Science: Through the Thunderhead

It was typical summer weather last week as the South African gliding meet began on the broad plateau at Baragwanath. All morning thick cumulus clouds built up in the hot, dry air over the Rand. At noon, Swiss Engineer René Comte folded his wiry frame into the cramped, rubber-cushioned cockpit of his sleek Moswey (Buzzard) IV glider, fitted the bubble canopy in place and took off, towed by a sturdy little Tiger-Moth. With good luck he hoped to fly to Bloemfontein, 200 miles away.

When he was 1,200 ft. over Baragwanath, Comte cut loose his tow. Some ten miles to the south he spotted a towering thunderhead. Rain poured from its base, and lightning played around the high-riding, anvil-headed cloud. Sure that it would contain powerful updrafts, Comte headed for it. As he maneuvered under its base, he switched on his electrically driven gyro-horizon.

For Two Diamonds. An experienced pilot with six years of soaring in the U.S. and the Swiss Alps behind him, Comte knew how dangerous a thunderhead can be.* But if it boosted him high enough, he could coast down to Bloemfontein. And he would earn two coveted “diamonds” for his gold gliding badge: one for an altitude gain of at least 16,700 ft., the other for a flight of at least 186 miles to a predetermined point.

Spiraling in the violent updrafts of the thunderhead, his ship was quickly smothered in grey, impenetrable fog. Rain lashed at the canopy. The outside air temperature dropped. Comte continued to circle, nose down, while his plane climbed faster and faster—like a man moving upstairs while strolling slowly downward on a racing escalator. At 11,000 ft. the rain turned to hail that tore noisily at the wings. The airspeed indicator froze, and the rate-of-climb indicator stuck at 5 ft. per second. The needle of the glider’s sealed barograph reached its limit at 27,000 ft. But the plane, bucking and pitching in the turbulent winds, kept on climbing.

Like a Crazy Clock. Comte turned on oxygen as he passed 16,000 ft., watched his altimeter going “round and round like the hands of a crazy clock.” After 15 minutes it registered 32,000 ft. The fog turned thin and milky, letting a little sunlight filter through. Suddenly there was a blinding flash. Said Comte afterward: “The whole cloud lit up, with me inside it. I felt lightning hit the top of my head a sharp blow and run through my hands into the control column. The plane continued flying steady, but I was scared.”

Comte leveled out on a compass course for Bloemfontein and nosed out of the cloud. He was flying in the open, but all around him were high fog and more clouds. Comte headed into the fog, flew through steady downdrafts until he broke out again at 6,000 ft., 70 miles from where he had started his high, wild ride. For an hour and a half he tried to get around the rain fronts that hemmed him in, but he was finally forced down at Vredefort, 150 miles from his destination.

Because he is a Swiss citizen, Comte may not claim the South African gliding altitude record, which now stands at 21,000 ft. He will have to send the record from his sealed barograph home to Switzerland for any official recognition. In Johannesburg, however, South Africa’s Champion Harry Lasch shook his head in amazement at Comte’s flight. Official or not, “it was magnificent, and is going to be very hard to beat.”

* During the last prewar German glider meeting in the Rhon Mountains, five foolhardy, Hitler-inspired pilots flew into a thunderhead. One lived to tell the tale—minus three fingers and most of his face. His plane was whirled to fragments. He parachuted out, but was quickly frozen stiff while razor-sharp hail ripped at his body. The others also jumped, but fierce updrafts carried them so high that they froze to death.