It is the year before Lindbergh becomes famous. I have graduated in the
same class with him from the army flying school the year before and have
seen him only twice since. I am on an army cross-country trip, bound for
St. Louis, when I land at Chicago and run into him. He is just taking
off with the mail, bound for St. Louis too, and we decide to fly down
together in formation.
It is getting dark when we sight the river at St. Louis in the distance.
Lindbergh shakes his wings. He is calling my attention. I pull my ship
in close to his. I see him pointing from his cockpit. I look ahead and
see a speck. It grows rapidly larger. I make it out as another DH
approaching us head on from the deepening dusk. It comes up, swings
around into formation with us, and sticks its wing right up into mine.
Its pilot peers at me, and I peer at him. We recognize each other. It is
Red Love. Red, Lindbergh, and myself were three of the four cadets in
our pursuit class at flying school. Looks like a class reunion in the
air.
But no. Lindbergh is shaking his wings. He is banking. He is pointing
down. He spirals down, circles a field, flies low over it several times,
dragging it, looking it over carefully, and lands. Red and I follow.
Lindbergh and I crawl out of our ships with parachutes strapped to us.
Red crawls out of his without one. Lindbergh takes his off as the three
of us converge for greetings.
"You will need this getting the mail on into Chicago the rest of the way
in the dark tonight," he says to Red, holding the chute out to him.
"It's the only one in the company," he says, turning, explaining to me,
"and I won't need it for the few miles on into St. Louis from here."
We say hasty greetings and good-byes, crawl back into our still idling
ships, and take off. Lindbergh, chuteless now, heads off south for St.
Louis, and I follow. Red swings off in the opposite direction for
Chicago.
I look back. I see Red disappearing into the darkening north. I know he
feels better now, sitting on that chute.