Rumcajs napsal:

Píše o testu stoupání. Pak následuje "Then I let the nose down". Tedy "Pak jsem nechal nos dole". Není to jednoznačné, ale působí to na mě, že to dole je vztaženo k tomu předchozímu stoupání. Tedy že pokračoval letem v rovině. Kdyby chtě dajvovat, asi by napsal, "Then I pushed the nose down". Ale jisté to není. Odhadovat rychlost podle citu jde, přesnost je samozřejmě diskutabilní. Nicméně v otevřeném letadle to jde asi slušně, protože ta rychlost působí přímo na pilota a pokud měl nos zkalibrovanej z letadla, kde budíky byly, proč ne. Já když jezdíval na motorce, taky podle větru dost přesně poznal, kolik jedu. Tak +-5kmh. Měření se tím ale nahradit nedá. Spíš jsou podle mě zajímavé reporty pilotů, kde se píše o tom, koho dohonili a kdo dohonil je.

=FB=TL napsal:
Dear Customers!
We should inform you, that "Rise of Flight" Master Server will be offline for maintenance works from 9:00 till 10:00 UTC/GMT in 1th February 2013.

Sopwith Camel replica

extract from P1lot magazine November 1981

Engine: Warner Super Scarab

Right from the beginning my relationship with the Sopwith Camel was one of love, fright and freezing. I loved her because she was utterly unique, and a part of our heri­tage. She frightened me by what might be euphemistically termed her 'handling qualities', and also by her engine's depressing propensity for going to sleep on the job. And she froze me nigh to insensibility on all but the balmiest of summer days; no other aero­plane I have ever flown exposes its proprietor to the gale of its pas­sage in quite the same way.

I first made acquaintance with her because a friend's friend was looking for pilots for the Leisure Sport Warbirds display team of World War I aircraft. She was a replica, of course - but what a replica! This was no scaled-down mewling puppy of an aeroplane; this was the works, full-sized and seemingly of monstrous propor­tions, dwarfing a Tiger Moth and making a Pitts look like a control­-line model. She was, moreover, built (by that great character Viv Bellamy) almost entirely to the original plans, the only real departure from 1916 being the use of a Warner Super Scarab radial engine in place of the original Clerget or le Rhone rotary.

Sitting in her with the engine running for the first time, my elation became tinged with certain thoughtfulness. I had never flown behind a Scarab before, and this one sounded like several advanced TB cases staging a coughing contest (Which I later found is the way all Scarabs sound). Furthermore, the whole aircraft was shaking in sympathy - not with the eager vibration of most biplanes before they take to the air, but a sort of dispirited shivering as if a collection of geriatric spare parts were all trembling with their own individual agues. The long flying wires twanged like loose harp­ strings, and the bottom wings exhibited a peculiar rippling shudder as they drifted in and out of some harmonic of their own. ~ And on top of all this there was the Rotherham pump twiddling away none too far from my starboard ear. This device is a wind­driven airpump with a twelve-inch propeller. It works rather like a model aeroplane engine in reverse, and its function is to pressurise the Camel's fuel tank in order to perpetuate the flow of fuel to the engine. In the First War the Rotherham pump was mounted in various places on the aircraft, apparently according to the constructor's whim of the moment. Some Camels had them on a forward centre section strut; some had them on a rear; and still others had them mounted down below on an undercarriage leg. This one, for some undisclosed reason, had the infernal thing on the starboard rear centre section strut, just where the driver in a moment of inattention could stick his mush into the propeller arc. There was certain inevitability about this, and the only surprise was that when it eventually happened it was someone else who got a quick-release ear.

Taxying a Sopwith Camel, I next found, is a matter which demands considerable attention. Rudder response at taxying speed is nil to zero unless you indulge in great blasts of power to blow the tail round. But if you do this you also make the aeroplane go faster -and this is not desirable because the Camel has very low wing­loading coupled with marked dihedral on the bottom Wings, so that if she is pressed to proceed cross-wind at more than a sedate waddle she exhibits a most alarming tendency to roll over on her back.

In contrast, the take-off is no problem at all -or at least, once again, it is no problem provided you are pointing exactly into wind: if you are not, there is a most interesting few seconds while the into-wind wing tries to climb up over your head. Normally you just open up, pick the tail up, and the Camel grinds placidly into the air a few seconds later, after an incredibly short ground roll.

Then on the first flight, your flying lesson begins. Sitting amid the noise and wind, staring at the world between the barrels of the twin Vickers guns, the realisation rapidly comes upon you that the controls of this flying machine feel most peculiar. The rudder and elevator are very light and sensitive while the ailerons are astonishingly heavy, and appear to have practically no effect on anything at all. Heaving the stick from side to side produces a sort of drunken wallowing, like a politician trying to duck out of a commitment. A suspicious glance at the vibrating wings reveals that the ailerons are in fact still connected up -and the sight of them moving sluggishly in the airflow suggests the answer to the conundrum: the Camel has four enormous ailerons, and they are quite simply far too big. Furthermore, they have all the design subtlety of a quartet of barn doors. Frise effect, slotting, balancing, differential -these weren't even words in the aviation dictionary in 1916 when this lady was conceived, if you wanted your aeroplane to roll faster you just made the ailerons bigger. (And then, presumably, wondered why it didn't roll faster ... ) Those huge control surfaces so degrade the airflow over the wings that not only is their primary effect vastly blunted, but at the same time the drag thus engendered is awe-inspiring. Adverse yaw completely overcomes the normal secondary effect of roll, so that if you are so misguided as to take your feet off the Camel's rudder and then bank (say) to the left, the stubby round nose will instantly zap off to the right and keep going. Coupled with basic yaw instability, this characteristic is so pronounced that the aeroplane's 'natural' flight regime is in fact the side-slip: if you let go of everything she will immediately rack herself into the steepest slip­ping turn she can manage. All this combines to create a weird feeling of flying on a knife-edge when you first clatter into the air. It takes several minutes before the realisation trickles through that this loutish yawl-roll combination is not so much actively dangerous as merely different: this is flying a la 1916, and the cosseting comforts of inherent directional stability and effective aileron technology are many years in the future. One is just left reflecting that if the Camel was one of the best of the World War I flying machines, Gawd only knows what the worst were like ...

These first few minutes aloft are interesting for other reasons, as well. On my first flight, for example, so overcome was I with the awesome control disharmony that I did for some minutes forget to check the fuel pressure gauge. When I finally ducked down to peer at it on the shivering and rudimentary instrument panel the needle was sitting on four or five psi, way over the 2 1/2 psi red-line. The transition from ground-running to flight had caused the Rotherham pump to speed up and vastly over-pressurise the fuel tank, an event which I had been sternly warned was Not A Good Thing. With visions of the tank going off like a bomb six inches behind my seat, I grabbed for the manual pressure relief valve in the cockpit and opened it fully. A jet of Vaporising fuel shot across my knees from the nozzle, and the pressure needle promptly sank to zero. I shut off the valve, gave the hand wobble-pump a few strokes to stoke things up a bit and the bloody fuel pressure immediately went off the clock again. Becoming aware (quite correctly) that this was my initiation into what was obviously going to be an ongoing problem in Camel driving, I then strove vainly to find a position for the highly sensitive relief valve lever which would maintain something like the correct pressure.

I was thus engaged when my eye was arrested by the oil pressure needle, which was sinking slowly in the west.. The time had come, it rather seemed, to place the aeroplane back on the ground.
In the event this proved easier than I had expected, the only mildly exciting moment being when I initiated the final side-slip. Conventional slip entry - with bottom stick and top rudder - is a marked overkill in the Camel, since slipping 'is what it naturally wants to do anyway. My first attempt produced a lurch like a double­decker bus falling over, immediately followed by the discovery that slipping this particular bird requires bottom stick and bottom rudder pressure, to prevent the manoeuvre tightening up on itself.

After that the actual landing was an anti-climax. The Camel sits down slowly and gracefully in any attitude between wheeler and three-pointer, and the big bungee undercarriage gives a nice soft ride rather like a Tiger Moth. The only critical thing is that once again you must be exactly into wind, and you must also be ready with the beetle-crushers to keep it straight. Swaying around on top of those tall wheels the Camel always feels as if she's about to ground-loop, but never actually does. (Well ... not very often, anyway).

So ended my first Camel flight, after six minutes in the air. When everything came to a stop it was suddenly quiet enough to hear myself think: and I remember hearing myself thinking that any prolonged association with this flying machine was likely to prove an interesting and educational experience, to say the least. I was right: My next flight, which was supposedly a cross­country, ended after twelve minutes when an oil pipe broke and lubricated my plates-of-meat instead of the engine. I placed the aeroplane on the ground at -of all places -a Royal Naval helicopter station, gliding dead-stick past the tower towards a patch of grass while some genius on the balcony flashed a frantic red light at me. The next flight lasted five minutes before the oil pressure packed up again. So did the next flight. And on the flight after that, due entirely to my own pig-headedness I did contrive to become lost in a snowstorm, which is a most unfunny proceeding in a Sopwith Camel. The only saving grace was that the Scarab at last relented and condescended to keep running. I emerged from the experience, very much shaken, to make my first unforced Camel landing. The relationship was taking shape.

The next round of the battle was aerobatics. All that time Leisure Sport had the Camel and their Fokker Triplane, along with a trio of Tiger Moths and various other items of machinery. To their ever­lasting credit they did not limit the old warbirds to normal flight, but actually encouraged us to perform mild aerobatics for our display routines. Thus I found that the Camel performed tight little loops, well-behaved spins, good stall-turns, and somewhat ponderous barrel rolls. Slow rolls, however, were something else again. She would just about do it if you insisted, but you had to start at nigh on Vne , use both hands to crank on full aileron -and then wait. And wait. And wait. She took 23 seconds to go round (compared to about six seconds in, say, a Chipmunk), and that 23 seconds felt like a fortnight. After the first 100 degrees or so the engine would pack up and you were left rolling in hideous slow motion with only the howl of the wind in the wires for company. Treading the rudder very gently -for only a touch too much out-roll rudder would be enough to overcome the ailerons and stop the roll altogether, leaving you stuck on your back like some helpless airborne turtle -you finally regained erect flight with perhaps 80 mph left ,whereupon you had to wait several more seconds before the Scarab would cough and splutter and belch and finally struggle back to its normal asthmatic blattering. (In the end I did slow rolls at three or four shows before sanity prevailed and I dropped the exercise as being too hard on both the airframe and the nervous system).

FLYING THE OLD PLANES
by Frank Tallman
ISBN: 0-385-09157-5, Page 72.

“The takeoff run is easy. In a wind of 10 to 15 knots you are airborne in a couple of plane lengths at 35 mph and climbing out at about 60 mph, with a rate of climb of nearly 1000 feet a minute.

The elevators are sensitive, as is the rudder. Consequently, when flying for any distance I often put the heels of my shoes on the floor tie wires, because the vibration of the Le Rhone through the rudder bar exaggerates the rudder movements.

In level flight at 100 mph indicated, the Camel is delightful, and the structure is rugged enough to feel comfortable in loops. Unfortunately, with the British Spade stick and my 6 foot, 1 inch size, there's little room for aileron movement. The stick contacts my knees and thighs with anything stiffer than a 30 degree bank, and consequently I never rolled the Camel.

In military shows I have groundstrafed, and as soon as the airspeed reaches 130 or 140 mph the nose begins to hunt up and down, and the elevator becomes extremely sensitive. I feel that this action is due largely to the square windshield between the two Vickers guns, causing a substan¬tial burble over the tail surfaces.

Turns with the torque require the top rudder to hold the nose up, and in stalls at 35 to 40 mph the nose drops through frighteningly fast, but you also get control back in a hurry. The loop at 110 is an incredibly small circle in the sky, and, as in most rotaries, as you slow down at the top you must feed in rudder against the torque. I have had the pleasure of limited dogfighting with other World War I fighters, and there are none that can stay with the Camel in a turn.

Flying around any busy airport is not the Camel's forte because of its propensity to let one down enginewise. I usually flew it when there wasn't much traffic and I could land at will always into the wind, and I always three pointed it so as to dig in the tail skid. The skid is steerable within 15 degrees of either side of the centerline of the fuselage. The Camel touches down easily but runs out of rudder control almost instantly, and if you bounce your landing at all, you are likely to find yourself in a hairy ground loop looking at a rapidly bending aileron dragging in the grass.

For a wide variety of reasons, the Camel is a fascinating airplane, flightwise as well as historically. But don't think I ever got out of the Camel after being airborne even in the coldest weather without buckets of perspiration and considerable gratitude that I had gotten the little girl home again without breaking her into splinters!”

alfik napsal:

Přelož to pls. Gůgl translátor zase dělá píííp-oviny.

The next round of the battle was aerobatics. All that time Leisure Sport had the Camel and their Fokker Triplane, along with a trio of Tiger Moths and various other items of machinery. To their ever­lasting credit they did not limit the old warbirds to normal flight, but actually encouraged us to perform mild aerobatics for our display routines. Thus I found that the Camel performed tight little loops, well-behaved spins, good stall-turns, and somewhat ponderous barrel rolls. Slow rolls, however, were something else again. She would just about do it if you insisted, but you had to start at nigh on Vne , use both hands to crank on full aileron -and then wait. And wait. And wait. She took 23 seconds to go round (compared to about six seconds in, say, a Chipmunk), and that 23 seconds felt like a fortnight. After the first 100 degrees or so the engine would pack up and you were left rolling in hideous slow motion with only the howl of the wind in the wires for company. Treading the rudder very gently -for only a touch too much out-roll rudder would be enough to overcome the ailerons and stop the roll altogether, leaving you stuck on your back like some helpless airborne turtle -you finally regained erect flight with perhaps 80 mph left ,whereupon you had to wait several more seconds before the Scarab would cough and splutter and belch and finally struggle back to its normal asthmatic blattering. (In the end I did slow rolls at three or four shows before sanity prevailed and I dropped the exercise as being too hard on both the airframe and the nervous system).

Další kolo bitvy byla akrobacie. Všechu tu volnou zábavu měl Camel spolu s jejich Fokker Triplanem a trojící Tiger Monthů a různýma dalšíma kouskama. K jejich dobru je nutno přičíst, že neomezovali ta stará letadla na normální let, ale ve skutečnosti nás vyzvali k lehké akrobacii, abychom předvedli, co umíme. Tak jsem přišel na to, jak Camel umí utažené loopy, vychované vývvrtky, zatáčky na pádovce a poněkud těžkopádné barrel rolls. Výkruty byly ale něco jiného. Camel to provede, pokud máte dost přesvědčení, ale musíte začít v noci v 5 hodin ráno, použít obě ruce na vypáčení plných křidélek a pak čekat. A čekat. A čekat. Trvá to 23 vteřin udělat celý výkrut (porovnejte třeba s 6s u Chipmunka), a těch 23 s trvá celou věčnost. Po prvních 100 stupních to motor zabalí a jste ponecháni v hrozně pomalém pohybu jen ve společnosti s meluzínou v drátech. Lehce přehnané šlápnutí na směrovku překoná křidélka a zastaví ten roll úplně a ponechá vás vzhůru nohama jako bezmocnou želvu. Až se nakonec doštracháte k přímému letu s zbylými 80 mph, musíte počkat pár vteřin, než ten brouk zase naskočí a vrátí se k svému astmatickému pokašlávání. Nakonec jsem výkruty předvedl na 3 nebo 4 představeních, než mě přemohla svéprávnost a já to začal vynechávat, protože se to ukázalo příliš náročné jak pro letadlo tak pro mojí nervovou soustavu.

WT_Horrido napsal:
A jakou relevanci má popis chování letadla poháněného radiálním motorem ke Camelu s rotačním motorem v ROF?

Bierglass napsal:

Tak,že pokud by jsme se chtěli více přiblížit reálu musel by se upravit nejen LM ale i na serveru procentuelně určit kolik Německých pilotů bude připadat na 100 pilotů spojeneckých.

Baron napsal:



Na to ti rovno odpoviem: JEDEN.

Bierglass napsal:

Vaše bedlivé sledování a porovnávání LM je sice velice zajímavé ale nic neměnící.Lm model všech rádoby simulátorů je udělaný tak aby německá letadla byla vždy horší než ve skutečnosti byla,páč jinak by pravda a láska nemohla zvítězit na lží a nenávistí By mě zajímalo,kdyby byl LM opravdu reálný,kolik spojeneckých pilotů by dalo přednost Velbloudům kdyby start a přistání tohoto letadla ve velkém procentu pro tyto spojenecké "esa" skončili hláškou "killed"No kdyby ještě k tomu nezmrzačili Fok D VII tak by za tu stranu pravdy a lásky nechtěl nikdo létat.Jenže to se nestane pokud hry budou dělat rusáci nebo amíci. A proto všichni slušní lidé,kteří nechtějí těžit ze zkresleného LM létají za Německou stranu, občas si zanadávají ale věrni zůstanou.Spojenci v I.WW ani II.WW (až na malé vyjímky)nikdy neměli technickou převahu ale početní.Tak,že pokud by jsme se chtěli více přiblížit reálu musel by se upravit nejen LM ale i na serveru procentuelně určit kolik Německých pilotů bude připadat na 100 pilotů spojeneckých.

Rumcajs napsal:

Robo největší potíž jsou Albatrosy. Neexistují k nim věrohodná data. Není to jako SE5a, kterou proměřila NACA. Situaci komplikuje značení německých motorů Mercedes DIII. Němci zjevně štítkovali motory jmenovitým výkonem při 1400 otáčkách. Nicméně to bylo u pozdějších verzi v oblasti pod max. výkonem. Motory se štítkem 180HP po přeměření u britů dávaly 200 koní. Navíc od konce 1917 byly i starší DIII a DVa Albatrosy v polních podmínkách předělávány na silnější verze. Byla to výměna pístů a možná dalších zařízení. To samé platilo pro BMW motory, které po válce dávaly 220 koní místo štítkových 185HP. Pak existují svědectví ve formě pozorování jak německých tak spojeneckých pilotů. Ty se vesmě shodují, že Albatrosy byly rychlé stroje. Rychlejší než Camel a proti SE5a poněkud pomalejší. Poříž je v tom, že prostě reálně měřené údaje nejsou. Dr1 pak mělo být nejpomalejší co tenkrát lítalo, v ROFu je to ale docela žihadlo. Camel měl být hned druhej. Pak je poněkud problém s tím, jak zejména Pup a Camel drží energii v zatáčkách. Na ofiko fóru to před časem někdo počítal a přišel na to, že Pup vykazuje poměr vztaku a indukovaného odporu asi jako P51. Což je asi velmi optimistická hodnota na dvojplošník a klenutým profilem. Na ofiko fóru jsou k tomu tuny materiálů, na který ale 777 nikdy neodpovědělo. Před časem 777 upravili FM SE5a, N17 a ještě něčeho. Od té doby nic. Tak nějak se má za to, že FM tý SE5a je asi nejvěrohodnější FM, co je v ROFu.

Robo napsal:



No, ja tu debatu o FM v Rofke sledujem so zaujmom, nikdy som sa detailnejsie o toto obdobie nezaujimal a nevsimol som si, ze tam je takyto problem. Zaujimave, ze to na fore nikde moc neriesia a reporty diplomaticky zametu pod koberec. Baron aj ty pisete, ze nemecke era su horsie ako v skutocnosti skoro v kazdom sime - dovolil by som si nesuhlasit, kedze mam v nich daco v Il-2 aj v CloD dost nalietane a da sa povedat, ze v oboch LW dominuje (v Il-2 az kym nestretne Mustangy a pod.) a ze vacsina LW lietadiel je praveze namodelovana velmi optimisticky, vid. G-2, D-9 a pod. Skoro vzdy maju takyto nazor ortodoxni piloti jednej strany (su taki na oboch). Je preto podla mna lepsie lietat na vsetkych erach, clovek potom ziska objektivnejsi pohlad a nemysli si, ze ta 'druha' strana (ideologie bokom) to ma lepsie lahsie krajsie atd. Tieto debaty sa vedu uz pekne dlho, stale je to to iste dokola a nikdy to nikam neviedlo a vzdy bol niekto nespokojny alebo sa nasiel 'lepsi' graf alebo test. Ty slusni ludia