It was almost by chance that Lieutenant Apollo Soucek became associated with the project that was to bring him a good measure of international fame, a great deal of satisfaction for a job well done, and an expression of lasting gratitude from the Navy for his valuable contributions to the progress of naval aviation.
Ordered to the Bureau of Aeronautics in 1927, three years after he had earned his aviator’s wings, “Sockum” Soucek, as he is still remembered by many friends and Naval Academy classmates, reported for duty as Assistant in the Power Plants Division.
Shortly afterwards, the Apache overhaul project was assigned to that section. The Apache was the small research plane used by the Bureau for testing improvements on aircraft parts, engines, and related equipment. It was the plane in which BuAer test pilot Lieutenant C. C. Champion had, a year or so before, broken the existing world’s altitude record. But the aircraft was down for a complete overhaul, contracts for which had been awarded to civilian aircraft companies.
It seemed best to have one member of the section handle all the correspondence in connection with the overhaul and act as liaison between the interested aircraft companies and Lieutenant Champion, who had been transferred to other duty. This specific task was assigned to the new assistant in the Division.
The tiny Wright Apache was an open cockpit biplane, powered by a Pratt and Whitney Wasp 425 horsepower engine. A casual inspection of the Apache would reveal little difference from any other plane of the same type. But it was equipped with a supercharger that actually made it superior in rate of climb and absolute ceiling to most other planes of that time.
During the year that the Apache was absent from its home base, Naval Air Station, Anacostia, for the overhaul job, Lieutenant Soucek did not see it at all. But from the hundreds of hours work on correspondence about the plane, on drawings and plans, he felt he knew it as well as he knew his own body.
Its capabilities as a flying laboratory intrigued him. He wanted to fly it to test theories he had developed about high altitude flying and the use of superchargers for such flight. This growing interest of his, coupled with the fact that Lieutenant Champion could no longer continue the Apache altitude project, decided him to request permission to take over the task. Rear Admiral W. A. Moffett, Chief of BuAer, gave his permission, and the way was open for Soucek to proceed.
From that day until the day of his critical flight when he was to take the Apache to a height never before reached by man, Apollo Soucek had a thousand details to attend to personally.
To qualify for high altitude flight he had, first of all, to pass the “rebreather test.” For this test, as in today’s low pressure chamber, rarefied air conditions were simulated, while flight surgeons observed his reactions.
He was seated facing an instrument panel on which there was a row of lights. Under each light was a corresponding button. As a light flashed on, he touched the correct button and the light switched off. It seemed a simple operation that almost anyone could handle.
On one side of the panel there was an ammeter with a controlling knob. The problem here was to keep the needle at zero by turning the knob. This, too, seemed very easy.
Completing the testing devices was a contrivance that made a high, whining sound, like a supercharger. This was controlled by a foot pedal. Pumping the pedal vigorously silenced the noise.
What made this a test was the fact that everything worked simultaneously. When the main switch was thrown, all the instruments immediately went off control. The examinee had to keep the lights switched off, the ammeter at zero, and the whining noise stilled, all at the same time.
The test began fine and easy for “Sockum” Soucek. But as the minutes went by, he was busier and busier. The ammeter needle jumped all around the dial and he was unable to hit the right buttons for the lights. He couldn’t still the whining noise, though he was pedalling mightily. And he began feeling tired and confused. As he later said, it seemed like a lifetime that this confusion went on, with the air getting thinner and thinner, but actually it was only 25 minutes.
Not only did he pass the test and earn the designation “Fit for high altitude flight,” but, according to the flight surgeons’ computations, was qualified to go to the height of 28,000 feet without an oxygen breather.
Earlier research had removed much doubt concerning the need for a supplementary oxygen supply above a certain safe altitude. But the problem of forcing enough oxygen into lungs to sustain life when the pressure inside the lungs exceeded that outside the body remained to be solved. Accomplishments in later years in pressurization of cockpits, of cabins, of oxygen systems, and eventually of flight suits brought answers to that problem. But that was far beyond Apollo Soucek’s 1929 flights in the Apache, in time and in research and development.
His oxygen system consisted of three 17- pound flasks filled with pure oxygen, stowed in cradles in the cockpit. Two were for the steady supply, the third for emergency use. The two service bottles flowed through a common tube into a rubber “breathing unit” which ran through the face mask into the mouth, ending in two pipe stems held clenched between the teeth. A user of this system gulped oxygen through his mouth. His nose was tightly plugged to force mouth breathing.
Prior to Lieutenant Soucek’s record flight in the Apache, he made only five familiarization hops in the plane. Each test flight had aimed for a greater altitude than the one before. Top mark he reached was 34,500 feet indicated (33,570 as determined by the barographs at the Bureau of Standards, the final corrected reading, and therefore the final authority). He had been unable to exceed that height on any test flight because of what may seem a trivial thing. His goggles had frosted over.
That was his first experience with frosting, though he had been warned about it and was expecting it. Captain Luke Christopher, of the National Aeronautic Association, Langley Field, Va., had passed on his experiences with frosting. He had urged that under no circumstances were goggles to be removed at high altitudes. Apollo Soucek knew he must heed that advice, for he certainly wished to prevent “frozen eyeballs” such as Luke Christopher had suffered.
His goggles were the ordinary service pilot type. Moisture from his skin collected on the inside surface of the lens and froze when colder zones were reached. At altitude 33,500 the frost formation began. At 34,500 the lenses were completely opaque, and he was flying blind, in the frustrating position of being unable to reach the frost and wipe it off. He had no course of action other than to head the plane down, which he did, feeling his way.
During the descent the frost began to disappear at some point between 25,000 and 20,000 feet. At 18,000 the goggles were entirely clear. Another try for altitude was a great temptation, but even if he had had sufficient fuel for it, climbing back up would be useless. He knew that the same blinding frost would accumulate again. That problem stood in the way of any greater altitude, and it was imperative that it be solved.
Together with Commander F. H. Sears, Anacostia flight surgeon, he decided that pin-sized holes drilled through the lens might prevent such moisture accumulation and subsequent heavy frosting. The ventilation holes could also serve as peep holes through whatever frost did accumulate. So they drilled six holes in each lens, three above and three below. And in a further attempt to slow the frost formation, they painted the glass with an antifrost preparation such as that used on windshields.
Apollo’s brother, Lieutenant (jg) Zeus Soucek, then on duty at the Philadelphia Naval Aircraft Factory, was also working on the problem for him. Zeus was experimenting with wiring, a pair of goggles, equipping them with an electric heating element and a battery, somewhat similar to the electrically heated goggles used by Army Air Corps Captain A. W. Stevens and his colleagues in high flying.
The principle of the wired glasses was simple: to combat cold with heat. Apollo had experienced the absolute necessity of heat in an open cockpit 25,000 feet and above, where the temperature dropped as low as 89 degrees below zero.
Zeus built up a pair by winding the resistance wire around each lens and heating this element with a small storage battery. This equipment later proved to be excellent. The only objectionable features were the restricted vision caused by the fiber covering the resistance wires around the lenses, and the weight of the eight pound battery. On an ordinary plane that weight would be negligible, but on one like the pint-size Apache, where ounces meant reduced height, addition of eight pounds was critical.
In 1929 there were different schools of thought about flight clothing to protect from extreme cold found at high altitudes. On all his altitude flights, Soucek wore one single fur lined suit. Fur lined boots and mittens and a combined helmet and face mask, also lined with fur, completed the outfit. No underwear was worn with the suit; the fur next to the skin was quite warm. This gear was a radical departure from that preferred by most altitude fliers at the time. He admitted being influenced by the views of Sir Hubert Wilkins, English polar explorer, who once said, “I learned how to be warm and comfortable in suits of fur clothing as early as 1913. One precaution necessary to observe with fur suits was to refrain from wearing anything else underneath. If one attempted to feel civilized with silk or linen underwear one was going to be uncomfortable, but if one’s dignity could be maintained in a single suit, with no other clothing whatever, certainly comfort and warmth were assured.”
The fur suits had originally been made for the pilot Champion, but minus heavy woolen underwear, or silk, or linen, his successor found them a good fit, and very warm.
Weeks and months of study and testing of engines, superchargers, oxygen equipment and flight clothing had been completed. Soucek knew he was ready to make the attempt for the record, and his equipment was as good as could be devised, excepting his goggles; Zeus had not arrived with the wired set. (As a matter of fact, he did arrive with them fifteen minutes after Apollo took off.)
A long stretch of bad weather delayed the flight. But at length the break came. May 8, bright, clear and cool, was perfect for the attempt, exactly what Soucek and his associates had been waiting for.
The crew had finished with the plane; they had put the forty gallons of gas in the tank; Luke Christopher, NAA contest committee chairman, had sealed in the barographs for the official record. The oxygen bottles were in place. Doctor Sears stuffed the pilot’s nose and ears with vaseline-coated cotton plugs, adjusted the goggles with the pin holes, and painted on a last coat of anti-frost. It was time to go.
In less than 75 feet of runway the Apache rose into the air and started a steep climb. “Sockum” pushed his goggles up over his forehead; they wouldn’t be needed for some time yet. The cooler air was a wonderful relief, for the fur suit and hood had been stifling hot on the ground.
He had planned to keep the Anacostia station as an axis around which he would circle wider and wider in a spiralling climb. At about 10,000 feet he allowed himself a quick look over the side. There wouldn’t be much time for sightseeing later on. The brief look was a feast, for the brilliantly clear day made visibility practically perfect. Baltimore to the north showed plainly; the Blue Ridge Mountains showed dark to the west; and to the south, the broad Potomac wound down past Quantico.
At 12,000 feet he opened the oxygen valve to two liters, in compliance with Dr. Sears’s orders, though he didn’t feel the need of it. But studies of results from tests in the use of oxygen had convinced him as well as the flight surgeon that unless a pilot is drawing on pure oxygen above 10,000 or 12,000 feet, coordination between his mind and his hands and feet on the controls begins to break down. So he forced the oxygen into his lungs, preparing for the higher regions where he would need all he could get, and perhaps even more.
He encountered a strong northwest wind, seventy mph, at 15,000. If he headed the Apache into the wind for any length of time, he’d be standing still, for the plane’s speed exceeded that mark only slightly. The course of action here was to take advantage of the wind as birds do—ride it up. This he did.
At 20,000 feet he opened the mixture control full, opened the oxygen valve to four liters, partly closed the supercharger valve for testing. It functioned perfectly.
The wind was carrying the plane out over Chesapeake Bay, and so he turned toward the west. It appeared that he might not be able to maintain the circles he had planned with Anacostia as the center. By now the temperature was much lower. He could feel the cold around his eyes, and pulled the goggles down in place.
Five thousand feet more and the Apache began to labor in the thinning atmosphere. It was time to hold the supercharger valve partly closed, this time not for testing. The Wasp engine responded instantly to the compressed air jetting into the carburetor. The supercharger valve registered cylinder pressure at 18,000 feet, and the Wasp began running like a fine watch once more. When climbing, the Apache motor, with the supercharger, made a terrific whining roar that could be heard for miles. That sound was left behind, like a modern jet’s roar, for the only sound the pilot was conscious of was a pleasant little hum that told him everything was going as it should.
It was now time to fasten the bungee on the throttle. If he should lose consciousness from lack of oxygen and his hands drop from the controls, this spring would close the throttle. The supercharger valve spring would close that control. Thus the engine would be automatically slowed down and could not run away full throttle as it reached lower altitudes. His hands, awkward in the heavy mittens, made this simple action a difficult one.
As the altimeter steadily moved to 30,000, then 35,000, hie was very busy. Needing increasing amounts of oxygen, he kept opening the valves wider. He closed the fuel tank vent, then completely closed the supercharger, and the gas pressure went back to normal. There must be no possibility of fuel exhaustion from lack of pressure in the tank to force gas into the carburetor.
At this point the supercharger gauge registered 26,000 to 27,000 feet, the simulated altitude at which the Wasp engine now was operating. The RPM’s were still a good 2200 in the steep climb. He tested the emergency oxygen valve. That bottle, too, would be used.
After 38,000 the Apache's, climb rate slowed. All instruments remained the same except the supercharger gauge and the altimeter, though it seemed hardly to be moving.
He began to feel a dreadful fatigue in his left shoulder. It ached with a sharp pain from the strain of pushing on the supercharger valve and holding the throttle open against the bungee he had attached. That bungee cord, however, must be kept in place; it was a vital safety measure in case he blacked out.
From 38,500 the going was rougher and rougher. The altimeter needle moved so slowly it seemed it must surely be frozen stuck. He opened the service oxygen valve wide and once again tested the emergency supply. Frost began accumulating on his goggles and made it difficult to see. It was annoying, but at least he had had 38,000 frost-free feet. And the somewhat thinner frost near the pin holes left him some visibility at first. It steadily worsened, however, and so restricted his vision that he could scarcely read the instruments.
As Lieutenant Soucek related, “Finally, finally we reached altimeter reading of 40,000. It had taken us about forty minutes to reach this height from the ground. It had seemed much longer. I was tired now,” he continued, “and I felt intermittent periods of weakness. My goggles were completely covered with frost, but I knew I had a record within my grasp and was determined not to go down until I had gone as high as I could. I was still reaching for that ceiling.”
But it was imperative that he be able to see, so, holding his head as low as possible in the cockpit behind the cowling, he pushed the goggles up on his forehead. Nothing happened, no pain in his eyes, so he left the goggles where they were.
Now was the time to look around and get his bearings. In that brilliantly clear atmosphere he could see for miles in all directions: the Susquehanna River far to the north was a thin line; the Potomac, not broad now, but almost its entire length was visible, from Harpers Ferry to where it joins Chesapeake Bay; the Bay itself, from its head down to its meeting with the Atlantic Ocean. He could not see the Air Station now, but he recognized the tiny outline of Haines Point protruding in a curve into the Potomac. That would serve as his landmark.
In only a minute or so his eyelids and skin on the exposed parts of his face began to ache from the nearly ninety-below-zero cold. He still felt no pain in his eyes, but was squinting them almost closed to protect them. To keep from freezing his face he pulled the goggles back down. And then he really began to get into trouble. The grease on the control surfaces, ailerons, elevators and rudder had frozen so stiff he could hardly move the stick. It took every bit of strength he had to lift a wing. He was feeling dizzy and weak, even though gulping oxygen from the wide-open service tube, and had to open the emergency valve at intervals for an extra supply.
For almost an hour his left hand had been holding the throttle and supercharger valve against the tension of the bungee cords. Although the springs on the cords were light, they seemed to weigh tons. His left hand, arm, and shoulder were one cold ache from the strain.
The Apache was not climbing now, though he had tried various angles of attack, attempting to find the optimum. Higher speed gave better controllability, but lost altitude. Lower speed did not gain altitude and made the plane extremely hard to handle, as it was near the stalling point.
With the goggles over his eyes he was flying completely blind. It was worse than normal blind flying. In this condition he could not see the instruments, the horizon, nor any reference point. He knew, however, that he must see what he was doing. Though he was unwilling to risk damage to his eyes by exposing them, neither was he ready to give up and go downstairs!
So he made a quick compromise. With his right hand he held the goggles away from his eyes about an inch, like a lady holding her lorgnette. The goggles served as a windbreak and protected his eyes, and he could see a little by peeping from under their lower edge. But he had to fly with his knees controlling the stick. He later declared that he’d never needed three hands so much as he did right then. His left hand was used exclusively to hold the levers in a forward position. The right hand held the goggles and operated the emergency oxygen valve. But the right hand needed to be holding the stick also, for the knee control was very bad.
Just a few feet more, perhaps a hundred, was what he was striving for. But the plane was beginning to waver. He pushed the nose higher, but this was a mistake. The nose whipped over and the plane dropped off into a right spin.
Releasing the throttle and supercharger controls he thought, “This is the time for the bungees to pay off for all the strain of holding them.” This they did, admirably. Their usefulness was clearly demonstrated, for they closed both levers with no assistance from the pilot. Even had he been unconscious, no engine damage would have occurred.
The spin cost 2,000 feet altitude. The air was so light and the controls frozen so tightly the Apache fell that distance before the pilot could work out of the spin. Then he began a descent, for he felt sure the remaining fuel was insufficient to regain the 2,000 feet and try again for more.
By now his hands were suffering from cold, but to be able to see he still was forced to hold the goggles out from his eyes. It was colder in the cockpit than on the ascent, because of diminished engine heat, nose down position, and increased wind velocity. Even so, he spiralled down slowly, again heeding Luke Christopher’s warning, this time about the danger of “inverted bends.”
One hour and 24 minutes after he had gotten in the cockpit of the Apache, he climbed out again, after the most fascinating, most exciting flight he had ever made. Corrected barograph reading gave him an official altitude of 39,140 feet and determined that Lieutenant Apollo Soucek, U. S. Navy, had set a new world’s altitude record of almost eight miles.
As was characteristic of him, he insisted that the credit for his successful flight be shared by those who had contributed to the preparation for it. He felt that the hard ground work had been laid by Lieutenant Champion who had developed the Apache as the test vehicle that it was.
When, just two weeks after he had set the record, the German Junkers pilot Willi Neuhofen bettered it with an impressive 41,794 feet, he was heard to say, “In a way my record was like unearned money—‘Easy come, easy go.”’
The next month he took the Apache up once more, this time fitted with a pontoon, and set a seaplane altitude record of 38,560 feet. This record was not broken for a decade.
In the following June, a year to the day, he again flew the Apache as a landplane. A more powerful engine had been installed, and it proved its worth. He re-established the world’s altitude record when the Apache reached 43,160 feet. This record stood for more than two years.
On July 22, 1955, Vice Admiral Apollo Soucek, USN (Ret.) died. The “test pilot admiral” had been a revered leader of aviators and aviation personnel for almost thirty years. Just eighteen days after his death, the Chief of Naval Operations received this message from the Oceana Naval Air Station, Virginia Beach, Virginia: “This command desires to name its airfield in honor of the late Adm. Apollo Soucek in order to perpetuate most appropriately the memory of this great naval aviator who contributed so much to the advancement of the field of aviation and the growth of naval aviation.”
In impressive ceremonies on June 4, 1957, the Oceana Master Jet Base named its flying field Soucek Field, dedicated in memory of the naval officer, the aviator, the man.