. His right hand held a lever that served as a brake.
In the Lunar Module, the Commander and Lunar Module Pilot each had a set of controls they operated with each hand. For the Commander, the left hand held a T-shaped handle that regulated the rate of descent, and thrust. The right hand held a joystick that controlled the LM’s attitude and translation across the lunar surface. Not quite the same as a “trolley car configuration” but close.
Did the Grumman engineers have that view in the back of their minds as they struggled with the design of the LM? We don’t know but it is tempting to think so. Professor George Basalla of the University of Delaware wrote, in his book The Evolution of Technology, that what we perceive as technological breakthroughs often have strong evolutionary lines going back into the past. He gives a number of examples, such as the relationship between the Glidden patent for barbed wire, an invention that played a large role in the settlement of the American Great Plains, and the thorns of the Osage Orange bush, used by early pioneers to keep livestock from straying. He mentions others, but not the Lunar Module-Trolley connection. I suggest we add the connection, and with it the Brooklyn “Trolley Dodgers,” America’s most beloved baseball team.
Paul Ceruzzi is a curator in the Space History Department at the National Air and Space Museum.