It was 1:45 a. m. The lights of United Airport at Burbank, Calif., where
I had left the ground fifteen minutes before, had disappeared. I knew
the low mountains were beneath me, but I couldn't see them. I knew the
high mountains several miles east of me were higher than I was, but I
couldn't see them. I could see the glow of the luminous-painted dials in
my instrument board in front of me. I could see the sea of lights of Los
Angeles and vicinity south of me, stretching southeastward. I could see
the stars in the cloudless, moonless sky above. I was circling for
altitude to go over the high mountains.
At 13,000 feet I leveled out and assumed a compass course for Wichita,
Kan. I passed over the high mountains without ever seeing them. I saw
only an occasional light in the blackness beneath me where I knew the
mountains were. I knew from my map that there were low mountains and
desert valleys beyond.
Greener country. Fertile valleys. Mountains looming. The Sangre de
Cristo range loomed high in front of me. Twelve thousand feet. I passed
over it into the undulating low country beyond it. Soon I was flying
over the flat fertile plains of western Kansas.
Gas trucks were waiting for me at Wichita Airport. Reporters asked me
questions. They took pictures. They told me I was behind Lindbergh's
time. A woman out of the crowd jumped up on the side of my ship and
kissed me. I was off the ground, headed for New York, fifteen minutes
after I had landed.
It was very rough. It was hot. I was miserable in my fur flying suit. I
ached like hell from sitting on the hard parachute pack and wished I
could stand up for a while. I hadn't had a chance to step out of the
ship at Wichita.
Clouds gone. Towns closer together. Towns larger. Farms smaller. More
railroads and paved roads. Industrial towns. On into the rolling country
of eastern Ohio.
Pittsburgh was covered with smoke. The Allegheny Mountains were dim in a
haze. It was getting dark.
Mountains beneath me in the dusk like dreams floating past. Stars
appearing in the clear sky. Lights coming on in the houses and towns.
It was dark now. The flashing beacons along the Cleveland-New York mail
run were visible off to my left.
New York. An ocean of shimmering light in the darkness, spreading
immensely under me. Beyond stretched Long Island. I could see where the
field ought to be. Did I see the Roosevelt Field beacon? Was that it?
What was that beacon over there? I saw hundreds of beacons. Beacons
everywhere. Every color of flashing beacon. Then I remembered it was
Fourth of July night. I would have a hell of a time locating the field.
Finally I distinguished Roosevelt Field lights from the fireworks, and
dove low over the field. The flood lights came on. My red-and-white
low-wing Lockheed Sirius glided out of the darkness, low over the edge
of the field, brilliantly into the floodlight glare, landed and rolled
to a stop.
There was a crowd at the field. Roosevelt was giving a night
demonstration. People ran out of the crowd toward me. George jumped up
on the wing and leaned over the edge of my cockpit. I was taxiing toward
the hangar.
"That did it," Pick shouted over the noise of my engine.
"Did what?" I shouted back.
"Broke the record, boy!"
"You're crazy as hell," I answered. It took me sixteen and a half hours.
Lindbergh made it in fourteen forty-five.