For several years after World War I, battleships hauled large observation balloons, to give the ship's spotter an excellent height to observe and report the fall of the gun salvos with relation to the enemy, and to prevent low-flying enemy planes from strafing the ship.
While on board the Pacific Fleet flagship, the USS New Mexico (BB-40), anchored at San Pedro, the balloon officer invited me to go aloft with him to test one of these contraptions.
A couple of hours later the two of us were in the small wicker basket. The tremendous spherical balloon, 50 feet in diameter, hovered over us; the deck crew were holding onto the halliards stringing from the balloon.
A 3-inch manila line and a dozen sandbags, on which we stood were in the basket. Our only instrument was a small altimeter secured to the balloon officer's belt.
With everything ready to go, the balloon officer ordered the deck crew to "Let Go." We went straight down into the Pacific Ocean. Fortunately, not all the crew had let go instantly, and after much gasping, we were hauled, very wet, up and onto the deck.
After the water drained from the basket, six sandbags were removed and we were ready again. "Stand by; Let Go"—and we shot 10,000 feet straight up with the wind pushing us straight for Japan. Trying to catch my breath, I heard a hissing sound. The balloon officer had hold of the cord which opened the relief valve and we started down slowly to level off at 300 feet altitude where a light wind blowing in the opposite direction headed us onshore toward Long Beach, California.
The balloon officer dropped the 3-inch manila line over the side—all 300 feet of it—to balance the balloon at that height. If we went lower the weight of the rope was on the ground and we went up a few feet. If we lifted the rope off the ground the weight was on the balloon and we came down to 300 feet.
The light breeze carried us across the bay, and soon we were dragging the rope over the yard of a schoolhouse. Children ran out and some boys grabbed the rope, turning somersaults trying unsuccessfully to hang on to it. Automobiles began chasing us. On we went, over Signal Hill and over a field where some Japanese farm workers were bending over planting seeds. Only one even bothered to look up.
We continued on over the beautiful countryside with a feeling of exaltation. We were alone in a quiet world, aloof and free from the pygmies on the earth. As the rope dragged across a sandy country road, it wound itself around the top of a telegraph pole and held us like a toy balloon straining at its string to be free. We were unable to descend because of the power lines. After half an hour, a farmer came along and climbed onto the roof of his truck, shimmied up the rest of the pole and unwound the rope. Free, we floated on for an hour in the gentle but dying breeze.
We soon spotted a large dark plot that seemed to have the necessary characteristics of a good landing site, so the balloon officer skillfully began operating the release valve as he lowered us gradually. When the basket hit the ground, we bounced 20 feet up, then the whole balloon collapsed on top of us.
In five minutes we were surrounded by more than a hundred onlookers. We were on the outskirts of a town named Bellefair, only about 25 miles from San Pedro. A man with a truck agreed to take us back to the San Pedro dock, when we offered him five dollars.