Prodigious as this first great master of the air had seemed it was followed in 1913 by one still larger. The new machine was to the fullest extent an aerial wonder. Its enormous body consisted of a wooden framework covered with canvas, and in its interior a series of cabins were provided. There were three decks: the main one in the center of the fuselage, designed to carry heavy armament of machine guns and a searchlight; a small deck at the stern; and one set in the undercarriage, where additional heavy armament could be placed. Only a few months before the storm of war broke over Europe this Air Leviathan was born, and at the time no one suspected it would so soon be called into active service. In the Spring of 1914 it made flight after flight, scoring a succession of triumphs by its record breaking performances, and winning for its designer a decoration from the Emperor.
Sikorsky was a man of wealth but so recklessly did he lavish his personal funds on his airplane ventures that on many occasions he came very near to want as a result. It was no unusual thing to see him during those years of reckless experiment, braving the bitter winter weather of Russia in threadbare garments, shivering, but grimly and sternly determined. Then came the War, and at the first call his machines were ready to prove themselves in the battle against the Hun.
Picture to yourself a scene outside one of the Allied hangars or airplane sheds, just back of the front lines, while the Great War is in progress. It is early morning, gray and chilly. Small fighting machines, which their trusty mechanics have carefully gone over for the tiniest flaw, now stand ready to take to the air. Pilots, wrapped in their heavy clothing--leather jacket, helmet and overcoat, gloves, goggles and muffler--prepare to face the frigid atmosphere above the clouds. The whirr of the motor, a short run over the ground, and up they go, one by one, until they become so many blackbirds, driving and looping and skimming through the sky. Over in this corner is a large reconnaissance machine, with pilot and observer, waiting to ascend. It is one of a squadron that will fly over the German lines to take photographs of the enemy's positions. With its rapid-firing machine guns it is prepared to give battle to the swifter enemy craft that will flash out to challenge its onward flight. Its rôle is a difficult one. It cannot climb to safety as the fighting machine can do and then swoop down on its enemy from a favorable height. Its duty is to bring back accurate views of the territory on the other side of No Man's Land. No matter what the dangers, it must fly straight on, sticking close enough to earth to accommodate its camera's range, and deviating as little as possible from its course, though the enemy's speed scouts blacken the air with bullets and the anti-aircraft guns spit at it maliciously from below. All the machines in the squadron may not return, and there will be vacant chairs at the dinner table to-night when those pilots who have braved the stern hardships of the day relate their little experiences with the Hun. But those who do come back will bring information which will enable the Allied commanders to plan with intelligence the next move in the battle that is raging.
