for the barograph to be sealed and installed, and for the plane to be
serviced and checked.
We decided partially to fill the fuel tanks in the hangar before towing
the ship on a truck to Roosevelt Field, which adjoins Curtiss on the
east, where the servicing would be completed.
I left the responsibility for conditioning the plane in the hands
of the men on the field while I went into the hotel for about two
and one-half hours of rest; but at the hotel there were several more
details which had to be completed and I was unable to get any sleep
that night.
I returned to the field before daybreak on the morning of the
twentieth. A light rain was falling which continued until almost dawn;
consequently we did not move the ship to Roosevelt Field until much
later than we had planned, and the take-off was delayed from daybreak
until nearly eight o’clock.
At dawn the shower had passed, although the sky was overcast, and
occasionally there would be some slight precipitation. The tail of the
plane was lashed to a truck and escorted by a number of motorcycle
police. The slow trip from Curtiss to Roosevelt was begun.
The ship was placed at the extreme west end of the field heading along
the east and west runway, and the final fueling commenced.
About 7:40 A.M. the motor was started and at 7:52 I took-off on the
flight for Paris.
The field was a little soft due to the rain during the night and the
heavily loaded plane gathered speed very slowly. After passing the
half-way mark, however, it was apparent that I would be able to clear
the obstructions at the end. I passed over a tractor by about fifteen
feet and a telephone line by about twenty, with a fair reserve of
flying speed. I believe that the ship would have taken off from a hard
field with at least five hundred pounds more weight.
I turned slightly to the right to avoid some high trees on a hill
directly ahead, but by the time I had gone a few hundred yards I had
sufficient altitude to clear all obstructions and throttled the engine
down to 1750 R.P.M. I took up a compass course at once and soon reached
Long Island Sound where the Curtiss Oriole with its photographer, which
had been escorting me, turned back.
The haze soon cleared and from Cape Cod through the southern half of
Nova Scotia the weather and visibility were excellent. I was flying
very low, sometimes as close as ten feet from the trees and water.
On the three hundred mile stretch of water between Cape Cod and Nova
Scotia I passed within view of numerous fishing vessels.
The northern part of Nova Scotia contained a number of storm areas and
several times I flew through cloudbursts.
As I neared the northern coast, snow appeared in patches on the ground
and far to the eastward the coastline was covered with fog.
For many miles between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland the ocean
was covered with caked ice but as I approached the coast the ice
disappeared entirely and I saw several ships in this area.
I had taken up a course for St. Johns, which is south of the great
Circle from New York to Paris, so that there would be no question of
the fact that I had passed Newfoundland in case I was forced down in
the north Atlantic.
I passed over numerous icebergs after leaving St. Johns, but saw no
ships except near the coast.
Darkness set in about 8:15 and a thin, low fog formed over the sea
through which the white bergs showed up with surprising clearness. This
fog became thicker and increased in height until within two hours I was
just skimming the top of storm clouds at about ten thousand feet. Even
at this altitude there was a thick haze through which only the stars
directly overhead could be seen.
There was no moon and it was very dark. The tops of some of the storm
clouds were several thousand feet above me and at one time, when I
attempted to fly through one of the larger clouds, sleet started to
collect on the plane and I was forced to turn around and get back into
clear air immediately and then fly around any clouds which I could not
get over.
The moon appeared on the horizon after about two hours of darkness;
then the flying was much less complicated.
Dawn came at about 1 A.M. New York time and the temperature had risen
until there was practically no remaining danger of sleet.
Shortly after sunrise the clouds became more broken although some of
them were far above me and it was often necessary to fly through them,
navigating by instruments only.
As the sun became higher, holes appeared in the fog. Through one the
open water was visible, and I dropped down until less than a hundred
feet above the waves. There was a strong wind blowing from the
northwest and the ocean was covered with white caps.
After a few miles of fairly clear weather the ceiling lowered to zero
and for nearly two hours I flew entirely blind through the fog at an
altitude of about 1500 feet. Then the fog raised and the water was
visible again.
On several more occasions it was necessary to fly by instrument for
short periods; then the fog broke up into patches. These patches took
on forms of every description. Numerous shore-lines appeared, with
trees perfectly outlined against the horizon. In fact, the mirages
were so natural that, had I not been in mid-Atlantic and known that
no land existed along my route, I would have taken them to be actual
islands.
As the fog cleared I dropped down closer to the water, sometimes flying
within ten feet of the waves and seldom higher than two hundred.
There is a cushion of air close to the ground or water through which a
plane flies with less effort than when at a higher altitude, and for
hours at a time I took advantage of this factor.
Also, it was less difficult to determine the wind drift near the water.
During the entire flight the wind was strong enough to produce white
caps on the waves. When one of these formed, the foam would be blown
off, showing the wind’s direction and approximate velocity. This foam
remained on the water long enough for me to obtain a general idea of my
drift.
During the day I saw a number of porpoises and a few birds but no
ships, although I understand that two different boats reported me
passing over.
The first indication of my approach to the European Coast was a small
fishing boat which I first noticed a few miles ahead and slightly to
the south of my course. There were several of these fishing boats
grouped within a few miles of each other.
I flew over the first boat without seeing any signs of life. As I
circled over the second, however, a man’s face appeared, looking out of
the cabin window.
I have carried on short conversations with people on the ground by
flying low with throttled engine, shouting a question, and receiving
the answer by some signal. When I saw this fisherman I decided to try
to get him to point towards land. I had no sooner made the decision
than the futility of the effort became apparent. In all likelihood he
could not speak English, and even if he could he would undoubtedly be
far too astounded to answer. However, I circled again and closing the
throttle as the plane passed within a few feet of the boat I shouted,
“Which way is Ireland?” Of course the attempt was useless, and I
continued on my course.
Less than an hour later a rugged and semi-mountainous coastline
appeared to the northeast. I was flying less than two hundred feet from
the water when I sighted it. The shore was fairly distinct and not over
ten or fifteen miles away. A light haze coupled with numerous local
storm areas had prevented my seeing it from a long distance.
The coastline came down from the north, curved over towards the east. I
had very little doubt that it was the southwestern end of Ireland but
in order to make sure I changed my course towards the nearest point of
land.
I located Cape Valentia and Dingle Bay, then resumed my compass course
towards Paris.
After leaving Ireland I passed a number of steamers and was seldom out
of sight of a ship.
In a little over two hours the coast of England appeared. My course
passed over Southern England and a little south of Plymouth; then
across the English Channel, striking France over Cherbourg.
The English farms were very impressive from the air in contrast to ours
in America. They appeared extremely small and unusually neat and tidy
with their stone and hedge fences.
I was flying at about a fifteen hundred foot altitude over England
and as I crossed the Channel and passed over Cherbourg, France, I had
probably seen more of that part of Europe than many native Europeans.
The visibility was good and the country could be seen for miles around.
People who have taken their first flight often remark that no one knows
what the locality he lives in is like until he has seen it from above.
Countries take on different characteristics from the air.
The sun went down shortly after passing Cherbourg and soon the beacons
along the Paris-London airway became visible.
I first saw the lights of Paris a little before ten P.M., or five P.M.
New York time, and a few minutes later I was circling the Eiffel Tower
at an altitude of about four thousand feet.
The lights of Le Bourget were plainly visible, but appeared to be very
close to Paris. I had understood that the field was farther from the
city, so continued out to the northeast into the country for four or
five miles to make sure that there was not another field farther out
which might be Le Bourget. Then I returned and spiralled down closer to
the lights. Presently I could make out long lines of hangars, and the
roads appeared to be jammed with cars.
I flew low over the field once, then circled around into the wind and
landed.
After the plane stopped rolling I turned it around and started to taxi
back to the lights. The entire field ahead, however, was covered with
thousands of people all running towards my ship. When the first few
arrived, I attempted to get them to hold the rest of the crowd back,
away from the plane, but apparently no one could understand, or would
have been able to conform to my request if he had.
I cut the switch to keep the propeller from killing someone,
and attempted to organize an impromptu guard for the plane. The
impossibility of any immediate organization became apparent, and when
parts of the ship began to crack from the pressure of the multitude I
decided to climb out of the cockpit in order to draw the crowd away.
Speaking was impossible; no words could be heard in the uproar and
nobody apparently cared to hear any. I started to climb out of the
cockpit, but as soon as one foot appeared through the door I was
dragged the rest of the way without assistance on my part.
For nearly half an hour I was unable to touch the ground, during which
time I was ardently carried around in what seemed to be a very small
area, and in every position it is possible to be in. Everyone had the
best of intentions but no one seemed to know just what they were.
The French military flyers very resourcefully took the situation in
hand. A number of them mingled with the crowd; then, at a given signal,
they placed my helmet on an American correspondent and cried: “Here is
Lindbergh.” That helmet on an American was sufficient evidence. The
correspondent immediately became the center of attraction, and while he
was being taken protestingly to the Reception Committee via a rather
devious route, I managed to get inside one of the hangars.
Meanwhile a second group of soldiers and police had surrounded the
plane and soon placed it out of danger in another hangar.
The French ability to handle an unusual situation with speed and
capability was remarkably demonstrated that night at Le Bourget.
[Illustration: © _Acme_
WASHINGTON, D. C.--SPEECHES AT WASHINGTON MONUMENT. THE PRESIDENT AT
COLONEL LINDBERGH’S RIGHT]
[Illustration: © _International_
FROM THE TOP OF WASHINGTON MONUMENT]
Ambassador Herrick extended me an invitation to remain at his Embassy
while I was in Paris, which I gladly accepted. But grateful as I was
at the time, it did not take me long to realize that a kind Providence
had placed me in Ambassador Herrick’s hands. The ensuing days found me
in situations that I had certainly never expected to be in and in which
I relied on Ambassador Herrick’s sympathetic aid.
These situations were brought about by the whole-hearted welcome
to me--an American--that touched me beyond any point that any
words can express. I left France with a debt of gratitude which,
though I cannot repay it, I shall always remember. If the French
people had been acclaiming their own gallant airmen, Nungesser and
Coli, who were lost only after fearlessly departing in the face of
conditions insurmountably greater than those that confronted me, their
enthusiastic welcome and graciousness could not have been greater.
In Belgium as well, I was received with a warmth which reflected more
than simply a passing curiosity in a trans-Atlantic flight, but which
was rather a demonstration by the people of their interest in a new
means of transportation which eventually would bring still closer
together the new world and the old. Their welcome, too, will be a
cherished memory for all time.
In England, I experienced one final unforgettable demonstration of
friendship for an American. That spontaneous wonderful reception during
my brief visit seemed typical of what I had always heard of the good
sportsmanship of the English.
My words to all those friends in Europe are inadequate, but my feelings
of appreciation are boundless.
CONCLUSION
When I was contemplating the flight to Paris I looked forward to making
a short tour of Europe with especial regard to the various airports and
aeronautical activities.
After I arrived, however, the necessity for returning to America
in the near future became apparent and, after a consultation with
Ambassador Houghton, who informed me that President Coolidge was
sending the cruiser _Memphis_ to Cherbourg for my return journey to
America, I flew the “Spirit of St. Louis” to Gosport early one morning.
There it was dismantled and crated, through the courtesy of the Royal
Air Force which also placed a Woodcock pursuit plane at my disposal.
I returned to London in the Woodcock and a few days later flew to Paris
in another R.A.F. machine of the same type.
I remained overnight in Paris, and early the next morning flew a French
Breguet to Cherbourg where the cruiser _Memphis_ was waiting.
Admiral Burrage met me at the dock, and after going aboard the
_Memphis_ I became acquainted with Captain Lackey and the officers of
the ship. During the trip across they extended every courtesy and did
everything within their power to make the voyage a pleasant one.
A description of my welcome back to the United States would, in itself,
be sufficient to fill a larger volume than this. I am not an author by
profession, and my pen could never express the gratitude which I feel
towards the American people.
The voyage up the Potomac and to the Monument Grounds in Washington; up
the Hudson River and along Broadway; over the Mississippi and to St.
Louis--to do justice to these occasions would require a far greater
writer than myself.
Washington, New York, and finally St. Louis and home. Each of these
cities has left me with an impression that I shall never forget, and a
debt of gratitude which I can never repay.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
When Lindbergh came to tell the story of his welcome at Paris, London,
Brussels, Washington, New York and St. Louis he found himself up
against a tougher problem than flying the Atlantic.
He wanted to speak from his heart his appreciation for all the kindness
and enthusiasm that had been shown him. But when he began to write he
found that fitting words would not come. Somehow it wasn’t a story for
him to tell.
So the publishers agreed to his suggestion that this part of the record
be put in the third person by a writer he might choose. As a result
much in the way of illuminating speeches and other important matter is
included that Lindbergh would have been loath to use.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I have asked Fitzhugh Green to write a brief account of my various
receptions not only because I think he has caught the spirit of what
I have tried to do for aviation, but because I trust his judgment in
selection of material.
[Illustration: _Charles A. Lindbergh_]
A LITTLE OF WHAT THE WORLD THOUGHT OF LINDBERGH
BY
FITZHUGH GREEN
I
PARIS
Charles A. Lindbergh was the “dark horse” of the New York to Paris
flight; also he flew alone. These two facts, combined with the tragic
disappearance of the French trans-Atlantic fliers, Nungesser and Coli,
shortly before he left New York, emphasized the suspense with which
Paris awaited his arrival.
He landed safely on a dark night about on schedule time. This was
the culmination of what might be called the mechanical aspect of his
success.
In consequence of these unique but rather simple circumstances it was
natural that there should follow a good deal of notoriety for the
flier. Already the so-called “trans-Atlantic Air Race” had received
much advertising. Several planes had been grooming for the long flight;
and there had been much speculation about the practicability of such an
effort. Lindbergh’s landing figuratively rang the bell as the winner
came under the wire.
The first man over was bound to be recognized as an audacious pioneer.
Without regard for his character, creed or aspirations the world was
going to come forward and say “Well done!”
The first man to fly from New York to Paris was bound to be fêted and
decorated. He would tell the story of his flight and there would be
ephemeral discussion of its bearing on the future of aviation. Wild
speculation about the world being on the brink of a great air age would
follow.
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
WASHINGTON, D. C.--AT ARLINGTON CEMETERY]
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
COPY OF THE $25,000 CHECK PRESENTED BY RAYMOND ORTEIG]
[Illustration: © _Wide World Photos_
NEW YORK CITY--RECEIVING THE ORTEIG PRIZE MEDAL. MR. ORTEIG IS STANDING
IN THE CENTRE BETWEEN COLONEL SCOTT AND MYSELF]
The first man to fly from New York to Paris was bound to excite the
admiration of his own countrymen. He would be met on his return
by committees, have to make some speeches at banquets and receive
appropriate decorations for his valor.
The first man to fly from New York to Paris would write several
magazine articles and a book. He might make some money by lecturing.
He would be offered contracts for moving pictures, jobs as manager of
something or other, and honorary memberships in a hundred organizations
of more or less doubtful value.
Then someone would break a homerun record or commit a murder; whereupon
the world would forget with pitiless promptness the first man to fly
the broad Atlantic.
Who, by the way, can name the dauntless pilots that circled the globe
by air not so many months ago?
The reason Lindbergh’s story is different is that when his plane came
to a halt on Le Bourget field that black night in Paris, Lindbergh the
man kept on going.
The phenomenon of Lindbergh took its start with his flight across the
ocean; but in its entirety it was almost as distinct from that flight
as though he had never flown at all.
It is probable that in the three ensuing weeks Lindbergh loosed the
greatest torrent of mass emotion ever witnessed in human history.
This narrative is a record of events, not an analysis. It therefore
cannot pretend to explain the “phenomenon of Lindbergh.” Whether it was
his modesty or his looks or his refusal to be tempted by money or by
fame that won him such a following we cannot say. Perhaps the world was
ripe for a youth with a winning smile to flash across its horizon and
by the brilliance of his achievement momentarily to dim the ugliness
of routine business, politics and crime. Many said that his sudden
meteor-like appearance from obscurity was an act of Providence.
Whatever the reason for it all, the fact remains that there was a
definite “phenomenon of Lindbergh” quite the like of which the world
had never seen. This strange phenomenon is the opening fact of our
simple narrative of events culled from a list far too long to include
in the space allowed.
All who followed press accounts of the flier’s adventures after landing
agree that his “meteor” did not glow in its full radiance at first.
There was a faint but unmistakable artificiality in the news reports on
this side of the Atlantic immediately following his arrival in Paris.
To be sure, unstinted praise was poured on his courage and on the
skill of his unprecedented flight. But the true Lindbergh had not yet
impressed itself upon America.
His personality caught the French at the very moment when their natural
enthusiasm for his deed was at its height. It was like pushing a swing
just when it has started downward.
Two French aviation officers extricated him from the milling crowd
at Le Bourget on arrival night and succeeded in getting him to the
American Embassy where newspaper men located him at 1:30 A.M.
The journalists naturally found the flier tired after having had
practically no sleep for nearly sixty hours. But he was far from
exhausted and he had no maudlin recital for the pencil-pushers who so
eagerly surrounded him.
He awakened near noon next day. After breakfast he went out on a
balcony in response to crowds in the street and for the first time
after his triumph stood face to face in daylight with citizens of
France. There was a burst of applause. As we have said, the first
man to have flown from New York to Paris, was bound to get just this
applause. Then something else happened.
We talked to one of the Diplomatic Corps who witnessed this first
public appearance. He said: “The people kept on cheering and clapping
and waving their hats or handkerchiefs; but I suddenly had a feeling
they were applauding mechanically, as if their attention were rooted on
something that fascinated them.
“I glanced up at Lindbergh to see if he were doing anything he
shouldn’t do. No, he was just smiling and his ruddy face was alight
with appreciation.
“I looked from Lindbergh to the crowd. Then I realized that something
was going on right before my eyes that I couldn’t see. Lindbergh’s
personality was reaching out and winning the French just as surely as
his flight had reached out and found their city.”
That was the beginning of the “phenomenon of Lindbergh.” It grew
in a steady crescendo as the days passed. We saw it full force in
Washington. We saw it reach incredible heights in New York.
Procession of events fitted into and abetted development of the
situation. There was the telephone conversation from Paris to his
mother in Detroit four thousand miles away. _His mother_: the world
rolled the two words around its collective tongue as might a wine
connoisseur his nectar.
He called on Madame Nungesser, another mother, whose equally brave son
had disappeared but a few days before in the stormy wastes of the same
ocean he had crossed. Their exchange was brief, but the whole world
listened and wiped away a tear. In simple compassion Lindbergh told the
mother not to give up hope. You have to know the boy to feel a fraction
of the reassurance he must have conveyed.
He visited the blind and crippled veterans of the great war. He
smiled at them; which was enough for those who could see, who in turn
ransacked their expressive tongue to explain “_le joli Lindbergh_” to
those who couldn’t.
He called on the President of the Republic. He was dressed in plain
clothes but the meeting was full of affability on both sides, with
Sheldon Whitehouse of the Embassy acting as interpreter. The President
pinned the Cross of the Legion of Honor upon the lapel of the boy’s
borrowed suit and kissed him on both cheeks.
By this time France was alive to Lindbergh; America was waking up.