I taxi out and turn my ship into the wind at the end of the snow-plowed
runway at Hagerstown Airport, Maryland. The white hangar looms too
close. Deep snow on the rest of the field prohibits its use. Can I get
over the hangar? I give it the gun and try. Just miss the hangar. Too
close!
Head off on a compass course for New York. Strong drift to the right
from northwest wind. Head a little more to left.
Blue Ridge Mountains pass under me. On into the friendly undulating
valley country beyond, snow covered.
Gettysburg under my left wing. They were fighting down there once. Hard
to believe, looking down on the peaceful fields now. Wonder what they
would have done if they could have looked up and seen me and my
airplane?
Low hills before the Susquehanna River. Their brown contours reach like
dusky fingers out into the snow-filled valleys.
Over the river, and Lancaster off to my left. Reform school there.
That's where they were always going to send me when I was a bad little
boy.
More valley country. Ridge-like hills. The Schuylkill River and
Norristown. Philadelphia, blue laws, and no movies on Sundays far off to
my right.
More valley. The Delaware River. Washington crossed the Delaware. I
cross it in half a minute.
The Sourland Mountains and Lindbergh's sad white house. I see Flemington
and know the trial is going on down there. I remember walking with
Lindbergh, ten years ago, from San Antonio, Tex., to Kelly Field, where
we were both advanced flying students. "What are you going to do when
you graduate?" he asked. "What are you going to do?" I asked him. Yes,
what were we going to do? And now he was down there in that courtroom,
and the world stretching out around him as far as I could see and much,
much farther was a cocked ear listening again to his tragedy. And I was
circling above in the clean blue sky, remembering many things and
thinking.
I shuddered a last long unbelieving look at Lindbergh's empty, lonely
house, perched up on its hill, circled and flew on. Half an hour later,
on Long Island, I kissed the chubby cheek of my own first-born son in
greeting and pitied Lindbergh somewhat for his fame.