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 BBC BASIC
Reference Manual
 Copyright © 1992 Acorn Computers Limited. All rights reserved.
Updates and changes copyright © 2017 RISC OS Open Ltd. All rights reserved.
Issue 1 published by Acorn Computers Technical Publications Department.
Issues 2 and 3 published by RISC OS Open Ltd.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by
any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or
stored in any retrieval system of any nature, without the written permission of the
copyright holder and the publisher, application for which shall be made to the
publisher.
The product described in this manual is not intended for use as a critical
component in life support devices or any system in which failure could be expected
to result in personal injury.
The product described in this manual is subject to continuous development and
improvement. All information of a technical nature and particulars of the product
and its use (including the information and particulars in this manual) are given by
the publisher in good faith. However, the publisher cannot accept any liability for
any loss or damage arising from the use of any information or particulars in this
manual.
If you have any comments on this manual, please complete the form at the back of
the manual and send it to the address given there.
Within this publication, the term ‘BBC’ is used as an abbreviation for ‘British
Broadcasting Corporation’, however the BBC is not affiliated in any way with this
manual.
All trademarks are acknowledged as belonging to their respective owners.

Published by RISC OS Open Ltd.

Issue 1, October 1992 (Acorn part number 0470,280).

Issue 2, October 2017 (updates by RISC OS Open Ltd).
Issue 3, February 2021 (revised with minor corrections).

ii
 Contents

Part 1 – Overview 1
About the BBC BASIC Reference Manual 3
Intended readership 3
Structure of the manual 3
Conventions used in this manual 4

About BBC BASIC 5

The BASIC interpreter 5
BASIC V and BASIC VI 5
BASIC versions 6
Window managed programs 7

Part 2 – Programming techniques 9

Command mode 11
Entering BASIC 11
Leaving BASIC 12
Command mode 12

Simple programming 15
Entering a program 15
Altering a program 16
Deleting whole programs 19
Numbering lines in a program 20
Listing long programs 21
Comments 22
Multiple statements 23
Saving and recalling programs 24

Variables 27
Types of variables 27
Naming variables 27

iii
Contents

Numeric expressions 29
Integers and floating point numbers 29
Special integer variables 31
Arithmetic operators 31

Binary and logic 33

Binary numbers and bits 33
Hexadecimal numbers 33
Shift operators 34
AND, OR and EOR 36
TRUE and FALSE 37

String expressions 39
Assigning values to string variables 39
Joining strings together 40
Splitting strings 40
How characters are represented 43
Converting between strings and numbers 43

Arrays 47
The DIM statement 47
Two dimensional arrays 47
Finding the size of an array 49
Operating on whole arrays 49
Array operations 52

Outputting text 55
Print formatting 55
The text cursor 58
Defining your own characters 60

Inputting data 63
Inputting data from the keyboard 63
Including data as part of a program 65
Programming the keyboard 67
Using the mouse in programs 69
Programming function keys 71

iv
 Contents

Control statements 73
IF... THEN... ELSE 73
Operators 74
IF... THEN... ELSE... ENDIF 75
FOR... NEXT 77
REPEAT... UNTIL 80
WHILE... ENDWHILE 81
CASE... OF... WHEN... OTHERWISE... ENDCASE 82
GOTO 84
GOSUB... RETURN 84
ON... GOTO/GOSUB 85

Procedures and functions 87

Defining and calling procedures 87
Parameters and local variables 88
ON... PROC 92
Recursive procedures 93
Functions 94
Function and procedure libraries 95

Data and command files 101

Data files 101
Writing or reading single bytes 102
Writing or reading ASCII strings 103
Command files 104

Screen modes 107

Changing screen modes 107
Numbered screen modes 108
Text size 109
Colour modes 110
Changing colours 111
Changing the colour palette 112
VIDC1-style 256-colour modes 113
Using the screen under the Wimp 115

v
Contents

Simple graphics 117

The graphics screen 117
The point command 118
The line command 119
Rectangle and rectangle fill 120
Circle and circle fill 121
Ellipse and ellipse fill 121
Graphics colours 122
The graphics cursor 124
Relative coordinates and BY 124
Printing text at the graphics cursor 125

Complex graphics 127

Plotting simple lines 129
Ellipses 133
Arcs 134
Sectors 135
Segments 136
Flood-fills 136
Copying and moving 137

Graphic patterns 139

Default patterns 139
Plotting using pattern fills 140
Defining your own patterns 140
Native mode patterns 141
BBC Master mode patterns 143
Giant patterns 144
Simple patterns 145

Viewports 147
Text viewports 147
Graphics viewports 149

Sprites 151
Loading a user sprite 151
Plotting a user sprite 152

vi
 Contents

Teletext mode 153

Coloured text 153
Making text flash 154
Double-height text 154
Changing the background colour 154
Concealing and revealing text 155
Teletext graphics 155

Sound 159
Activating the sound system 159
Selecting sound channels 159
Allocating a wave-form to each channel 159
Setting the stereo position 160
Creating a note 161
Synchronising the channels 162
Finding the value of the current beat 163
Finding the current tempo 163
Executing a sound on a beat 164

Accessing memory locations 165

Reserving a block of memory 165
The ‘?’ indirection operator 166
The ‘!’ indirection operator 166
The ‘|’ indirection operator 167
The ‘$’ indirection operator 167

Error handling and debugging 169

Trapping an error 169
Generating errors 171
External errors 171
Local error handling 172
Debugging 174

VDU control 177

Editing BASIC files 191
Editing BASIC files with Edit 191
Editing BASIC files with the BASIC screen editor 193

vii
Contents

Part 3 – Reference 213

Keywords 215
* Commands 435
ARM assembler 441
Using the BASIC assembler 441
Saving machine code to file 445
Executing a machine code program 445
Format of assembly language statements 446
Recommended Books 447

Part 4 – Appendices 449

Appendix A – Numeric implementation 451
Numeric types 451
Effects of storage size 453
What is floating point arithmetic? 455
Implementation 455

Appendix B – Minimum abbreviations 459

Appendix C – Error messages 465
Appendix D – INKEY values 469
INKEY values by functional group 469
INKEY values by number 473

Appendix E – Specifying screen modes 477

Mode Strings 477
Mode Variables 479

Appendix F – Default palettes 481

Appendix G – Plot codes 483
Appendix H – VDU variables 485
Appendix I – BBC BASIC’s history 489

Index 503

viii
Part 1 – Overview

1
2
1 About the BBC BASIC Reference
Manual

B BC BASIC is one of the most popular and widely-used versions of the BASIC
programming language. This manual provides a complete description of BBC
BASIC for users of computers running RISC OS version 3.10 or later.

Intended readership
You should read this manual if you are
● a computer user who has never used BBC BASIC before, who wants an
introduction to a new computer language;
● an experienced programmer in other computer languages, who wants an
insight into BBC BASIC’s features without having to resort to a lengthy
tutorial-type manual;
● an experienced BBC BASIC programmer, who needs specific information about
the structure of BBC BASIC, and the use of its commands.

Structure of the manual

The manual is divided into the following parts:
Part 1 – Overview — includes this chapter, and the chapter entitled About BBC
BASIC, which gives an introduction to BASIC VI. It compares BASIC VI with BASIC
V, and describes the benefits and effects of using both versions.
Part 2 – Programming techniques — explains how to program in BBC BASIC, and
introduces many of the commands (or keywords) provided by the language. The
last chapter in this section describes the BASIC screen editor.
Part 3 – Reference — contains a complete list of BBC BASIC keywords, in
alphabetical order. It defines the syntax of all the keywords, and gives you
examples of how to use them.
Part 4 – Appendices — contains the appendices, which have useful reference
material, such as numeric representation, error messages, keyword abbreviations
and VDU variables. A brief history of BBC BASIC is also included.

3
Conventions used in this manual

Conventions used in this manual

The following conventions are applied throughout this manual:
● Specific keys to press are denoted as Ctrl, Delete and so on.
● Instructions which require you to press a combination of keys are shown thus:
Shift-Home means hold down the Shift key and press and release the Home
key.
● Text you type on the keyboard and text that is displayed on the screen appears
as follows:
PRINT "Hello"
● Classes of item are shown in italics: For example, in the descriptions of BASIC
keywords, you might see something like:
LET var = expression
where var and expression are items you need to supply, for example:
LET a$="hello"
● Items within square brackets [] are optional. For example,
GCOL [expression2,] expression1
means that you must supply at least one expression. If you supply two, you
must separate them with a comma.
● All interactive commands are entered by pressing the Return key. However,
this is not actually shown in the examples or syntax of commands.
● Extra spaces are inserted into program listings to aid clarity, but need not be
typed in.
● Program listings are indented to illustrate the structure of the programs.
If at any time you wish to interrupt a program the computer is executing you can do
so safely by pressing Esc.
Feel free to experiment. Try modifying the programs listed in this manual and
writing new ones of your own.

4
2 About BBC BASIC

B BC BASIC consists of special keywords with which you create sequences of

instructions, called programs, to be carried out by the computer. You can use
programs to perform complicated tasks involving the computer and the devices
connected to it, such as:
● performing calculations
● creating graphics on the screen
● manipulating data.
Several of the applications provided with RISC OS are themselves written in BBC
BASIC.
The BASIC language operates within an environment provided by the computer’s
operating system. The operating system is responsible for controlling the devices
available to the computer, such as:
● the keyboard
● the screen
● the filing system.
For example, it is the operating system which reads each key you press and
displays the appropriate character on the screen. You can enter operating system
commands directly from within BASIC, by prefixing them with an asterisk (*). These
commands are described in the RISC OS User Guide.

The BASIC interpreter

When you run a BASIC program, the operating system passes it to the BASIC
interpreter. This translates your instructions into a form that the computer can
understand called machine code.

BASIC V and BASIC VI

RISC OS computers come with two different variants of the BASIC interpreter. The
main difference between these is how they handle real (floating point) numbers
internally.

5
BASIC versions

● BASIC V is the most commonly used interpreter. Each real number is stored
using 5 bytes of memory, and all real arithmetic is performed in software. This
version of BASIC is provided by the “BASIC” module.
● BASIC VI is an alternative interpreter that performs calculations involving real
numbers with greater accuracy. Real numbers are stored using 8 bytes of
memory, and arithmetic is performed in accordance with the IEEE 754 floating
point standard. Apart from increased accuracy, this also makes for easier data
interchange with other languages like C. There are in fact two different variants
of the BASIC VI interpreter, to cater for the two main floating point instruction
sets which ARM processors have supported over the years:
● The first variant of BASIC VI, provided by the “BASIC64” module, was
released with RISC OS 3.10 and is designed around the FPA instruction
set.
● The second variant of BASIC VI, provided by the “BASICVFP” module, was
released with RISC OS 5.24 and is designed around the VFP instruction
set.
If you do need to know more about real numbers, Appendix A – Numeric implementation
explains in detail how they are stored and manipulated, and gives details of the
differences between the FPA and VFP variants of BASIC VI.

BASIC versions
Different versions of the BBC BASIC interpreter provide different features. This
manual describes the features present in version 1.75 of the interpreter, as
included in RISC OS 5.24.
If you have an older version than this then you will need to obtain the latest
version from the RISC OS Open web site (http://www.riscosopen.org) as part of the
“System resources” archive. Open the archive and follow the instructions in the
ReadMe file to merge these updates with your !System.
To load the newer version of the BASIC V interpreter in place of the one in the
RISC OS ROM you will need to execute the following * Command:
RMEnsure BASIC 1.75 RMLoad System:Modules.BASIC
This should only be done once after the machine has started, and before entering
the desktop, because BASIC programs that run inside the desktop will stop working
if the BASIC interpreter changes whilst they are using it.
The recommended method for doing this is to create a file containing this
command, set its file type to ‘Obey’, and add it to the Choices:Boot.PreDesk
directory. Further information on the !Boot application and the PreDesk directory
can be found in the RISC OS User Guide.

6
 About BBC BASIC

You will find a list of the differences between each released version of the BASIC
interpreter in Appendix I – BBC BASIC’s history.

Window managed programs

If you wish to write programs that work in the desktop windowing environment you
must read The Window Manager chapter in the RISC OS Programmer’s Reference Manual.
The Window Manager provides:
● a simple to use graphical interface
● the facilities to allow programs to run in a multitasking environment, so that
they can interact with each other, and with other software.
The Window Manager is usually referred to as the Wimp (Windows, Icons, Menus
and Pointer) and it simplifies the task of producing programs that conform to the
notion of a ‘desktop’, where the windows represent documents on a desk. An
example of a BASIC program written under the window environment is !Patience.

Instructions to avoid
If you do decide to write a window managed program you must be careful to avoid
instructions in BASIC which will either interfere with the running of other programs
under the Wimp, or simply not work at all. These include:

Avoid Described in Reason

GET, INKEY, INPUT Inputting data These commands work under the
Wimp, but can cause problems.
*FX commands Inputting data Some *FX commands should be
avoided under the Wimp; for example,
using the Tab and cursor keys to get
ASCII codes.
COLOUR, GCOL, MODE Screen modes These commands will interfere with
other programs – use the facilities
provided by the Wimp instead. For
example:
SYS "ColourTrans_SetGCOL"
SYS "Wimp_SetColour",0
Flood-filling Complex graphics Flood-filling is not usable under the
Wimp.
Viewports Viewports The Wimp uses its own viewports.
CLOSE#0 Keywords This will close files opened by other
programs.

7
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 The sea for a space. Hooray. Slim has just hung a
flashlight up for illuminating the compass. This light makes
the radium impossible to see. Soon it will be dark enough
without the flash.

* * * *
The faint light of the radium instruments is almost impossible to
see in dawn or twilight, when it is neither dark enough for the
contrast of the radium to show nor light enough to see the numerals
themselves.

* * * *
Log Book:
It is about 10. I write without light. Readable?1
1For reproduction of log book see page 305.

* * * *
Have you tried to write in the dark? I remember sitting up in bed
at school composing themes after lights. During those night hours
on the Friendship the log was written with the help of my good left
thumb. I would not turn on the electric light in the after cabin lest it
blind Bill at the controls. And so I pencilled my way across the page
of the diary thankful for that early training with those better-late-
than-never themes. The thumb of my left hand was used to mark
the starting point of one line. The problem of this kind of blind
stenography is knowing where to start the next line. It didn’t always
work. Too often lines piled up one on the other and legibility
suffered.

* * * *
Log Book:
The sea was only a respite. Fog has followed us since.
We are above it now. A night of stars. North the horizon is
 clear cut. To the south it is a smudge.
The exhausts send out glowing meteors.
How marvellous is a machine and the mind that made
it. I am thoroughly occidental in this worship.
Bill sits up alone. Every muscle and nerve alert. Many
hours to go. Marvellous also. I’ve driven all day and all
night and know what staying alert means.
We have to climb to get over fog and roughness.
Bill gives her all she has. 5000 ft. Golly how we climb. A
mountain of fog. The north star on our wing tip.
My watch says 3:15. I can see dawn to the left and still
a sea of fog. We are 6000 ft. high and more. Can’t read
dial.
Slim and I exchange places for a while. All the dragons
and sea serpents and monstrosities are silhouetted against
the dawn.
9000 ft. to get over them.
The two outboard motors picked up some water a while
ago. Much fuss.
At least 10,000 ft. 13 hrs. 15 min. on way.
I lose this book in Major Woolley’s pockets.
There are too many.

* * * *
Big enough, that suit to lose myself in it. Size 40, and fur lined. It
is returned now, appropriately autographed. The Major has
threatened to stuff and place it in a museum.

* * * *
Log Book:
 Still climbing. I wish the sun would climb up and melt
these homogeneous teddy-bears.

* * * *
Beside these grotesques in the fog, which we all remarked, there
were recurrent mountains and valleys and countless landscapes
amazingly realistic. Actually when land itself did appear we could not
be sure that it was not an illusion too. It really took some moments
to become convinced that it was reality.

* * * *
Log Book:
Slim has just changed bats in the flashlight hanging
over the compass.

* * * *
The compass was hung rather low, so far from Bill’s eye that it
was difficult to read its illuminated face. So Slim arranged a flash
light focussed on it.

* * * *
Log Book:
We are going down. Probably Bill is going through. Fog
is lower here too. Haven’t hit it yet, but soon will so far as
I can see from back window.... Everything shut out.
Instrument flying. Slow descent, first. Going down fast.
It takes a lot to make my ears hurt. 5000 now. Awfully
wet. Water dripping in window. Port motor coughing.
Sounds as if all motors were cutting. Bill opens her wide
to try to clear. Sounds rotten on the right.
3000 ft. Ears not so painful. Fog awful.
Motors better, but not so good.
 It is getting lighter and lighter as day dawns. We are
not seeing it dawn, however. I wish I knew radio. I could
help a lot.
We are over stratum now.2 At 3000. Bill comes back to
radio to find it on the blink.

2
That is the way it is written in the log book. So far no one can
make out that word before “stratum.” Can you? A.E.

We are running between the clouds still, but they are

coming together. Many clouds all about ... shouldn’t
bother. Port motor coughing a bit. Sounds like water. We
are going to go into, under or over a storm. I don’t like to,
with one motor acting the way it is.
How grey it is before; and behind, the mass of soggy
cloud we came through, is pink with dawn. Dawn “the
rosy fingered,” as the Odyssey has it.
Himmel! The sea! We are 3000. Patchy clouds. We
have been jazzing from 1000 to 5000 where we now are,
to get out of clouds. At present there are sights of blue
and sunshine, but everlasting clouds always in the offing.
The radio is dead.
The sea for a while. Clouds ahead. We ought to be
coming somewhat in the range of our destination if we are
on the course. Port motor off again. 3000 ft. 7 o’clock
London.
Can’t use radio at all. Coming down now in a rather
clear spot. 2500 ft. Everything sliding forward.
8:50. 2 Boats!!!!
 Trans steamer.
Try to get bearing. Radio won’t. One hr’s gas. Mess. All
craft cutting our course. Why?

* * * *
So the log ends.
Its last page records that we had but one hour’s supply of gas
left; that the time for reaching Ireland had passed; that the course
of the vessel sighted perplexed us; that our radio was useless.
Where were we? Should we keep faith with our course and
continue?
“Mess” epitomized the blackness of the moment. Were we
beaten?
We all favored sticking to the course. We had to. With faith lost in
that, it was hopeless to carry on. Besides, when last we checked it,
before the radio went dead, the plane had been holding true.
We circled the America, although having no idea of her identity at
the time. With the radio crippled, in an effort to get our position, Bill
scribbled a note. The note and an orange to weight it, I tied in a bag
with an absurd piece of silver cord. As we circled the America, the
bag was dropped through the hatch. But the combination of our
speed, the movement of the vessel, the wind and the lightness of
the missile was too much for our marksmanship. We tried another
shot, using our remaining orange. No luck.
 U. S. Shipping Board
THE FRIENDSHIP “BOMBING” THE AMERICA
 THE LAST PAGE IN THE LOG BOOK

Should we seek safety and try to come down beside the steamer?
Perhaps one reason the attempt was never attempted was the
roughness of the sea which not only made a landing difficult but a
take-off impossible.
Bill leaped to the radio with the hope of at least receiving a
message. At some moment in the excitement, before I closed the
hatch which opens in the bottom of the fuselage I lay flat and took a
photograph. This, I am told, is the first one made of a vessel at sea
from a plane in trans-Atlantic flight.
Then we turned back to the original course, retracing the twelve
mile detour made to circle the steamer. In a way we were pooling all
our chances and placing everything in a final wager on our original
judgment.
Quaintly, it was this moment of lowest ebb that Slim chose to
breakfast. Nonchalantly he hauled forth a sandwich.
We could see only a few miles of water, which melted into the
greyness on all sides. The ceiling was so low we could fly at an
altitude of only 500 feet. As we moved, our miniature world of
visibility, bounded by its walls of mist, moved with us. Half an hour
later into it suddenly swam a fishing vessel. In a matter of minutes a
fleet of small craft, probably fishing vessels, were almost below us.
Happily their course paralleled ours. Although the gasoline in the
tanks was vanishing fast, we began to feel land—some land—must
be near. It might not be Ireland, but any land would do just then.
Bill, of course, was at the controls. Slim, gnawing a sandwich, sat
beside him, when out of the mists there grew a blue shadow, in
appearance no more solid than hundreds of other nebulous
“landscapes” we had sighted before. For a while Slim studied it, then
turned and called Bill’s attention to it.
It was land!
I think Slim yelled. I know the sandwich went flying out the
window. Bill permitted himself a smile.
Soon several islands came into view, and then a coast line. From
it we could not determine our position, the visibility was so poor. For
some time we cruised along the edge of what we thought was
typical English countryside.
With the gas remaining, we worked along as far as safety
allowed. Bill decided to land. After circling a factory town he picked
out the likeliest looking stretch and brought the Friendship down in
it. The only thing to tie to was a buoy some distance away and to it
we taxied.
 CHAPTER IX
JOURNEY’S END

THERE at Burry Port, Wales—we learned its name later—on the

morning of June 18, we opened the door of the fuselage and looked
out upon what we could see of the British Isles through the rain. For
Bill and Slim and me it was an introduction to the Old World.
Curiously, the first crossing of the Atlantic for all of us was in the
Friendship. None that may follow can have the quality of this initial
voyage. Although we all hope to be able to cross by plane again, we
have visions of doing so in a trans-Atlantic plane liner.
Slim dropped down upon the starboard pontoon and made fast to
the buoy with the length of rope we had on board for just such a
purpose—or, had affairs gone less well, for use with a sea anchor.
We didn’t doubt that tying to the buoy in such a way was against
official etiquette and that shortly we should be reprimanded by some
marine traffic cop. But the buoy was the only mooring available and
as we’d come rather a long way, we risked offending.
We could see factories in the distance and hear the hum of
activity. Houses dotted the green hillside. We were some distance off
shore but the beach looked muddy and barren. The only people in
sight were three men working on a railroad track at the base of the
hill. To them we waved, and Slim yelled lustily for service.
Finally they noticed us, straightened up and even went so far as
to walk down to the shore and look us over. Then their animation
died out and they went back to their work. The Friendship simply
wasn’t interesting. An itinerant trans-Atlantic plane meant nothing.
In the meantime three or four more people had gathered to look
at us. To Slim’s call for a boat we had no answer. I waved a towel
desperately out the front windows and one friendly soul pulled off
his coat and waved back.
It must have been nearly an hour before the first boats came out.
Our first visitor was Norman Fisher who arrived in a dory. Bill went
ashore with him and telephoned our friends at Southampton while
Slim and I remained on the Friendship. A vigorous ferry service was
soon instituted and many small boats began to swarm about us.
While we waited Slim contrived a nap. I recall I seriously considered
the problem of a sandwich and decided food was not interesting just
then.
Late in the afternoon Captain Railey, whom I had last seen in
Boston, arrived by seaplane with Captain Bailey of the Imperial
Airways and Allen Raymond of the New York Times.
Owing to the racing tide, it was decided not to try to take off but
to leave the plane at Burry Port and stay at a nearby hotel for the
night. Bill made a skilful mooring in a protected harbor and we were
rowed ashore. There were six policemen to handle the crowd. That
they got us through was remarkable. In the enthusiasm of their
greeting those hospitable Welsh people nearly tore our clothes off.
Finally we reached the shelter of the Frickers Metal Company
office where we remained until police reinforcements arrived. In the
meantime we had tea and I knew I was in Britain.
Twice, before the crowd would let us get away, we had to go to
an upper balcony and wave. They just wanted to see us. I tried to
make them realize that all the credit belonged to the boys, who did
the work. But from the beginning it was evident the accident of sex
—the fact that I happened to be the first woman to have made the
Atlantic flight—made me the chief performer in our particular
sideshow.
With the descent of reporters one of the first questions I was
asked was whether I knew Colonel Lindbergh and whether I thought
I looked like him. Gleefully they informed me I had been dubbed
“Lady Lindy.” I explained that I had never had the honor of meeting
Colonel Lindbergh, that I was sure I looked like no one (and, just
then, nothing) in the world, and that I would grasp the first
opportunity to apologize to him for innocently inflicting the idiotic
comparison. (The idiotic part is all mine, of course.)
The celebration began with interviews and photographs. We
managed to have dinner and what was most comforting of all, hot
baths. The latter were high-lights of our reception, being the first
experience of the kind since leaving Boston weeks—or was it
months?—previously.
Sleep that night was welcome. In all, we had five or six hours. We
could not rest the next day, because an early start was necessary in
order to reach Southampton on schedule.

© Topical Press Agency

WE DIDN’T DOUBT THAT TYING TO THE BUOY WAS AGAINST OFFICIAL
ETIQUETTE
 © International Newsreel
WE OPENED THE DOOR OF THE FUSELAGE AND LOOKED OUT UPON
WHAT WE COULD SEE OF THE BRITISH ISLES

Rain and mist in the morning, that finally cleared somewhat,

allowed us to take off. We skimmed over Bristol Channel and the
green hills of Devonshire, which were as beautiful as we had
imagined. In the plane with the crew were Captain Railey and Mr.
Raymond of the Times.
When we set out from Burry Port on this last lap of the journey,
Captain Bailey of the Imperial Airways had expected to guide us.
Unfortunately at the last moment he was unable to start his engine
and Bill decided to hop for Southampton unescorted.
As we approached, a seaplane came out to meet us, and we
presumed it was to guide us to the landing place. As Bill prepared to
follow, Captain Railey discovered that we were not being guided. In
the uncertainty of landing amid berthed steamers in a strange place,
Bill finally picked up the green lights of a signal gun which marked
the official launch coming to greet us. Mrs. Guest, owner of the
Friendship, and sponsor of the flight, was there, her son Raymond,
and Hubert Scott Payne of the Imperial Airways. My first meeting
with the generous woman who permitted me so much, was there in
Southampton. It was a rather exciting moment despite the fatigue
which was creeping upon all of us. On shore we were welcomed by
Mrs. Foster Welch, the Mayor of Southampton. She wore her official
necklace in honor of the occasion and we were impressed with her
graciousness. Though a woman may hold such office in Great
Britain, the fact isn’t acknowledged, for she is still addressed as if
she were a man.
With the crowd behind, I drove to London with Mr. and Mrs. Scott
Payne. The whole ride seemed a dream. I remember stopping to see
Winchester Cathedral and hearing that Southampton was the only
seaplane base in England and being made to feel really at home by
Mrs. Payne, who sat next to me.
London gave us so much to do and see that I hardly had time to
think. One impression lingers,—that of warm hospitality which was
given without stint. I stayed with Mrs. Guest at Park Lane. Lady
Astor permitted me a glance of beautiful country when she invited
me to Cliveden. Lord Lonsdale was host at the Olympic Horse Show,
which happened to be in action during our stay. The British Air
League were hosts at a large luncheon primarily organized by the
women’s division at which I was particularly glad to meet Madame
de Landa and Lady Heath. From the latter I bought the historic little
Avro with which she had flown alone from Cape Town to London. I
was guest, too, at a luncheon of Mrs. Houghton’s, wife of the
American Ambassador—and many other people lavished undeserved
hospitality upon us.
Being a social worker I had of course to see Toynbee Hall, dean
of settlement houses, on which our own Denison House in Boston is
patterned. Nothing in England will interest me more than to revisit
Toynbee Hall and the settlement houses that I did not see.
 But this can be no catalogue of what that brief time in London
meant to us. To attempt to say “thank you” adequately would take a
book in itself—and this little volume is to concern the flight and
whatever I may be able to add about aviation in general. Altogether
it was an alluring introduction to England, enough to make me wish
to return and explore, what this time, I merely touched.
Before we left, the American correspondents invited me to a
luncheon—another of the pleasant memories of our visit. It was “not
for publication.” And although I was the only woman present we
talked things over, I think, on a real man-to-man basis. From first to
last my contact with the press has been thoroughly enjoyable; in
England and in America I could not possibly ask for greater
cooperation, sincerity, and genuine friendliness.
On June 28 we began our first ocean voyage, embarking on the
S.S. President Roosevelt of the United States Lines, commanded by
Captain Harry Manning. It really was our first ocean voyage and it
was then that we came to realize how much water we had passed
over in the Friendship. Eastbound the mileage had been measured
over clouds, not water. There never had been adequate
comprehension of the Atlantic below us.
A curious connection exists between the Roosevelt and the
America. Not only had the Roosevelt relayed some of our radio
messages, but Captain Fried of the America had formerly been
skipper of the Roosevelt. It was Captain Fried who figured so finely
in the heroic rescue of the sinking freighter Antinöe a couple of
years ago. Captain Fried, I was told, is interested in trans-Atlantic
flight projects. On the America he makes it a practice, when he
knows a flight is in progress, to have painted periodically the ship’s
position on the hatches in such a way that the information may be
read by a plane passing overhead. On the day when we saw the
America he had received no news of our flight so that preparations
had not been made for the usual hatch-painting. Actually, however, if
we had remained above the America perhaps a few more minutes
the information we sought would have been painted on her decks,
ending our uncertainties at once. As it was, Capt. Fried cabled us on
board the Roosevelt that the operator had called “plane, plane”—not
knowing our letters, in an effort to give us our bearings. But Bill
could not pick up the word.
When the Roosevelt reached quarantine in New York, she was
held there several hours until the Mayor’s yacht Macon arrived with
its officials, its bands, and our friends. I was sorry to delay other
passengers in the Roosevelt who had breakfasted at six and who
were forced to wait while we were welcomed.
Then up the bay, to the City Hall and to the Biltmore. Interviews,
photographs, and medals, and best of all, friends.
We were home again, with one adventure behind and, as always
in this life, others ahead.
 CHAPTER X
AVIATION INVITES

THE reception given us—and accorded the flyers who preceded us—
indicates, it seems to me, the increasing air-mindedness of America.
And it is not only air-expeditions, pioneer explorations and “stunts”
which command attention.
The air mail, perhaps more than any other branch of aeronautics,
has brought home to the average man realization of the possibilities
of aviation. Its regularity and dependability are taken for granted by
many. While our development of this phase of air transport is
notable, the United States is somewhat backward in other branches,
compared with the European nations. We lag behind the procession
in passenger carrying and the number of privately owned planes, in
proportion to our size.
 © Wide World Photos
LANDING AT BURRY PORT—THE UBIQUITOUS AUTOGRAPH SEEKER
 © International Newsreel
THE FIRST STEP IN ENGLAND. HUBERT SCOTT PAYNE HELPS ME ASHORE

Abroad, the entire industry is generously subsidized by the

various governments. Of course, aviation here knows no such
support, a fact which means that, so far as we have gone, our
industry is on a sound basis economically.
Although air transport in the U. S. A. has had to pay its own way,
and is behind somewhat, slightly over 2000 commercial airplanes
were constructed in 1927, and operations in the field of mail and
transport flying approximated 6,000,000 miles flown. Nearly nine
thousand passengers were carried, and two and a half million
pounds of freight transported.
Impressive as are these figures, they are not comparable to the
volume inevitable.
 When I am asked what individuals can do to aid aviation my reply
is, to those who haven’t flown: “Fly.” For, whether or not aviation will
be found useful in their lives, or whether they find flying pleasant, at
least they will have some understanding of what it is, if they go up.
Every day all of us have opportunity to do our bit—and to get our bit
—by using the air for our long-distance mail, and at least some of
our express and freight. And perhaps some who come to touch
aviation in these ways, will find an interest which will carry them into
the ranks of plane owners.
Most people have quite incorrect ideas about the sensation of
flying. Their mental picture of how it feels to go up in a plane is
based on the way the plane looks when it takes off and flies, or
upon their amusement-park experience in a roller-coaster. Some of
the uninitiated compare flying to the memory of the last time they
peered over the edge of a high building. The sensation of such
moments is almost entirely lacking in a plane. Flying is so matter-of-
fact that probably the passenger taking off for the first time will not
know when he has left the ground.
I heard a man say as he left a plane after his first trip, “Well, the
most remarkable thing about flying is that it isn’t remarkable.”
The sensation which accompanies height, for instance, so much
feared by the prospective air passenger, is seldom present. There is
no tangible connection between the plane and the earth, as there is
in the case of a high building. To look at the street from a height of
twenty stories gives some an impulse to jump. In the air, the
passenger hasn’t that feeling of absolute height, and he can look
with perfect equanimity at the earth below. An explanation is that
with the high building there is an actual contact between the body of
the observer and the ground, creating a feeling of height. The plane
passenger has no longer any vertical solid connecting him with the
ground—and the atmosphere which fills the space between the
bottom of the plane and the earth doesn’t have the same effect.
Many people seem to think that going up in the air will have some
ill effect on their hearts. I know a woman who was determined to
die of heart failure if she made a flight. She isn’t logical, for she rolls
lazily through life encased in 100 lbs. of extra avoirdupois, which
surely adds a greater strain on her heart—besides not giving it any
fun, at all.
Seriously, of course a person with a chronically weak heart, who
is affected by altitude, should not invite trouble by flying. A lame
man should exercise special care in crossing a street with crowded
traffic, and one with weak lungs should not attempt swimming a
long distance unaccompanied.
Consciousness of speed in the air is surprisingly absent. Thirty
miles an hour in an automobile, or fifty in a railroad train, gives one
greater sensation of speed than moving one hundred miles an hour
in a large plane. On the highway every pebble passed is a
speedometer for one’s eye, while the ties and track whirling
backward from an observation car register the train’s motion.
In the air there are no stones or trees or telegraph poles—no
milestones for the eye, to act as speed indicators. Only a somewhat
flattened countryside below, placidly slipping away or spreading out.
Even when the plane’s velocity is greatly altered no noticeable
change in the whole situation ensues—80 miles an hour at several
thousand feet is substantially the same as 140, so far as the
sensations of sight and feeling are concerned.
Piloting differs from driving a car in that there is an added
necessity for lateral control. An automobile runs up and down hill,
and turns left or right. A plane climbs or dives, turns, and in
addition, tips from one side to another. There is no worry in a car
about whether the two left wheels are on the road or not; but a pilot
must normally keep his wings level. Of course doing so becomes as
automatic as driving straight, but is, nevertheless, dependent upon
senses ever alert.
One of the first things a student learns in flying, is that he turns
by pushing a rudder bar the way he wants to go. (The little wagons
of our youth turned opposite the push, remember?)
 When he turns he must bank or tip the wings at the same time.
Why? Because the plane would skid in exactly the same way a car
does if it whirls around a level corner.
The inside of an automobile race track is like a bowl, with the
sides growing steeper toward the top. The cars climb toward the
outer edge in proportion to their speed, and it is quite impossible to
force a slow car up the steep side of the bowl. The faster it goes the
steeper the bank must be and the sharper the turn. A pilot must
make his own “bowl” and learn to tip his plane the right degree
relative to the sharpness of his turn and his speed. A skid means
lack of control, for a while, either on the ground or in the air, and of
course is to be avoided. By the way, compensating for skidding is the
same with a car or plane—one turns either craft in the direction of
the skid.
Besides skidding, a plane can stall exactly as a car does on a hill.
The motor is overtaxed and stops. The plane motor doesn’t stop, but
just as a stalled car starts to roll backwards down the hill, so the
stalled plane begins to drop. Recovery of control with an automobile
is simple; only a matter of jamming on the brakes and getting the
engine started again. With the plane there is similarly little difficulty;
it falls for a moment until it attains enough forward speed to make
the rudder and elevators again effective. This is comparable to the
ineffectiveness of a rudder on a too slow-moving boat. If a plane
stall with out motor occurs so close to the earth that there isn’t time
to recover control, a hard landing results.
But in the air, as with automobiles, most accidents are due to the
human equation. The careful driver, either below or aloft, barring the
hard luck of mechanical failure, has remarkably little trouble,
considering what he has to contend with.
I think it is a fair statement that for the average landing, the
descent of the plane is less noticeable than the dropping of the
modern high-speed elevator. It comes down in a gentle glide at an
angle often much less than that of a country hill. As a result, unless
a passenger is actually watching for the landing, he is aware he is
approaching the ground only when the motors are idled.
“I would gladly fly if we could stay very close to the ground,” is a
statement that I have heard often in one way or another. As a
matter of fact, a plane 100 feet off the earth is in infinitely more
danger than one 3600 feet aloft.

© Topical Press Agency

IN LONDON (MISS EARHART)
 © Paramount News Photos
“A BIG SMILE, PLEASE!”

Trouble in the air is very rare. It is hitting the ground that causes
it. Obviously the higher one happens to be, the more time there is to
select a safe landing place in case of difficulty. For a ship doesn’t fall
like a plummet, even if the engine goes dead. It assumes a natural
gliding angle which sometimes is as great as eight to one. That is, a
plane 5000 feet in the air can travel in any direction eight times its
altitude (40,000 feet) or practically eight miles. Thus it has a
potential landing radius of 16 miles.
Sometimes, a cautious pilot elects to come down at once to make
a minor engine adjustment. Something is wrong and he, properly, is
unwilling to risk flying further, even though probably able to do so.
Just so the automobile driver, instead of limping on with, say, worn
distributor points, or a foul spark plug, would do well to stop at once
at a garage and get his engine back into efficient working order.
 All of which obviously points the necessity of providing frequent
landing places along all airways. Few things, I think, would do more
to eliminate accidents in the air. With perfected motors the dread of
forced landings will be forgotten, and with more fields, at least in the
populous areas, “repair” landings would be safe and easy.
Eliminating many of the expected sensations of flying doesn’t
mean that none are to be anticipated or that those left are only
pleasant. There are poor days for flying as well as good ones. Just
as in yachting, weather plays an important part, and sometimes
entirely prevents a trip. Even ocean liners are occasionally held over
in port to avoid a storm, or are prevented from making a scheduled
landing because of adverse conditions. In due time a plane will
probably become as reliable as these ocean vessels of today,
because although a severe storm will wreck it, its greater speed will
permit it to fly around the storm area—to escape dangers rather
than battle through them as a ship must do.
The choppy days at sea have a counterpart in what fliers call
“bumpy” conditions over land. Air is liquid flow and where
obstructions occur there will be eddies. For instance, imagine wind
blowing directly toward a clump of trees, or coming in sudden
contact with a cliff or steep mountain. Water is thrown up when it
strikes against a rock and just so is a stream of air broken on the
object in its way, and diverted upward in atmospheric gusts which
correspond to the spray of the seaside. Encountering such a
condition a plane gets a “wallop”—is tossed up and buffeted as it
rolls over the wave.
There are bumps, too, from sources other than these land shoals.
Areas of cool air and warm disturb the flow of aerial rivers through
which the plane moves. The “highs” and “lows” familiar to the
meteorologists—the areas of high and low barometric pressure—are
forever playing tag with each other, the air from one area flowing in
upon the other much as water seeks its own level, creating fair
weather and foul, and offering interesting problems to the students
of avigation, not to mention variegated experiences to the flyer
himself.
The nautical boys have an advantage over the avigators. Constant
things like the gulf stream can be labeled and put on charts and
shoals marked. But one can’t fasten buoys in the atmosphere. Flyers
can only plot topography. Air, like water, gives different effects under
different conditions. The pilot must learn that when the wind blows
over a hill from one direction, the result is not the same as that
when it blows from another. Water behaves similarly. The shoals of
the air seem a little more elusive, however, because their eddies are
invisible. If one could see a downward current of air or a rough
patch of it, avigating might be easier sometimes.
“Bumpiness” means discomfort, or a good time for strong
stomachs, in the air just as rough water does in ocean voyaging.
There is no reason to suppose, however, if one isn’t susceptible to
seasickness or car-sickness, that air travel will prove different.
Some of the air-sickness experienced is due to the lack of proper
ventilation in cabin planes. Many are not adequately ventilated for
with the opening of the windows, the heat and sometimes the fumes
of the motors are blown in. Adequate ventilation is one of the
amenities which the plane of the future will have to possess.
Perhaps the greatest joy of flying is the magnificent extent of the
view. If the visibility is good, the passenger seems to see the whole
world.
I have spoken of the effect of height in flattening the landscape,
always a phenomenon in the eyes of the air novitiate. Even
mountains grow humble and a really rough terrain appears
comparatively smooth. Trees look like bushes, and automobiles like
flat-backed bugs. A second plane which may be flying a few hundred
feet above the ground, as seen from a greater altitude looks as if it
were just skimming the surface. All vertical measurement is fore-
shortened.
 The world seen from the air is laid out in squares. Especially
striking is the checkerboard effect wherever one looks down on what
his brother man has done. Country or city, it is the same—only the
rectangles are of different sizes. The city plays its game of checkers
in smaller spaces than the country, and divides its area more
minutely.
If one is fortunate enough to fly over clouds, another world is
entered. The clouds may be grey or white or tinted the exquisite
colors of sunset. Sometimes “holes” occur in them through which
little glimpses of the earth may be seen. It is possible to be lying in
sunshine and to look down on a piece of dull grey earth. There is
sport to be had playing hide-and-seek through the light fluffy clouds
that are not compact enough to be ominous. An instant of greyness
is followed by a flash of sunlight as one emerges into the clear air.
By the way, a flyer can dissipate a fairly small cloud by diving into it.
That is the fun of the clouds which look like “mashed potatoes.”
The big fellows can be much more serious. Once into them, and one
has the sensation of being surrounded by an everlasting mass of
grey, comparable, so far as visibility goes, with a heavy fog. In such
clouds one can find all varieties of weather—rain, snow, or sleet.
In the trans-Atlantic flight, we encountered both rain and snow.
There lies one of the greatest risks of long distance flying—I mean
moisture freezing upon the wings of the plane. The danger zone of
temperature is said to lie chiefly between twenty-four and thirty-
eight degrees, when slush begins to form. Once in trouble of that
kind, the pilot does his best to find warmer or colder temperature,
normally by decreasing or increasing his altitude.
As an example of the ice menace, I was told of a plane which
after a very few moments in the air was barely able to regain the
field whence it had taken off in a sleet storm, coming down with a
coating of ice which weighed at least five hundred pounds.
Speaking of ice, I am often asked about the temperatures in the
air. “Is it dreadfully cold up there?”
 Recently a group flew from New York to Boston on one of the
hottest mornings of the summer. The temperatures at about 2000
feet were probably some degrees lower than those prevailing on the
ground. We all know that unless one encounters a breeze, often the
temperature on a mountain 5000 feet high is no more agreeable
than that at its base. In a small open plane, as contrasted to the
cabin ship, one would have a pleasanter time on a summer day, and
conversely more discomfort in cold weather. It parallels the
experience in an open car.

© Keystone Views
THE BOBBY SAID: “IF MY WIFE SEES THIS!”
 © Keystone Views
OFF FOR ASCOT—MRS. GUEST AND HER SONS
WINSTON AND RAYMOND

In crossing the Atlantic I think the lowest temperature we had in

the unheated aft cabin of the Friendship was around forty. Our
lowest outside temperatures were only a few degrees below this. On
the Atlantic our maximum altitude was about 11,000 feet, with an
average far lower. Doubtless it would have been colder had we flown
high more of the distance.
In addition to the visual joys of airscapes, there is much else that
flying gives. Nothing, perhaps, is more appealing than the sense of
quick accomplishment—of getting somewhere, sooner. Aviation
means an approach to the elimination of time wastage, and seems
to point the way to further increase in the world’s leisure.
Humanity reaches for leisure—as time in which to do what it
wants. The Orient finds contemplation its pleasure, while the Occient
is not content without action. Of course, Americans are noted for the
work they do to play. Perhaps aviation will tend to make them enjoy
life a little more, by providing time to do something else.