his head over the side of the cockpit looking for mother earth. At
that instant we whipped. The ship gathered speed as it slid backwards
towards the ground, the air caught the tail surfaces, jerked them
around past the heavier nose and we were in a vertical dive; again in
full control, but with no red handkerchief waving over the cockpit.
I tried another loop in the same manner but just before reaching the
stalling point in the next one I kicked the ship over on one wing and
evaded a whipstall. After the second failure I decided that there
must be something wrong with my method of looping and gave up any
further attempt for that afternoon. But it was not until we were almost
touching the ground that the bandanna again appeared above the cowling.
I remained in Maben for two weeks carrying over sixty passengers in all
or about three hundred dollars worth. People flocked in from all over
the surrounding country, some travelling for fifteen miles in oxcarts
just to see the plane fly.
One old negro woman came up and asked,--
“Boss! How much you all charge foah take me up to Heaben and leave me
dah?”
I could have carried many more passengers but it rained nearly every
day and each flight rutted the field badly. When I landed it was
necessary to pass over a soft spot between two hillsides, and before
taking off I had to taxi back over this soft place on the way to the
far corner of the field. During the last few days several men were
required on each wing to push the plane through the mud to the hillside
beyond. Another difficulty was that the old black wartime rubber shock
absorber card had deteriorated to such an extent that I replaced it
with hemp rope and taxi-ing over the harder parts of the field was a
very rough procedure, especially since the ground had been plowed in
years gone by and allowed to grow sod without being harrowed.
I made several attempts to find another suitable field nearby but there
was none from which I could safely operate.
Landing fields are of primary importance to safety in aviation. It
is not a question of how small a field a plane can operate from, but
rather of how large a field is necessary to make that operation safe.
Large and well equipped airports situated close to cities will go far
towards developing commercial airlines and keeping the United States at
the top in aeronautical activity.
The cities who foresee the future of air transportation and provide
suitable airports will find themselves the center of airlines radiating
in every direction.
When an airline is organized, one of the primary considerations is the
condition and location of the various landing fields where terminals
are contemplated. If the airport is small and in poor condition, or if
a passenger must of necessity spend nearly as much time in traveling
from the business district out to the field as it will require for him
to fly from the field to his destination, then it is very probable that
some other city will be selected for the stopping point.
The condition of the field together with the fact that after a heavy
rain it was often necessary to carry gasoline in five gallon cans a
mile and a half over the railroad tracks by hand forced me to leave
Maben and a large number of would-be passengers behind, and early one
morning I took-off for the last time and again headed for Texas.
III
BARNSTORMING EXPERIENCES
I had strayed over a hundred miles off my course and experienced a
minor crack-up, but I departed with two hundred and fifty more dollars
in my pocket than I had arrived with, besides confidence in my ability
to make at least a little more than expenses by barnstorming.
The constant rains had filled the rivers to overflowing, and after
leaving Maben I flew over flooded territory nearly all the way to Lake
Village, Arkansas. Often the water was up to the second story windows
of the farmhouses, and a forced landing at any time would have at least
meant nosing over.
I had installed the compass while waiting for the new propeller at
Maben, and experienced no further difficulty in holding my course.
After circling Lake Village I landed in a field several miles north
of town. The nearest building was a clubhouse and soon the keeper and
his family had arrived beside the plane. They invited me to stay with
them as long as I wished, but the keeper persistently refused to accept
a flight in return for his hospitality. I carried only a handful of
passengers that afternoon. The flying territory around that part of the
country was fairly good and there were a number of fields available for
planes to land in. Consequently an airplane was no longer the drawing
attraction that it was farther in the interior.
I staked the plane down much earlier than usual and went over to the
clubhouse.
Evening came on with the clearness of a full moon and open sky. The
landscape was illuminated with a soft yellow light; an ideal night for
flying. I decided to see what the country looked like from the air at
night and jokingly asked my host to accompany me. To my surprise he
willingly agreed. For some reason he had no fear of a night flight
although I had been unable to persuade him to go up with me in the
daytime. What his reaction would have been, had he known that I had
never flown after dark before, is a matter of speculation.
We untied the plane, removed the canvases from engine and cockpit, and
after a few minutes spent in warming up the motor, taxied down the
field and took-off for a moonlight flight down the Mississippi and over
Lake Village.
Later in the evening after the ship was again securely staked to the
ground and we were sitting quietly in the clubhouse, my host stated
that he had never spent a more enjoyable quarter of an hour in his life.
The next morning I was again heading towards Texas against a strong
westerly wind which retarded the speed of the Jenny so greatly
that even with my double fuel capacity it was necessary to land at
Farmerville, Louisiana, to replenish my supply. From there I flew to
Texarkana and landed between the stumps of the 1923 airport.
On the following morning I left Texarkana with a strong tail wind and
after crossing the western end of the Ozark mountains, landed near a
small town in north eastern Oklahoma where I took on a fresh supply of
fuel and again headed north towards Lincoln, Nebraska.
My tanks began to run low about half-way through Kansas and I picked
out a hillside near Alma. After flying low and dragging the field
several times I came in for a landing, but just as the wheels were
about to touch the ground I discovered that it was covered with fairly
large rocks half hidden in the tall grass. I opened the throttle to
take-off but the plane had lost too much speed for the motor to take
effect and as it struck the ground the left wing hooked in the rocks
and groundlooped the ship to the left but without doing serious damage.
The landing gear wires were strained and about two feet of the rear
spar on the lower left wing tip was snapped off. Nothing was broken
however which would require immediate repairing.
[Illustration: © _Erickson_
WORKING ON NAVIGATION CHARTS FOR FLIGHT]
[Illustration: © _Erickson_
INSTRUMENT BOARD OF THE PLANE]
The field was quite a distance from Alma and in order to get an early
start in the morning I stayed with the ship that night. During the
heavy rains at Maben, Mississippi, I had constructed a hammock of heavy
canvas which could be suspended under the top wing.
I tied the corners of this hammock to the upper strut fittings and
crawled into the three blankets inside which were sewn up to form a
bag. Thus I spent a comfortable night.
When I arrived over Lincoln the next day I circled over the Lincoln
Standard factory, and after landing on the old flying field south of
town, waited for the car which was sent out to bring in visiting airmen.
The remainder of the day was spent in “ground flying” with my friends
in the factory. We had not been together for seven months and the usual
exchange of experiences was necessary.
I soon learned that Bud Gurney had made a parachute for himself and was
intending to test it by the simple method of going up to an altitude of
fifteen hundred or two thousand feet and cutting loose from the plane.
If the chute opened it was successful.
After a great deal of persuasion I prevailed upon him to let me take
him up in my ship while we made the first test with a sand bag.
The tanks had just been filled with fuel but I had unlimited confidence
in my Jenny and we lashed the parachute and a sandbag on the right
wing. Bud, who weighed one hundred and sixty-five pounds himself,
climbed into the front cockpit and we started to take-off with a total
load of about six hundred pounds, to say nothing of the resistance of
the parachute and sandbag which were directly in the slipstream from
the propeller.
Even with this load we cleared the nearest obstacle by a safe margin
and finally attained an altitude of about two hundred feet. Then we
were caught by a descending current of air which carried the plane down
to within ten feet of the ground, and try as I would I could not get
any higher. A wooded hill was directly in front, and to avoid striking
the trees I turned down wind. A railroad tressle was then in front of
us and we stalled over it by inches. For five minutes we dodged hills,
trees, and houses. I signaled Bud to cut the sandbag, but when he
started to climb out of the cockpit to reach it, the added resistance
brought the plane down still lower. Then in front of us appeared a
row of trees, much higher than the rest, which I knew it would not be
possible to get over. We were then passing over a grain field and I cut
the gun and landed down wind. The grain was high enough to keep the
ship from rolling far and we unloaded the handbag before taking off
again. With the weight of the bag and its resistance gone, we had no
trouble in getting out of the grain and back to the flying field.
A week later Bud carried out his original intention of testing the
chute. It was successful.
Before continuing the flight to Minnesota, Bud and I made a short
barnstorming trip through eastern Nebraska. That territory had been
fairly well covered by other barnstormers, however, and we did very
little business.
At one place where we landed we were overtaken by a violent
thunderstorm combined with a strong wind. It came up so suddenly that
we had only time enough to tail the ship into the wind and lash the
stick to keep the ailerons from whipping before the wind struck us. We
were both holding on to the tail trying to keep the plane from blowing
away. Following the wind was a heavy rain which covered the ground with
water and at each flash of lightning the electricity on the wires of
the ship would pass to the ground through our bodies with the intensity
of a booster magnet.
In an electric storm a plane acts as part of a condenser, since it is
insulated from the ground by the rubber tires and wooden tailskid. It
is possible to receive a violent shock by standing on wet ground and
holding on to one of the wires.
We were unable to let go of the ship in the high wind and could only
remain and take these discharges as they came. Fortunately the storm
did not last long.
The night after our return to Lincoln we slept on the field so that I
could get a good start in the morning. Bud was in the back of a Ford
truck, and I was in the hammock.
The next morning was overcast with local showers which were visible
in every direction. I took off soon after daybreak and after flying
through several storms landed in a hayfield at Forest City, Iowa, where
I serviced the ship between showers and took off on the final flight to
Shakopee, Minnesota, where I expected to meet my father and carry him
around on his campaign.
I found Shakopee covered by a cloudburst and in flying around waiting
for the storm to pass so that I could land I got into a heavy
shower near Savage. One of the cylinders cut out, and I was circling
preparatory to landing in a clover field when two more stopped firing.
I was flying at less than a two hundred foot altitude and loosing that
rapidly. It was necessary to land immediately but the only choice of
landing places lay between a swamp and high trees. I took the swamp
and cut the throttle. When the wheels touched earth they rolled about
twenty feet, sank into the spreader bar and we nosed over.
The rudder did not quite touch the swamp grass and the plane stopped
after passing through three-quarters of a semi-circle, with the
radiator cap and top wing resting on the ground. I was hanging on the
safety belt but when I tried to open the clasp with one hand, holding
on with the other to keep from falling out on my head, I found it to
be jammed. After several futile attempts to open it I reverted to the
two strap buckles at the end of the belt to release myself from the
cockpit.
All this required not more than two or three minutes.
After getting out of the cockpit I inspected the plane carefully. Again
there was little actual damage. The propeller was badly cracked and
would have to be replaced; there was a crack in the spreader board
which required winding with strong cord. Otherwise the plane was in
perfect condition although splashed with mud.
For once there was no one in sight and I made my way through the swamp
to the nearest farmhouse. On the way I found that there was solid
ground along the edge of the swamp less than 100 yards from the plane
from which I could take-off.
The farmer had seen the plane pass over in the rain and was on his way
down towards the swamp when I met him. He informed me that it was not
possible to get horses through the mire out to the ship and that he had
no idea of how I was to get it back to hard sod again.
I borrowed a rope from him to use in pulling the tail back to a normal
position and we started back to the swamp.
Meanwhile it seems that two boys had seen me land, and when I did not
emerge from the cockpit immediately, had run to Savage with the news
that “an aviator had landed upside down in the swamp” and that they had
“gone up and felt of his neck and that it was stiff and he was stone
dead.”
I had flown over the town in the rain only a few minutes before, and as
in those days it was not difficult for anyone to believe anything about
an airplane, the town promptly locked its doors and came crawling and
wading through the swamp. The older inhabitants followed the railroad
track around its edge and by the time I returned with the farmer and a
rope there were enough townspeople to solve my problem by carrying the
ship back onto solid ground.
They were undoubtedly much disappointed at having come so far on a
false alarm but turned to willingly to help me get the ship out of the
swamp.
The next edition of one of the Minneapolis papers carried the following
item which typically exemplifies what has been the average man’s
knowledge of aeronautics.
AIRPLANE CRASHES NEAR SAVAGE
Charles A. Lindbergh, son of ex-Congressman Lindbergh, crashed near
Savage, Minnesota, this morning. He was flying in his plane three
hundred feet above the ground when it suddenly went into a nose dive
and landed on its propeller in a swamp. Lindbergh says he will be
flying again in three days.
After reading this and similar accounts of equally minor accidents of
flight, it is little wonder that the average man would far rather watch
someone else fly and read of the narrow escapes from death when some
pilot has had a forced landing or a blowout, than to ride himself.
Even in the post-war days of now obsolete equipment, nearly all of the
serious accidents were caused by inexperienced pilots who were then
allowed to fly or to attempt to fly--without license or restriction
about anything they could coax into the air--and to carry anyone who
might be beguiled into riding with them.
My next move was to wire to Little Falls for a propeller which Wyche
had expressed from Americus and two days later joined my father in his
campaign at Marshall.
My father had been opposed to my flying from the first and had never
flown himself. However, he had agreed to go up with me at the first
opportunity, and one afternoon he climbed into the cockpit and we flew
over Redwood Falls together. From that day on I never heard a word
against my flying and he never missed a chance to ride in the plane.
After the campaign was over I spent the remainder of the summer
barnstorming through Minnesota, northern Iowa and western Wisconsin.
Most of the time I was alone, but I took one student around with me for
a few weeks while I was teaching him to fly, and then I barnstormed
southern Minnesota with my mother for ten days. My mother had never
objected to my flying, and after her first flight at Janesville,
Minnesota, she became an enthusiast herself.
We had been together constantly up to the start of my flying career and
had both looked forward to flying around together. Consequently when
the opportunity presented itself I wired her to meet me at Janesville.
My mother enjoyed flying from the first and has made a number of
flights with me; including a round trip between Chicago and St. Louis
in the mail compartment of my plane.
Some weeks I barely made expenses, and on others I carried passengers
all week long at five dollars each. On the whole I was able to make a
fair profit in addition to meeting expenses and depreciation.
One evening while I was waiting for chance passengers at a field in
southern Minnesota, a car drove up with several young fellows in it,
one of whom was a graduate of the Army Air Service Training Schools.
He asked me why I did not apply for enlistment as a cadet at Brooks
Field and explained that by writing to the Chief of Air Service at the
War Department in Washington I could get enrollment blanks and full
information on the course and its requirements.
I had always wanted to fly modern and powerful planes. Ever since I
had watched a group of fourteen De Havilands with their four hundred
horsepower Liberty motors come into the field at Lincoln in my flying
school days, I had longed to fly one of them. The Army offered the
only opportunity, for there were no Liberty engines flying around
barnstorming. Consequently at the hotel that night I wrote my letter to
the Chief of Air Service, and a few days later when I received my next
mail forwarded from Minneapolis, a letter from Washington with the
enrollment blanks was included. The letter informed me that a candidate
must be between twenty and twenty-seven years of age inclusive,
unmarried, of good physical condition, and must have a high school
education or its equivalent.
I completed and returned the forms, and a short time later received
another message authorizing me to appear before an examining board at
Chanute Field, Rantoul, Illinois, in January, 1924.
Toward the end of September I began to work south. Cold weather was
coming on in Minnesota and most people did not enjoy flying in an open
cockpit in winter.
I barnstormed over into Wisconsin but found that someone had been
carrying passengers for half price there. I had always conformed to
the rule in use among most pilots at that time, of giving a good ride
for five dollars but not carrying anyone for less. So I left southern
Wisconsin and turned towards Illinois. After taking off I decided to
take in the International Air Races at St. Louis, which were then
in progress; so instead of sizing up each town I passed over for its
passenger possibilities, I flew towards St. Louis until the gasoline
ran low, then landed, took on a fresh supply from a passing gas truck,
and pressed on to Carlinville, Illinois. There I picked up more fuel,
and a twenty-five dollar passenger for St. Louis.
As we neared Lambert Field where the races were being held we passed
over the race course while the bombers’ contest was in progress. I
landed on a hill east of Lambert in order to keep out of the way of the
races, and waited until evening before hopping over and staking my ship
down at the end of one of the long rows of civilian planes.
A large number of my old friends were attending the races and soon
after landing I met Bud Gurney who, together with one of the flying
students at Lincoln, had managed to get to the races without buying
a Pullman ticket. He had brought his chute with him and was entered
in the parachute spot landing contest, in which he was to be the last
attraction of the meet by staging a double drop.
In the evening, after the races were over for the day, I carried a few
passengers and looked over the different types of planes. I would have
given the summer’s barnstorming profits gladly in return for authority
to fly some of the newer types, and I determined to let nothing
interfere with my chance of being appointed a Flying Cadet in the Army.
This appeared to be my only opportunity to fly planes which would roar
up into the sky when they were pointed in that direction, instead of
having to be wished up over low trees at the end of a landing field.
When I went to St. Louis it was with the expectation of pressing on
still farther south when the races were over, but with Bud’s assistance
I sold my Jenny to his friend, flying instruction included. Marvin
Northrop who had flown a Standard down from Minneapolis had sold his
ship in St. Louis also; together with a course in flying. Since it was
necessary for him to return home immediately, I agreed to instruct his
student while mine was learning on the Jenny.
I had promised to carry Bud for his last jump, and towards evening
on the final day of the races he packed his two chutes and tied them
together with the only rope he could find. It was rather old but we
decided that it would hold and if it did not the only consequence would
be a little longer fall before the second chute opened.
I coaxed the old Jenny up to seventeen hundred feet and as we passed
to the windward of the field Bud cut loose. The first chute opened at
once, but in opening, the strain on the old rope was too great and it
snapped releasing the second chute which fell another two hundred feet
before opening.
[Illustration: © _Erickson_
“WE” MAKE A TEST FLIGHT]
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
CURTIS FIELD, L. I.--PATSY, THE MASCOT FOR “THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS”]
Planes were circling all around the parachute and flying in every
direction without apparent regard for one another. The air was kept in
constant motion by their propellers, and the chute swung from side to
side in the rough currents with the result that Bud broke an arm as
he landed among the crowd on the side of a ditch. This was the only
accident in which anyone was injured during the entire meet.
For the next few weeks I instructed my two students and made a short
barnstorming tour through Illinois.
IV
HEADING SOUTH
When the period of instruction was completed I flew the old Jenny up
to my student’s home in Iowa and, after watching him make a few solo
flights from his home field, I left on a train for Lincoln. My last
sight of the old Jenny was as it passed two hundred feet over the
station near the center of town--and my parting instruction had been to
keep a safe gliding angle when over the city and under no circumstances
to come below fifteen hundred feet.
I went to Lincoln to get an S.V.A., which is a two-place Italian
pursuit plane, and fly it back to St. Louis. But on arriving I learned
that it was in the old Pulitzer Field near Omaha and in questionable
condition. It was reported that some cows had eaten all the fabric off
the rudder. Cows and mules are fond of the fabric covering, and it is
not uncommon to hear of a plane being completely stripped by these
animals in a few minutes. On the other hand, I have left a machine
unguarded in the same pasture with cattle for days without having them
touch it. And during the two weeks I spent at Maben, Mississippi, there
had been a number of mules in the same pasture with my ship yet they
apparently never came near it.
We filled the back of a touring car with a new rudder and other spare
parts, and drove to Omaha the next morning.
The S.V.A. was in even worse condition than had been represented. In
addition to needing a new rudder, part of the lock-stitching had broken
in the wings and as a result, the fabric was very loose. The radiator
had developed a number of leaks which someone had attempted to stop
by dumping in a pailful of bran. And when we eventually did get it
started the engine skipped badly and would not “rev” up over 1100 R.P.M.
At last we decided to attempt to fly the ship to Lincoln where it would
be much more convenient to work on it, and I took off with a sputtering
motor and with the centigrade five degrees below boiling. At the end of
five minutes the needle was crowding the peg at 115°, and in fifteen
minutes the water expansion tank exploded. I landed in a stubble field
and hired the farmer to hitch his team to the ship and haul it to a
fence corner next to his house, where I left it to be taken apart and
hauled to Lincoln by truck.