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Most printing errors involve either an inverted plate or a sheet fed improperly to the printer. And most are caught quickly, either by a print inspector or a postal clerk. But the clerk who sold that sheet to Robey didn't spot the mistake. Asked about it later, he replied, "How was I to know the thing was upside down? I never saw an airplane before."
In May 1918 the Curtiss JN-4 was one of only a few American military aircraft in full production. Our hope of quickly snuffing out World War I by darkening the skies over France with American-designed "aeroplanes" had come down to this: a lunky training plane, whose prototype had been built in England.
It was awkward and slow, with few instruments. Practical Flying, published in 1918, advised pilots that the best way to avoid skidding or slipping in a turn was to keep an eye on "a piece of string or tape fastened to a strut." You judged a Jenny's airspeed and power largely by listening to the clatter of engine valves and the changing pitch of wind shrieking through the web of wires. The Jenny had wooden skids on the underside of each wingtip to guard against damage in a ground loop — not uncommon because the plane's wheels were about as close together as a flounder's eyes.
When the war was over, the planes went on sale, and many a pilot who had trained in Jennies coughed up $300 or so for a surplus job and took up barnstorming, flying folks for 10 or 15 minutes, charging by the pound for the ride. Pilots found the original 90-horsepower Curtiss OX5 engine dangerously feeble; many replaced it with a Hispano-Suiza ("Hisso"), turning up as much as 150 horsepower. Hisso-powered Jennies were assigned to fly the first official U.S. airmail. Those are the planes on the 1918 airmail stamps, all flying purposefully straight and level except for those 100 aberrations that sputter along on their backs, doubtless spewing a mixture of hot oil and radiator water.
On May 15, 1918, two Jennies loaded with letters were to take off simultaneously from New York and Washington, land in Philadelphia and switch the mail to new planes with fresh pilots (as though at a Pony Express relay station) who would fly on, one to Washington, the other to New York.
President Wilson, scores of dignitaries and thousands of spectators showed up to watch at Washington's Potomac Park. The Washington to Philadelphia flight (Smithsonian, May 1982) soon proved a fiasco. The pilot, Lieut. George Boyle, was fresh out of flying school, where he seems to have studied his fiancée more closely than aerial navigation. Since she was the daughter of the Interstate Commerce Commissioner, political clout got Boyle this pioneering mail mission, guaranteed to chisel his name in the annals of flight.
It did, all right. Hurrying to the field, he barely scanned a road map, then took off, just squeaking over the trees. Sublimely confident, he headed south instead of north. Soon lost, he landed on a soft field 25 miles away, nosed over and broke his propeller.
Two days later, he got a second chance, a new prop and another load of mail. Told to keep the Chesapeake on his right and thus pick up his course for Philadelphia, Boyle obeyed so mindlessly that he turned right at the top of the bay and headed back south down the Eastern Shore, the water of course still to his right. Eventually he reached Philadelphia but picked the wrong field and cracked up on landing. It had taken him three days to fly the 140 miles from Washington.
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