Crashed in Thirty-Four Airplanes!

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1070, 6 September 1930, Page 18

Crashed in Thirty-Four Airplanes!

A Skilled Pilot Who Falls Almost Every Time He Takes to the Air !—Hazardous Profession of Dick Grace, Stunter, Who Takes All the Risk and Gets None of the Limelight. B CRASH is a serious thing to an airplane pilot. A succession of them reacts against his record. I’ve had 34 crashes to date. You’d think, offhand, that I was a pretty terrible pilot (writes Dick Grace in the Toronto “Sar”). But don’t be hasty. There is a slight difference between my crashes and those in commercial aviation. All of mine have been done intentionally. All have been photographed for motion pictures. My profession—or trade, if you prefer—is that of a stunt man for the movies, and crashing planes is my specialty. I drifted to Hollywood after the war, and more or less accidentally fell into stunting. I was an assistant property man, and on the lot one day a stunt man lost his nerve and refused to make a 40-feet dive into a net. I volunteered, and ?he director seemed pleased with the result, for then and there 1 became a “stunt man.” That iirst year I had more than 100 stunts to do, and only smashed two ribs, which was remarkably lucky. Many of the wise ones who look at movie stunts on the screen, and laugh them off as faked, are in the same class with the fellow who watches a magician’s most complicated illusion, and says: “Aty, he had it up his sleeve." The movie stunts are real, most of them, and that is why stunt men are employed. A director would not dare to ask a highly-priced actor to jump from a moving train, or crack up an airplane, even if the actor knew how. He would be too valuable to risk. And don’t think the risk is not a real one, even to a trained stunt man. Last year 1G men were killed on Hollywood lots, nine were permanently injured, and 1,272 men and women were hurt badly enough to require a physician’s attention. The risk in the thrill stunts of the screen is very real even to trained stunt men, so you can see why the directors don’t want to risk their highpriced actors. The risk would "be even greater for them, because they don’t know how to stunt. After that first high dive I trained and practised. I was taught by veteran stunt men how to handle my body in the air. I went through all the stunts that fall to the lot of Hollywood stunt men—leaping from speeding autos, wrecking autos, changing from plane to plane, from plane to auto or motor-boat, and jumping off cliffs. But gradually I turned more and more to plane stunting, particularly plane crashes. My experience as an aviator overseas during the war, I suppose, led me to turn to this. As a result, I found that I seldom lacked work in making crashes. Wants a Record of Fifty To the 34 crashes I have made up to this time, I expect to add between five and ten more this year, and I see no reason why I should not reach 50 before I quit the business. I believe I have solved crack-ups. 1 have confidence in my ability to smash a ship on an absolute spot in a restricted territory. Experience teaches, me what to do to be able to walk away from the wreck. It sounds simple, and yet to tear the wings from a ship travelling at various speeds of from SO to 110 miles an hour involves unusual problems. In the first place, if I were to miss I’d not only not get paid, but would destroy property and human lives.

Cameras and men are always placed directly in front of the designated spot: For “Wings" it was necessary to do a crash into “no man’s land." This no man’s land was as real as was that of the western front during the war. As a matter of fact, the reconstructed area Was closely supervised by the generals actually in command of such sectors during the Great War. Every piece of abandoned artillery, every pillbox and machine gun nest was placed as it had been £,t the date the action in the picture called for. Hence the barbed wire entanglements were built, or cedar posts two feet in the ground and protruding four out. The wire was of real war stock. Shell holes 20 feet in diameter and half that in depth pitted the entire area. When I looked at that burned and broken country and thought that I had to dive into it in a real little 220 S. P. A. D. at a speed of 90 miles an hour, I almost lost hope.

A forced landing at any time in such territory usually spelled catastrophe in a Chasse ship; yet I had to come in and land on a spot within vision of the 21 cameras detailed to shoot the action. Every possible protection was taken. A section 25 feet wide was remade. The real cedar posts were removed and feather-light ones of balsa wood were substituted. The wire was unstrung and cotton yarn placed on the balsa i posts. After they were painted it; looked almost as real as it had before. \ Several other precautions I took, j The plane had a pressure system of j gasoline feed —and contained its large ' tank under the belly of the ship. This j arrangement I changed completely, dis- j carding the big tank and using a j smaller one on the top wing. This fed j the carburetter by gravity. Such an | arrangement minimised the danger of j fire. Furthermore, as the longerons were | of wood, I stripped the fuselage of its! fabric and taped them as far back as j the tail. I knew such a procedure ; would keep these pieces from splint- j ering. Splinters are sometimes iucon- j venient, since it takes one but a couple of inches long in the right spot and it’s the end of a perfect day for the undertaker. When the fuselage was recovered all of the instruments were removed from the board and a pad placed before me. The throttle and spark were put so close together on the right side that I could handle them with two fingers. • There was but one more precaution. A system of belts was devised to keep* me strapped back firmly in the ship. These consisted' of a webbing six inches wide across my chest and one across my knees. I found tl .e chest belt necessary. Without it in a previous crack I had hit the instrument board with such force that 1 went completely through it, breaking four vertebrae in my neck. The little Spad was ready for the shot and, getting in, I tested the motor for the last time. Then we took the air, followed by the two "German” scouts who were supposed to shoot me down. From 1.000 feet I looked down and saw the red flag waving from the observation tower. It was the signal that told me they were ready. Simultaneously the two “Germans” started diving on my tail and the Spad and I went groundward. It was then that I threw away my goggles. You can’t risk glass splinters in your eyes, you know, if it can be avoided. I could see the German and British trenches below and between them the hazardous no man’s land. The troupe, spectators and cameramen, I located, but to my dismay I found that we had so cleverly camouflaged the balsa posts that I could not tell the 25-foot sector from any other part of the entanglements. No wonder camouflage fooled war fliers! Sly hand reached for the throttle. A finger toyed lightly near the ignition switch. Nearer and nearer. Each successive second brought me to the spot where the nose should plunge earthward. Leaning over the cockpit, I located the cameras and picked my bed as nearly as possible. Only 400 feet from the posts now, and I lowered the nose for the impact. Glancing at the air speed indication made me realise that this was to be a real crash, for the ship was making 95. Two hundred feet! Now! A fraction of a second too late would land me in the midst of those anxious people. With a kick on the left rudder and a push down and to the right on the stick I hit . . . struts, wings, ybs! Pieces of broken propeller, the crunching of posts! The nose dug in —the right wing left the plane. Then as it went over on its back I ducked forward pit just as an object plunged through (he seat directly above my lowered head. It was over now, and I got out. All was wreckage. Perhaps my greatest surprise was that I had hit directly into real posts, ripping 14 of them from the ground—and I did not laugh as I saw that one of them had pierced the cockpit just 11 inches back of mv head.

That was a perfect shot. As the ship lay it was 17 feet from the nearest camera. I always have a sense of relief and satisfaction when a crash is perfect. Then I am relieved of a great responsibility. Is Insensitive To Fear Many people mistake the sensations which accompany me as those last few seconds of control are passing. I am often asked about the fear or thrill which I experience. Perhaps I’m dumb. Maybe I am insensitive to the fine-drawn emotions which crowd into the lives of other people, but still I see nothing to fear. T Uy fear ls tha t I shall not give satisfaction or that my 100 per cent, record will be marred. Certainly I can t stop to think about that while i m doing the crash. Before or afterward,, yes. I live the crash, plan carefully what I am about to do. Afterward, when I see it on the screen, I do get a reaction, but dur-

ing the crash I am always bu»y 10 ,. busy for any thrill, any emotion There’s a spot to hit and cameras to miss. The spark to cut and the throttle to manipulate. A camera on the ship to start and controls to work These are but a few of the details which keep me from any use of im-agination-—if I have any. Now, since talking pictures, it j 3 necessary to crash with regard to microphones as well as cameras just one more added worry for me. Directors are getting more and more particular about effects in crashes At first, if I came down and hit the spot, they were satisfied, but now 1 am told to turn on my back—or that if I d 0 turn over the shot cannot be used Crashing is not difficult— at least it does not seem difficult to me. I like the sound of splintering wood, of tearing linen, of the crunching, rending noise as the motor and propeller plunge into the earth. But it is hard for my friends who wait below, their hearts palpitating. They who wait the long minutes before I bank into the direction into which 1 must fall. Doctor’s Advice Proves Valuable Only in the last half dozen crashes have I found that a certain doctor’s advice has been extremely valuable For IS hours before a crash I never eat. It leaves my stomach free and lean, which means that it would take an extreme jolt to give me serious internal injury. Furthermore, with a heavy meal beforehand, if 1 were injured. I’d be in bad condition for an operation. Another little precaution which 1 observe, unless otherwise ordered, is to strike the right side of the ship first. Naturally, if I’m pitched forward my body will receive the brunt of the shock on the right. It Js very silly 0B first thought, but not when you consider that if I struck on the left the heart would receive the jolt. The stomach is also a little more to the left than directly in the centre. Usually any accident beyond my calculations is the result of an uneipected change of conditions. There are times when it is too late to maka change of mind. The last few seconds of a crash must go according to schedule. Sound involves crashes much more than do cameras. Now it is necessary to get flag signals from both departments before heading into the spot. The cameraman may be ready and set and I may be on my way to a wreck, when of a sudden I see a wild waving of a red flag. If possible I must avoid a crash—save the ship, go back to my emergency field and wait for another try, because something happened to the sound trucks or microphone. Such a landing causes some delav because again I must drain the gas j and carefully replace sufficient for the duration of the flight, plus margin j enough for a return, should the unlooked for happen. But it is not the mechanics of a crash that bother. The human element is the most undependable of all. I know that I can crash a ship where they want it. I can depend upon by motor and the ship. My trained rescue ambulance and police | squadron are as constant as is the ; troupe, but the rest of the people are ' more likely to do something totally j unexpected. Mistakes occur very seldom with l me: but when they do they are usually costly. Of course there are times j when conditions change while I am : in tlie air to crash. These also are ! costly, but cannot be called mistakes The thirty-first crash was a good example of this. Then I was doubling j for a star who was supposed to be an ; army ace. The place of the crash | was a deep gully-like depression—not ' an easy place into which to slide. After I'd dropped in and was on the verge of the crash the wind shifted to my tail, causing me an excess of speed. With the motor going to create sound for the crash it was impossible to hit at less than 100 miles an hour. Dipping the right wing. I hit and threw water, mud, propeller and airplane for many feet. All four wings were wrenched from the fuselage. I felt a stinging pain in my right side and knew that again I had broken : some ribs. Usually, when the air is knocked from me by mere pressure of my chest on the belts, this is so. However, the shot was a complete success. I ended not farther than four feet from the nearest camera and five feet from a microphone. It was one of the most spectacular shots of , my career. Just incidentally, I hit so hard that it tore one of my feet from my shoe and never hurt my foot at all. The force of my feet leaving the rudder so fast evidently had been too much for the grip of the shoes. And this all due to a sudden change of wind at the last moment. But regardless of the breaking o: the ribs I did two other crashes in the next ten days. Life’s like that for me. Peculiarly, although the next two were complete washouts, the ribs suffered not a bit. It there is any confusion in t“ e minds of anyone that my work is allied or aligned with commercial an*' tion I want to remove it from consideration immediately. Mine is the last and perhaps th> most involved of stunt work. IT * made drops from airplane to airplan and airplane to auto. I’ve made ME and fire dives. Wrecking of an automobile is simple after you’ve done - several times. . But crashing airplanes always ns and always will be a considerable hazard. Maybe I’ve reduced tw danger to a minimum. there are a few fine points wnic are now discovered. But if I were killed? Of coats*' everybody would say, "See, I so.” Perhaps they’re right in.sayUu. it. Perhaps not. At least. I m £*' ting into numbers —34 is a lot smashed planes. It takes very little sometimes kill. In one crash a wooden sU of a propeller passed through

outer layers of the clothing of right side with such force that • pierced an eighth-of-au-inch f t plate and ended In a steel lon f e \: You may say it's ell luck, and t ‘ also may be true, but then — we nf have lucky breaks to make a ion • to keep in health —to live. Bre '• Of course, breaks, whether by work, clever designing, or blrtn ' Nor will it be long before I r® Yet I have this year five crasD h ,-i e four in planes, one in an automoou • ( Before the year is over there ink, more. But it won’t be long n° i! can’t. At the “age” of 50 inten • i crashes I shall retire —that is, r 1 to another phase of work. t j For the thrill of even .: spectacular, crash is passing. A ' the public didn’t believe they - really done just as they appear . tile screen. The wise ones ■fake!” Bur. now the public ginning to take them as just • ter of course —and that i* aim*** - bad.