[Illustration: ©_Wide World Photos_
“WE”]
“WE”
BY
CHARLES A. LINDBERGH
THE FAMOUS FLIER’S OWN STORY OF HIS LIFE
AND HIS TRANSATLANTIC FLIGHT, TOGETHER
WITH HIS VIEWS ON THE FUTURE OF AVIATION
WITH A FOREWORD BY
MYRON T. HERRICK
U. S. AMBASSADOR TO FRANCE
[Illustration]
FULLY ILLUSTRATED
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK--LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1927
Copyright, 1927
by
Charles A. Lindbergh
This is a copy of the First Edition of “WE”
[Illustration: G.P. Putnam’s Sons]
July, 1927
[Illustration: The
Knickerbocker
Press
New York]
Made in the United States of America
DEDICATED TO
MY MOTHER
AND TO THE MEN WHOSE CONFIDENCE AND
FORESIGHT MADE POSSIBLE THE FLIGHT OF THE
“SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS”
MR. HARRY H. KNIGHT
MAJOR WILLIAM B. ROBERTSON
MAJOR ALBERT BOND LAMBERT
MR. J. D. WOOSTER LAMBERT
MR. HAROLD M. BIXBY
MR. EARL C. THOMPSON
MR. HARRY F. KNIGHT
MR. E. LANSING RAY
FOREWORD
When Joan of Arc crowned her King at Rheims she became immortal. When
Lafayette risked his all to help the struggling Americans he wrote his
memory forever across a mighty continent. Shepherd boy David in five
minutes achieved with his sling a place in history which has defied all
time.
These three shining names represent the triumph of the idealism of
youth, and we would not speak of them with such reverence today had
their motives been less pure or had they ever for an instant thought of
themselves or their place in history.
So it was with Lindbergh, and all the praise awarded him, judged by the
rigid standards of history and precedent, he has merited. He was the
instrument of a great ideal and one need not be fanatically religious
to see in his success the guiding hand of providence.
For he was needed and he came at the moment which seemed exactly
prëordained. He was needed by France and needed by America, and had his
arrival been merely the triumph of a great adventure the influence of
his act would have gone no further than have other great sporting and
commercial achievements.
There have been moments here in France when all that my eye could
reach or my intelligence fathom appeared dark and foreboding and yet,
in spite of all, my soul would be warmed as by invisible sunshine. At
such times when all human efforts had apparently failed, suddenly the
affairs of nations seemed to be taken from out of the hands of men and
directed by an unseen power on high.
Just before the Battle of the Marne I was standing on the Seine
embankment.
A great harvest moon was rising over the city near Notre Dame. It
seemed to rest on the corner of a building. The French flag was
blowing steadily across its face. In fleeting moments while this
spectacle lasted people knelt on the quay in prayer. I inquired the
meaning of these prayers. The answer was that there is a prophecy
centuries old that the fate of France will finally be settled upon the
fields where Attila’s horde was halted and driven back and where many
battles in defence of France have been won. And pointing up the Seine
to the French flag outlined across the moon people cried, “See, see the
sign in heaven. It means the victory of French arms. The prophecy of
old is come true and France is once again to be saved on those chalky
fields.”
Now when this boy of ours came unheralded out of the air, and circling
the Eiffel tower settled to rest as gently as a bird on the field at Le
Bourget, I was seized with the same premonition as those French people
on the quay that August night. I felt without knowing why, that his
arrival was far more than a fine deed well accomplished, and there
glowed within me the prescience of splendor yet to come. Lo! it did
come and has gone on spreading its beneficence upon two sister nations
which a now-conquered ocean joins.
For I feel with every fibre of my being that Lindbergh’s landing here
marks one of the supreme moments in the history of America and France,
and the faith we have in the deciding power of spiritual things is
strengthened by every circumstance of his journey, by all his acts
after landing, and by the electrical thrill which ran like some
religious emotion through a whole vast population. “The Spirit of St.
Louis” was to the French people another sign come out of the sky--a
sign which bore the promise that all would be well between them and us.
What a happy inspiration it was to christen his ship with such a
name! It brought as from on high a new spiritual message of peace and
good-will, and it was more than a coincidence that Lindbergh should
drop from his ship his farewell message to Paris on that spot, in the
Place de la Concorde, where once the Spirit of Saint Louis was invoked
in tragic circumstances. The priest who stood there beside King Louis
the Sixteenth as the guillotine fell, cried defiantly to the assembled
mob: “The Spirit of Saint Louis ascends to the skies.” With Lindbergh,
_out_ of the skies, the noble Spirit of Saint Louis came back to France.
France took Charles Lindbergh to her heart because of what he was and
because of what she knew he represented. His little ship came to the
meeting place of the greatest conference that has ever gathered between
two nations, for under the shadow of its wings a hundred and fifty
million Frenchmen and Americans have come together in generous accord.
No diplomatic bag ever carried so stupendous a document as this all
unaccredited messenger bore, and no visiting squadron ever delivered
such a letter of thanks as he took up the Potomac in returning. Has any
such Ambassador ever been known?
Lindbergh was not commissioned by our government any more than
Lafayette was by his; in each case it has been merely left for
statesmen to register and approve the vast consequences of their acts.
Both arrived at the critical moment and both set in motion those
imponderable forces which escape the standards of the politician’s
mind. Who shall say but that they were God-sent messengers of help,
smiling defiance of their faith at an all too skeptical world? What one
accomplished has already changed history through a century; what the
other has just done the people of America and France will take good
care shall not be wasted.
The way Lindbergh bore himself after getting here was but the
continuation of his flight. He started with no purpose but to arrive.
He remained with no desire but to serve. He sought nothing; he was
offered all. No flaw marked any act or word, and he stood forth amidst
clamor and crowds the very embodiment of fearless, kindly, cultivated,
American youth--unspoiled, unspoilable. A nation which breeds such
boys need never fear for its future. When a contract for one million
dollars was sent him through his associates he cabled back to them,
“You must remember this expedition was not organized to make money but
to advance aviation.” There is the measure of his spirit; the key to
his intentions.
Flying was his trade, his means of livelihood. But the love of it
burned in him with fine passion, and now that his fame will give him a
wider scope of usefulness, he has announced that he will devote himself
wholeheartedly to the advancement of aeronautics.
His first step in that direction is the publishing of this book, and no
one can doubt that its influence will be of enormous value in pushing
on man’s conquest of the air. It will be idle for me or anyone else
to estimate now what these results will be. But America vibrates with
glowing pride at the thought that out from our country has come this
fresh spirit of the air and that the whole world hails Lindbergh
not only as a brave aviator but as an example of American idealism,
character and conduct.
MYRON T. HERRICK.
_United States Embassy
Paris
June Sixteenth, 1927_
CONTENTS
PAGE
I.--BOYHOOD AND EARLY FLIGHTS 19
II.--MY FIRST PLANE 39
III.--BARNSTORMING EXPERIENCE 63
IV.--HEADING SOUTH 84
V.--TRAINING AT BROOKS FIELD 104
VI.--RECEIVING A PILOT’S WINGS 126
VII.--I JOIN THE AIR MAIL 153
VIII.--TWO EMERGENCY JUMPS 175
IX.--SAN DIEGO--ST. LOUIS--NEW YORK 198
X.--NEW YORK TO PARIS 213
PUBLISHER’S NOTE 231
AUTHOR’S NOTE 232
A LITTLE OF WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT
OF LINDBERGH
BY FITZHUGH GREEN
I.--PARIS 233
II.--BRUSSELS 248
III.--LONDON 254
IV.--WASHINGTON 265
V.--NEW YORK 297
VI.--ST. LOUIS 315
ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
“WE” _Frontispiece_
FATHER AND SON 20
INSTRUCTOR AND CLASSMATES IN A MID-WESTERN
MILITARY SCHOOL 21
SHIPPING “THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS” 32
THE MEN WHO MADE THE PLANE 33
FINANCIAL BACKERS OF THE NON-STOP NEW YORK TO
PARIS FLIGHT 50
FUSELAGE FRAME OF THE PLANE 51
WORKING ON NAVIGATION CHARTS FOR FLIGHT 66
INSTRUMENT BOARD OF THE PLANE 67
“WE” MAKE A TEST FLIGHT 82
PATSY, THE MASCOT 83
POLICE GUARDING “THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS” 98
CAPTAIN RENÉ FONCK WISHES ME THE BEST OF LUCK 99
GETTING READY FOR THE TAKE-OFF 114
JUST BEFORE STARTING ON THE BIG ADVENTURE 115
“I DIDN’T USE MY PERISCOPE ALL THE TIME” 118
A SALUTATION FROM M. BLERIOT 119
PAUL PAINLEVÉ EXTENDS HIS WELCOME 126
WITH M. DOUMERQUE AND AMBASSADOR HERRICK 127
CROWDS AT THE CITY HALL 130
GUESTS AT THE LUNCHEON OF M. BLERIOT 131
ON THE STEPS OF THE EMBASSY 146
THE WELCOME AT CROYDEN FIELD 147
WITH CROWN PRINCE LEOPOLD 162
WITH H. R. H. THE PRINCE OF WALES AND LORD
LONSDALE 163
CROWDS PRESSING AROUND “THE SPIRIT OF ST.
LOUIS” AS THE PLANE LANDED 178
“AT CROYDEN FIELD I ESCAPED TO THE TOP OF THE
OBSERVATION TOWER OVERLOOKING THE CROWD” 179
THE U. S. S. “MEMPHIS,” FLAGSHIP, ON WHICH THE
AUTHOR RETURNED TO AMERICA 194
COMING DOWN THE GANGPLANK OF THE U. S. S.
“MEMPHIS” 195
CHARLES EVANS HUGHES CONFERS THE CROSS OF
HONOR 210
AT THE TOMB OF “THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER” 211
SPEECHES AT WASHINGTON MONUMENT 226
FROM THE TOP OF WASHINGTON MONUMENT 227
AT ARLINGTON CEMETERY 234
THE $25,000 CHECK PRESENTED BY RAYMOND ORTEIG 235
RECEIVING THE ORTEIG PRIZE MEDAL 235
WELCOME IN NEW YORK HARBOR 242
RIDING UP BROADWAY 243
NEW YORK CITY’S WELCOME 258
A JUNE SNOWSTORM 259
THE PARADE PASSING THROUGH CENTRAL PARK 274
THE PARADE IN CENTRAL PARK 275
SPEAKING AT THE CEREMONIES IN CENTRAL PARK 290
SPEAKING AT THE CEREMONIES IN PROSPECT PARK 291
“THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS” AFTER HER RETURN 306
AFTER THE FLIGHT TO WASHINGTON 307
ST. LOUIS’ WELCOME 314
MY MOTHER 315
“WE”
I
BOYHOOD AND EARLY FLIGHTS
I was born in Detroit, Michigan, on February 4, 1902. My father was
practicing law in Little Falls, Minnesota, at the time. When I was less
than two months old my parents took me to their farm, on the western
banks of the Mississippi River two miles south of Little Falls.
My father, Charles A. Lindbergh, was born in Stockholm, Sweden, January
20, 1860, the son of Ola and Louisa Manson. His father (who changed his
name to Lindbergh after reaching America) was a member of the Swedish
Parliament and had at one time been Secretary to the King.
About 1860 my grandfather with his family embarked on a ship bound for
America, and settled near Sauk Center, Minnesota, where he took up a
homestead and built his first home in America--a log cabin. It was here
that my father spent his early life.
The Rev. C. S. Harrison, writing for the Minnesota Historical Society,
gives an account of the activities of my grandfather during the early
days in Minnesota.
There were very few schools in Minnesota at that time, and my father’s
boyhood days were spent mostly in hunting and fishing. His education
consisted largely of home study with an occasional short term at
country schools.
He was educated at Grove Lake Academy, Minnesota, and graduated from
the law school at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, with an LL.B.
degree.
He began his law practice in Little Falls where he served as County
Attorney. He later became interested in politics, and was elected
to the 60th Congress in 1906 to represent the Sixth District of
Minnesota at Washington, a capacity in which he served for ten years.
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
FATHER AND SON]
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
MADISON, WISC.--INSTRUCTOR AND CLASSMATES IN A MID-WESTERN MILITARY
SCHOOL]
My mother was born in Detroit, Michigan, daughter of Charles and
Evangeline Land. She is of English, Irish and French extraction. As a
graduate of the University of Michigan, she holds a B.S. degree from
that institution, also an A.M. degree from Columbia University, New
York City. Her father, Dr. Charles H. Land, a Detroit dentist, was born
in Simcoe, Norfolk County, Canada, and his father, Colonel John Scott
Land, came from England, and was one of the founders of the present
city of Hamilton.
My grandfather was constantly experimenting in his laboratory. He held
a number of patents on incandescent grates and furnaces, in addition
to several on gold and enamel inlays and other dental processes. He
was one of the first to foresee the possibilities of porcelain in
dentistry, and later became known as “the father of porcelain dental
art.”
During the first four years of my life, I lived in our Minnesota home
with the exception of a few trips to Detroit. Then my father was
elected to Congress and thereafter I seldom spent more than a few
months in the same place. Our winters were passed in Washington, and
our summers in Minnesota, with intermediate visits to Detroit.
When I was eight years of age I entered the Force School in Washington.
My schooling was very irregular due to our constant moving from place
to place. Up to the time I entered the University of Wisconsin I had
never attended for one full school year, and I had received instruction
from over a dozen institutions, both public and private, from
Washington to California.
Through these years I crossed and recrossed the United States, made one
trip to Panama, and had thoroughly developed a desire for travel, which
has never been overcome.
My chief interest in school lay along mechanical and scientific lines.
Consequently, after graduating from the Little Falls High School, I
decided to take a course in Mechanical Engineering, and two years later
entered the College of Engineering of the University of Wisconsin at
Madison.
While I was attending the University I became intensely interested
in aviation. Since I saw my first airplane near Washington, D. C.,
in 1912, I had been fascinated with flying, although up to the time
I enrolled in a flying school in 1922 I had never been near enough a
plane to touch it.
The long hours of study at college were very trying for me. I had spent
most of my life outdoors and had never before found it necessary to
spend more than a part of my time in study.
At Wisconsin my chief recreation consisted of shooting-matches with the
rifle and pistol teams of rival Universities, and in running around on
my motorcycle which I had ridden down from Minnesota when I entered the
University.
I had been raised with a gun on our Minnesota home, and found a
place on the R.O.T.C. teams at the beginning of my freshman year at
Wisconsin. From then on I spent every minute I could steal from my
studies in the shooting gallery and on the range.
The first six weeks of vacation after my freshman year were spent in an
Artillery School at Camp Knox, Kentucky. When that was over I headed
my motorcycle south and with forty-eight dollars in my pocket, set out
for Florida. After arriving at Jacksonville I started back the same
day, but over a different route leading farther west than the first.
Seventeen days after leaving Camp Knox I arrived back in Madison with a
motorcycle badly in need of repair and nine dollars left in my pocket.
After stopping in Madison long enough to overhaul the engine I went to
Little Falls to spend the remainder of my vacation.
Soon after the start of my third semester at Wisconsin I decided to
study aeronautics in earnest, and if, after becoming better acquainted
with the subject, and it appeared to have a good future, I intended to
take it up as a life work.
I remained at the University of Wisconsin long enough to finish the
first half of my sophomore year. Then about the end of March, 1922, I
left Madison on my motorcycle en route to Lincoln, Nebraska, where I
had enrolled as a flying student with the Nebraska Aircraft Corporation.
The roads in Wisconsin in March, 1922, were not all surfaced and when,
after leaving the well-paved highway, I had progressed only about four
miles in as many hours, I put my motorcycle on the first farm wagon
that passed and shipped it to Lincoln by rail at the next town.
I arrived at Lincoln on the first of April. On April 9, 1922, I had
my first flight as a passenger in a Lincoln Standard with Otto Timm,
piloting.
N. B. In the following account of flying during the post-war period
of aviation, before flying laws and the Aeronautical Branch of the
Department of Commerce came into existence, it should be borne in
mind by the reader that the experiences and incidents related in this
book in no way describe modern commercial flying conditions. Even in
this account it will be noticed that the more spectacular events took
place in such a manner that all risk was taken by the pilots and by
members of the aeronautical profession; also that exhibition and test
flying were responsible for most of these.
In the four emergency parachute jumps described herein, it is
apparent that in each case the plane would never have been flown with
passengers under the conditions which necessitated the jump.
Commercial air transport has developed rapidly during the last
few years, until today it has reached a stage where the safety of
properly operated airlines compares favorably with other means of
travel.
I received my first instruction in the same plane a few days later
under I. O. Biffle, who was known at the Nebraska Aircraft Corporation
as the most “hard boiled” instructor the army ever had during the war.
The next two months were spent in obtaining, in one way or another, my
flying instruction, and in learning what I could around the factory,
as there was no ground school in connection with the flying course at
that time.
We did most of our flying in the early morning or late evening on
account of the strong Nebraska winds in midday with their corresponding
rough air which makes flying so difficult for a student.
I believe that I got more than my share of rough weather flying,
however, because my instructor, or “Biff” as we used to call him,
had certain very definite views on life, one of which was that early
morning was not made as a time for instructors to arise. So as I was
the only student and Biff my only instructor, I did very little early
morning flying.
By the end of May I had received about eight hours of instruction which
(in addition to the $500 cost of my flying course) had required about
$150 for train fare and personal expenses.
One morning Biff announced that I was ready to solo, but the president
of the company required a bond to cover possible breakage of the
plane, which I was not able to furnish. As a result I did not take a
plane up by myself until several months later.
Before I had entirely completed my flying course, the instruction plane
was sold to E. G. Bahl, who was planning a barnstorming trip through
southeastern Nebraska. I became acquainted with Bahl at Lincoln and
offered to pay my own expenses if allowed to accompany him as mechanic
and helper. As a result we barnstormed most of the Nebraska towns
southeast of Lincoln together, and it is to him that I owe my first
practical experience in cross country flying.
“Barnstorming” is the aviator’s term for flying about from one town to
another and taking anyone who is sufficiently “airminded” for a short
flight over the country. In 1922 the fare usually charged was five
dollars for a ride of from five to ten minutes.
It was while I was flying with Bahl that I began to do a little
“wing-walking.” We would often attract a crowd to the pasture or
stubble field from which we were operating, by flying low over town
while I was standing on one of the wing tips.
In June I returned to Lincoln and received a little more instruction,
making a total of about eight hours.
About this time Charlie Harden, well known in the aeronautical world
for his parachute work, arrived in Lincoln. I had been fascinated by
the parachute jumps I had seen, and persuaded Ray Page to let me make a
double drop with Harden’s chutes.
A double drop is made by fastening two parachutes together with rope.
Both are then packed in a heavy canvas bag; the mouth of the bag is
laced together and the lace ends tied in a bow knot. The bag is lashed
half-way out on the wing of the plane, with the laced end hanging down.
When the plane has reached sufficient altitude the jumper climbs out
of the cockpit and along the wing to the chute, fastens the parachute
straps to his harness, and swings down under the wing. In this position
he is held to the plane by the bow knot holding together the mouth of
the bag containing his parachute, the bag itself being tied securely to
the wing. When ready to cut loose he pulls the bow knot allowing the
bag to open and the parachute to be pulled out by his weight.
In a double jump, after the first parachute has fully opened, the
jumper cuts the rope binding the second chute to the first. The first
chute upon being relieved of his weight, collapses, and passes him on
the way down.
I made my first jump one evening in June from an 1800-foot altitude
over the flying field.
My first chute opened quickly, and after floating down for a
few seconds I cut it loose from the second, expecting a similar
performance. But I did not feel the comfortable tug of the risers which
usually follows an exhibition jump. As I had never made a descent
before, it did not occur to me that everything was not as it should
be, until several seconds had passed and I began to turn over and fall
head first. I looked around at the chute just in time to see it string
out; then the harness jerked me into an upright position and the chute
was open. Afterwards I learned that the vent of the second chute had
been tied to the first with grocery string which had broken in packing
the parachute, and that instead of stringing out when I cut loose, it
had followed me still folded, causing a drop of several hundred feet
before opening.
I remained in Lincoln for two weeks working in the Lincoln Standard
factory for fifteen dollars a week. Then I received a wire from H. J.
Lynch, who had purchased a Standard a few weeks before and taken it on
a barnstorming trip into western Kansas. He was in need of a parachute
jumper to fill a number of exhibition contracts in Kansas and Colorado,
and wanted me to go with him in that capacity at a small fraction of
its cost. Page offered me a new Harden Chute instead of my remaining
flying instruction, and I took a train for Bird City, Kansas.
Lynch and myself barnstormed over western Kansas and eastern Colorado
giving a number of exhibitions from time to time, in which I usually
made a jump and did a little wing-walking.
In the fall, together with “Banty” Rogers, a wheat rancher who owned
the plane, we set out for Montana. Our course took us through a corner
of Nebraska and then up through Wyoming along the Big Horn Mountains
and over Custer’s Battle Field. At one time in Wyoming we were forced
to land, due to motor trouble, near a herd of buffalo, and while
Lynch was working on the motor I started over towards the animals to
get a picture. I had not considered that they might object to being
photographed, and was within a hundred yards of them when an old bull
looked up and stamped his foot. In a moment they were all in line
facing me with lowered heads. I snapped a picture but lost no time
in returning to the plane. Meanwhile Lynch had located our trouble and
we took-off.
[Illustration: © _Donald A. Hall_
SHIPPING “THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS”]
[Illustration: © _Erickson_
THE MEN WHO MADE THE PLANE. LEFT TO RIGHT: WILLIAM H. BOWLUS, FACTORY
MANAGER, RYAN AIRLINES; B. FRANKLIN MAHONEY, PRESIDENT, RYAN AIRLINES;
CHARLES A. LINDBERGH; DONALD A. HALL, CHIEF ENGINEER AND DESIGNER; A.
J. EDWARDS, SALES MANAGER]
After we had been in Billings, Montana, about a week, Lynch traded
ships with a pilot named Reese, who was flying a Standard belonging
to Lloyd Lamb of Billings. Lynch and I stayed in Montana while Reese
returned to Kansas with Rogers.
We barnstormed Montana and northern Wyoming until mid-October including
exhibitions at the Billings and Lewistown fairs.
At the Lewistown fair we obtained a field adjoining the fairgrounds and
did a rushing business for three days. We had arranged for the fence to
be opened to the grounds and for a gateman to give return tickets to
anyone who wished to ride in the plane. All this in return for a free
parachute drop.
At Billings, however, our field was some distance from the fair and we
decided to devise some scheme to bring the crowd out to us. We stuffed
a dummy with straw and enough mud to give it sufficient falling speed
to look like a human being.
When the grandstands were packed that afternoon we took-off from our
field with the dummy in the front cockpit with me. I went out on the
wing and we did a few stunts over the fairgrounds to get everyone’s
attention, then Lynch turned the plane so that no one could see me on
the wing and we threw out the dummy. It fell waving its arms and legs
around wildly and landed near the Yellowstone River.
We returned to our field and waited expectantly for the curious
ones to come rushing out for information, but two hours later, when
a few Montanans did arrive, they told us about one of the other
attractions--a fellow who dived from an airplane into the Yellowstone
River which was about three feet deep at that point. That was the last
time we attempted to thrill a Montana crowd.
The barnstorming season in Montana was about over in October and
soon after returning from Lewistown I purchased a small boat for two
dollars. After patching it up a bit and stopping the larger leaks, I
started alone down the Yellowstone River on the way to Lincoln.
The river was not deep and ran over numerous rapids which were so
shallow that even the flat bottom of my small boat would bump over the
rocks from time to time. I had been unable to purchase a thoroughly
seagoing vessel for two dollars, and very little rough going was
required to knock out the resin from the cracks and open the old leaks
again.
I had my camping equipment lashed on top of one of the seats to keep it
dry, and as I progressed downstream through the ever-present rapids,
more and more of my time was required for bailing out the boat with an
old tin can, until at the end of the first day, when I had travelled
about twenty miles, I was spending fully half of my time bailing out
water.
I made camp that night in a small clearing beside the river. There
had been numerous showers during the day, which thoroughly soaked the
ground, and towards evening a steady drizzling rain set in.
I pitched my army pup tent on the driest ground I could find and, after
a cold supper, crawled in between the three blankets which I had sewn
together to form a bag.
The next morning the sky was still overcast but the rain had stopped,
and after a quick breakfast I packed my equipment in the boat and again
started down the river.
The rain set in anew, and this together with the water from the
ever-increasing leaks in the sides and bottom of the boat required
such constant bailing that I found little use for the oars that day.
By evening the rocks had taken so much effect that the boat was
practically beyond repair.
After a careful inspection, which ended in the conclusion that further
progress was not feasible, I traded what was left of the boat to the
son of a nearby rancher in return for a wagon ride to the nearest town,
Huntley, Montana. I expressed my equipment and bought a railroad ticket
to Lincoln, where I had left my motorcycle.
A short time before I had left Lincoln, while I was racing with a car
along one of the Nebraska country roads, a piston had jammed and I
had not found time to replace it. Accordingly, after returning from
Montana, I spent several days overhauling the machine before proceeding
on to Detroit where I was to meet my mother.
I made the trip to Detroit in three days and after spending about two
weeks there I took a train for Little Falls to clear up some business
in connection with our farm.
During the winter months I spent part of my time on the farm and part
in Minneapolis with my father. Occasionally we would drive the hundred
miles from Minneapolis to Little Falls together.
In March, 1923, I left Minnesota and after a short visit in Detroit,
departed on a train bound for Florida. My next few weeks were spent in
Miami and the Everglades.
II
MY FIRST PLANE
Since I had first started flying at Lincoln, the year before, I had
held an ambition to own an airplane of my own. So when I took my last
flight with Lynch in Montana, and started down the Yellowstone, I had
decided that the next spring I would be flying my own ship.
Consequently when April arrived, I left Miami and went to Americus,
Georgia, where the Government had auctioned off a large number of
“Jennies,” as we called certain wartime training planes. I bought one
of these ships with a new Curtis OX-5 motor and full equipment for
five hundred dollars. They had cost the Government nearly twice as
many thousands, but at the close of the war the surplus planes were
sold for what they would bring and the training fields were abandoned.
Americus, Georgia, was a typical example of this. The planes had been
auctioned for as little as fifty dollars apiece the year before. A few
days after I arrived, the last officer left the post and it took its
place among the phantom airports of the war.
I lived alone on the post during the two weeks my plane was being
assembled, sometimes sleeping in one of the twelve remaining hangars
and sometimes in one of the barracks buildings. One afternoon a
visiting plane arrived and Reese stepped out of the cockpit. I had not
heard from him since we had traded planes in Montana, and he stayed
with me on the post that night while we exchanged experiences of the
previous year.
One of the interesting facts bearing on the life of aviators is that
they rarely lose track of one another permanently. Distance means
little to the pilot, and there is always someone dropping in from
somewhere who knows all the various flyers in his section of the
country, and who is willing to sit down and do a little “ground flying”
with the local pilots. In this way intimate contact is continually
established throughout the clan. (“Ground flying” is the term used to
designate the exchange of flying experiences among airmen.)
I had not soloed up to the time I bought my Jenny at Americus, although
at that time the fact was strictly confidential.
After my training at Lincoln I had not been able to furnish the
required bond and, although I had done a little flying on cross country
trips with Bahl and Lynch, I had never been up in a plane alone.
Therefore when my Jenny was completely assembled and ready to fly I was
undecided as to the best method of procedure. No one on the field knew
that I had never soloed. I had not been in a plane for six months; but
I did not have sufficient money to pay for more instruction, so one day
I taxied to one end of the field, opened the throttle and started to
take-off. When the plane was about four feet off the ground, the right
wing began to drop, so I decided that it was time to make a landing.
I accomplished this on one wheel and one wing skid but without doing
any damage to the ship. I noticed that the wind was blowing hard and
suddenly decided that I would wait for calmer weather before making any
more flights and taxied back to the hangar.
A pilot who was waiting for delivery on one of the Jennies offered
to give me a little dual instruction, and I flew around with him for
thirty minutes and made several landings. At the end of this time he
taxied up to the line and told me that I would have no trouble and
was only a little rusty from not flying recently. He advised me to
wait until evening when the air was smooth and then to make a few solo
flights.
When evening came I taxied out from the line, took one last look at the
instruments and took-off on my first solo.
The first solo flight is one of the events in a pilot’s life which
forever remains impressed on his memory. It is the culmination of
difficult hours of instruction, hard weeks of training and often years
of anticipation. To be absolutely alone for the first time in the
cockpit of a plane hundreds of feet above the ground is an experience
never to be forgotten.
After a week of practice flights around Southern Field I rolled my
equipment and a few spare parts up in a blanket, lashed them in the
front cockpit and took-off for Minnesota.
This was my first cross country flight alone, less than a week after
my solo hop. Altogether I had less than five hours of solo time to my
credit. I had, however, obtained invaluable experience the year before
while flying around in the western states with Biffle, Bahl, and Lynch.
While learning to fly in Nebraska the previous spring, I discovered
that nearly every pilot in existence had flown in Texas at one time or
another during his flying career. Accordingly I decided that, at the
first opportunity I would fly to Texas myself and although I travelled
a rather roundabout way from Georgia to Minnesota, my course passed
through Texarkana en route.
The first hop was from Americus to Montgomery, Alabama, and passed over
some fairly rough territory of which both Georgia and Alabama have
their share.
I had been warned before leaving the field, that the airline course to
Texas was over some of the “worst flying country in the south” and had
been advised to take either a northern course directly to Minnesota or
to follow the Gulf of Mexico. This advice served to create a desire
to find out what the “worst flying country in the south” looked like.
I had a great deal of confidence in my Jenny with its powerful OX-5
engine, and it seemed absurd to me at that time to detour by airplane.
Consequently I laid my route in the most direct line possible to
conform with my limited cruising range with forty gallons of fuel.
The flight to Montgomery was uneventful. I landed at the army field
there before noon, filled the fuel tanks and took-off again for
Meridian, Mississippi.
I arrived over Meridian in late afternoon and for the first time was
faced with the problem of finding a suitable field and landing in it.
An experienced pilot can see at a glance nearly everything necessary
to know about a landing field. He can tell its size, the condition of
the ground, height of grass or weeds, whether there are any rocks,
holes, posts or ditches in the way, if the land is rough and rolling or
flat and smooth; in short whether the field is suitable to land in or
if it would be advisable to look for another and better one. In fact,
the success of a barnstorming pilot of the old days was measured to a
large extent by his artfulness in the choice of fields from which to
operate. Often, in case of motor failure, the safety of his passengers,
himself, and his ship depended upon his alertness in choosing the best
available landing place and his ability in maneuvering the plane into
it. If his motor failure was only partial or at high altitude, time was
not so essential, as a plane can glide a great distance, either with a
motor which only “revs” down a couple of hundred R.P.M. or without any
assistance from the engine at all. The average wartime machine could
glide at least five times its height, which meant that if it was five
thousand feet above the ground the pilot could pick a field to land
in five miles away with safety; but if the failure was soon after the
take-off, then instant decision and immediate action were necessary.
An amateur, on the other hand, has not overcome the strangeness of
altitude, and the ground below looks entirely different than it does
from the air, although there is not the sensation, in an airplane, of
looking down as from a high building. Hills appear as flat country,
boulders and ditches are invisible, sizes are deceptive and marshes
appear as solid grassland. The student has not the background of
experience so essential to the successful pilot, yet his only method of
learning lies in his own initiative in meeting and overcoming service
conditions.
There was no regular airport in Meridian in 1923, and a few fields
available for a reasonably safe landing. After a half hour’s search I
decided on the largest pasture I could see, made the best kind of a
short field landing I knew how by coming down just over the treetops,
with the engine wide open, to the edge of the field, then cutting the
gun and allowing the ship to slow down to its landing speed. This
method brings the plane in with tremendous velocity and requires a much
larger landing field than is necessary, but until the pilot has flown
long enough to have the “feel” of his ship it is far safer to come in
fast than too slow.
It had been raining at Meridian and the field was a little soft, so
that when my “Jenny” finally did settle to the ground it had a very
short roll and there was still some clear ground in front.
I taxied up to a fence corner alongside of a small house and proceeded
to tie down for the night. I had gained considerable respect for
the wind in Kansas and Nebraska, so after turning off the gasoline
and letting the motor stop by running the carburetor dry, (a safety
expedient to keep the ever-present person who stands directly under
the propeller while he wiggles it up and down, from becoming an
aeronautical fatality) I pushed the nose of the plane up to a fence and
after blocking the wheels securely, tied each wing tip to a fence post
and covered the motor and cockpit with a canvas in case of rain.
By this time the usual barnstorming crowd had gathered and I spent the
remaining daylight explaining that the hole in the radiator was for the
propeller shaft to go through; that the wings were not made of catgut,
tin, or cast iron, but of wood framework covered with cotton or linen
shrunk to drum tightness by acetate and nitrate dope; that the only
way to find out how it feels to fly was to try it for five dollars;
that it was not as serious for the engine to stop as for a wing to fall
off; and the thousand other questions which can only be conceived in
such a gathering.
As night came on and the visibility decreased the crowd departed,
leaving me alone with a handful of small boys who always remain to the
last and can only be induced to depart by being allowed to follow the
aviator from the field.
I accepted an invitation to spend the night in the small house beside
the field.
The next morning I telephoned for a gas truck to come out to the field
and spent the time before the truck arrived in the task of cleaning
the distributor head, draining the carburetor jet wells and oiling the
rocker arms on the engine.
While I was working, one of the local inhabitants came up and
volunteered the information that he had been a pilot during the war but
had not flown since and “wouldn’t mind takin’ a ride again.” I assured
him that much as I would enjoy taking him up, flying was very expensive
and that I did not have a large fund available to buy gasoline. I added
that if he would pay operating costs, which would be five dollars for
a short ride, I would be glad to accommodate him. He produced a five
dollar bill and after warming up the motor I put him in the cockpit and
taxied through the mud to the farthest corner of the field. This was to
be my first passenger.
The field was soft and the man was heavy; we stalled over the fence
by three feet and the nearest tree by five. I found myself heading up
a thickly wooded slope, which was sloping upward at least as fast as
I was climbing in that direction and for three minutes my Jenny and
the slope fought it out over the fifteen feet of air between them.
Eventually, however, in the true Jenny style we skimmed over the
hilltop and obtained a little reserve altitude. I had passed through
one of those almost-but-not-quite accidents for which Jennies are so
famous and which so greatly retarded the growth of commercial flying
during the post-war period.
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
ST. LOUIS, MO.--FINANCIAL BACKERS OF THE NON-STOP NEW YORK TO PARIS
FLIGHT
UPPER ROW, LEFT TO RIGHT: HAROLD M. BIXBY, HARRY HALL KNIGHT, HARRY F.
KNIGHT, MAJOR A. B. LAMBERT
LOWER ROW, LEFT TO RIGHT: J. D. WOOSTER LAMBERT, MAJOR WILLIAM B.
ROBERTSON, E. LANSING RAY, EARL C. THOMPSON]
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
FUSELAGE FRAME OF THE PLANE]
I decided that my passenger was entitled to a good ride after that
take-off and kept him up chasing a buzzard for twenty minutes. After we
landed he commented on the wonderful take-off and how much he enjoyed
flying low over the treetops; again assured me that he had flown a
great deal in the war; and rushed off to tell his friends all about his
first airplane ride.
The gasoline truck had arrived and after servicing the ship I took-off
again and headed west. I had no place in mind for the next stop and
intended to be governed by my fuel supply in picking the next field.
The sky was overcast with numerous local storms. I had brought along
a compass, but had failed to install it on the instrument board, and
it was of little use in a suitcase out of reach. The boundary lines
in the south do not run north and south, east and west as they do in
the Northern states but curve and bend in every conceivable direction,
being located by natural landmarks rather than meridians and parallels.
I was flying by a map of the entire United States, with each state
relatively small.
I left Meridian and started in the direction of Texas, cutting across
country with no regard for roads or railways. For a time during the
first hour I was not sure of my location on the map, but soon passed
over a railway intersection which appeared to be in the proper place
and satisfied me about my position. Then the territory became wilder
and again I saw no checkpoints. The storm areas were more numerous and
the possible landing fields farther apart, until near the end of the
second hour I decided to land in the first available field to locate my
position and take on more fuel. It required nearly thirty more minutes
to find a place in which a plane could land and take-off with any
degree of safety, and after circling the field several times to make
sure it was hard and contained no obstacles, I landed in one corner,
rolled down a hillside, taxied over a short level stretch, and came to
rest half-way up the slope on the far side of the field.
A storm was approaching rapidly and I taxied back towards the fence
corner at rather high speed. Suddenly I saw a ditch directly in front
of me and an instant later heard the crash of splintering wood as
the landing gear dropped down and the propeller came in contact with
the ground. The tail of the plane rose up in the air, turned almost
completely over, then settled back to about a forty-five degree angle.
My first “crack-up”!
I climbed out of the cockpit and surveyed the machine. Actually the
only damage done was to the propeller, and although the wings and
fuselage were covered with mud, no other part of the plane showed any
marked signs of strain. I had taxied back about thirty feet east of the
landing tracks and had struck the end of a grass-covered ditch. Had I
been ten feet farther over, the accident would never have happened. The
usual crowd was assembling, as the impact of the “prop” with the ground
had been heard in all of the neighboring fields and an airplane was a
rare sight in those parts.
They informed me that I was half-way between Maben and Mathiston,
Mississippi, and that I had flown one hundred and twenty-five miles
north instead of west.
When enough men had assembled we lifted the plane out of the ditch,
pushed it over to a group of pine trees and tied it down to two of the
trees. After removing all loose equipment I rode into Maben with one of
the storekeepers who had locked up his business when he heard about the
landing of the plane.
I wired Wyche at Americus to ship me one of the two propellers I had
purchased before leaving, then engaged a room at the old Southern Hotel.
While waiting for the propeller I had extracted promises from half a
dozen citizens to ride at five dollars each. This would about cover
the cost of the “prop,” as well as my expenses while waiting for it to
arrive. When it did come I put it on the shaft between showers, with
the assistance of most of Maben and Mathiston. I gave the plane a test
flight and announced that I was ready to carry passengers when it was
not raining too hard.
The Mississippians who were so anxious to fly when the propeller was
broken immediately started a contest in etiquette. Each and every
one was quite willing to let someone else be first and it required
psychology, diplomacy, and ridicule before the first passenger climbed
into the cockpit. I taxied over to the far corner of the field,
instructed my passenger how to hold the throttle back to keep the ship
from taking off, and lifted the tail around in order to gain every
available foot of space for the take-off.
The first man was so audibly pleased with his ride that the others
forgot their manners of a few minutes before and began arguing about
who was to be next.
That afternoon a group of whites chipped in fifty cents apiece to give
one of the negroes a hop, provided, as they put it, I would do a few
“flip flops” with him. The negro decided upon was perfectly willing and
confident up to the time when he was instructed to get in; even then he
gamely climbed into the cockpit, assuring all of his clan that he would
wave his red bandanna handkerchief over the side of the cockpit during
the entire flight in order to show them that he was still unafraid.
After reaching the corner of the field I instructed him, as I had the
previous passengers, to hold the throttle back while I was lifting the
tail around. When I climbed back in my cockpit I told him to let go and
opened the throttle to take-off. We had gone about fifty yards when it
suddenly occurred to him that the ship was moving and that the handle
he was to hold on to was not where it should be. He had apparently
forgotten everything but that throttle, and with a death grip he hauled
it back to the closed position. We had not gone far enough to prevent
stopping before reaching the other end of the field and the only
loss was the time required to taxi back over the rough ground to our
starting point. Before taking off the next time, however, I gave very
implicit instructions regarding that throttle.
I had promised to give this negro a stunt ride yet I had never had any
instruction in aerobatics. I had, however, been in a plane with Bahl
during two loops and one tailspin. I had also been carefully instructed
in the art of looping by Reese who, forgetting that I was not flying a
Hisso standard with twice the power of my Jenny, advised me that it was
not necessary to dive excessively before a loop but rather to fly along
with the motor full on until the plane gathered speed, then to start
the loop from a level flying position.
I climbed up to three thousand feet and started in to fulfill my
agreement by doing a few airsplashes, steep spirals and dives. With the
first deviation from straight flight my passenger had his head down on
the floor of the cockpit but continued to wave the red handkerchief
with one hand while he was holding on to everything available with the
other, although he was held in securely with the safety belt.
Finally, remembering my ground instructions, I leveled the plane off
and with wide open motor waited a few moments to pick up maximum
speed, then, slowly pulling back on the stick I began to loop. When I
had gotten one-fourth of the way around, the ship was trembling in a
nearly stalled position; still, the Curtiss motor was doing its best
and it was not until the nose was pointing directly skyward at a ninety
degree angle that the final inertia was lost and for an instant we hung
motionless in the perfect position for a whipstall. I kicked full right
rudder immediately to throw the plane over on its side but it was too
late, the controls had no effect.