EARLY AVIATION
At the end of my brief hospital career I became a patient myself. It
was a case of too much nursing, perhaps with too long hours, in the
pneumonia ward. I picked up an infection and there followed several
minor operations and a rather long period of convalescence.
At Toronto I had been put into the dispensary because I knew a little
chemistry and because it appeared I was one of the few people who
wouldn’t drink the medical supply of whiskey. My brief experiences
aroused my interest in medicine, and after the armistice I went to New
York with the idea that I might become a physician. At Columbia
I took up a very heavy course which included pre-medical work.
Scholastically I think I could have qualified, but after a year of
study I convinced myself that some of my abilities did not measure up
to the requirements which I felt a physician should have.
My mother and father wanted me to come to Los Angeles. Regretfully I
left New York and moved west.
Southern California is a country of out-door sports. I was fond of
automobiles, tennis, horseback riding, and almost anything else that
is active and carried on in the open. It was a short step from such
interests to aviation and just then, as now, Southern California was
particularly active in air matters.
I remember the first air meet I attended. It was near Long Beach, at
Daugherty Field, the ocean side of the broad Los Angeles valley. The
sky was blue and flying conditions were perfect, as I remember.
As this was the summer of 1920 commercial flying was in its infancy.
Even to go to see planes then was considered really sporting by the
populace. There were mechanical imperfections of many kinds, but
progress is made always through experimentation.
Certainly a great many of the people gathered that day had never before
seen an aeroplane. The planes mostly were old war material, Jennys and
Canucks. The Army and Navy were represented with the planes available
at that time—Standards, D. H.’s, Douglasses, Martins, etc. None of
the ships stand out distinctly in my mind as types. I imagine there
were some bombing planes and pursuit jobs, but they all seemed to my
untrained eye more or less routine two-seaters. Of course at that time
I knew somewhat less than I do now.
However, one thing I did know that day. I wanted to fly. I was there
with my father, who, I fear, wasn’t having a very good time. As the
dust blew in his eyes, and his collar wilted, I think his enthusiasm
for aviation, such as it was, waned. He was slightly non-plussed,
therefore, when I said:
“Dad, you know, I think I’d like to fly.”
Heretofore we had been milling about behind the ropes which lined the
field. At my suggestion we invited ourselves into the arena and looked
about. I saw a man tagged “official” and asked my father to talk with
him about instruction. I felt suddenly shy about making inquiries
myself, lest the idea of a woman’s being interested in trying to fly be
too hilarious a thought for the official.
My father was game; he even went so far as to make an appointment for
me to have a trial hop at what was then Rogers Airport. I am sure he
thought one ride would be enough for me, and he might as well act to
cure me promptly.
Next day was characteristically fair and we arrived early on the
field. There was no crowd, but several planes stood ready to go.
A pilot came forward and shook hands.
“A good day to go up,” he said, pleasantly.
My father raised an inexperienced eye to the sky and agreed. Agreeing
verbally is as far as he went, or has ever gone, for he has not yet
found a day good enough for a first flight.
The pilot nodded to another flyer. “He’ll go up with us.”
“Why?” I asked.
The pair exchanged grins. Then I understood. I was a girl—a “nervous
lady.” I might jump out. There had to be somebody on hand to grab my
ankle as I went over. It was no use to explain I had seen aeroplanes
before and wasn’t excitable. I was not to be permitted to go alone in
the front cockpit.
The familiar “contact” was spoken and the motor came to life. I suppose
there must be emotion with all new experiences, but I can’t remember
any but a feeling of interest on this occasion. The noise of the
motor seemed very loud—I think it seems so to most people on their
first flight.
The plane rose quickly over some nearby oil derricks which are part of
the flora in Southern California. I was surprised to be able to see the
sea after a few moments of climbing. At 2,000 feet the pilot idled the
motor and called out the altitude for me. The sensation of speed is
of course absent, and I had no idea of the duration of the hop. When
descent was made I know the field looked totally unfamiliar. I could
not have picked it out from among the hundreds of little squares into
which populated areas are divided. One of the senses which must be
developed in flying is an acuteness in recognizing characteristics of
the terrain, a sense seldom possessed by a novice.
Lessons in flying cost twice as much in 1920 as they do now. Five
hundred dollars was the price for ten or twelve hours instruction,
and that was just half what had been charged a few years before.
When I came down I was ready to sign up at any price to have a try at
the air myself. Two things deterred me at that moment. One was the
tuition fee to be wrung from my father, and the other the determination
to look up a woman flyer who, I had heard, had just come to another
field. I felt I should be less self-conscious taking lessons with
her, than with the men who overwhelmed me with their capabilities.
Neta Snook, the first woman to be graduated from the Curtiss School
of Aviation, had a Canuck—an easier plane to fly than a Jenny, whose
Canadian sister it was. Neta was good enough to take payments for time
in the air, when I could make them, so in a few days I began hopping
about on credit with her. I had failed to convince my father of the
necessity of my flying, so my economic status itself remained a bit
in the air.
I had opportunity to get a fair amount of information about details
of flying despite my erratic finances. In Northampton, where I had
stayed a while after the war, I had taken a course in automobile repair
with a group of girls from Smith College. To me the motor was as
interesting as flying itself, and I welcomed a chance to help in the
frequent pulling down and putting together which it required.
[Illustration:
description: Photo medium shot of Earhart wearing flight gear
looking out from a biplane
caption: MY FIRST TRAINING SHIP, 1920
]
[Illustration:
description: Photo 3⁄4 view full shot of standing Earhart wearing
flight gear with white background
caption: A. E., 1928
]
New students were instructed in planes with dual controls; the
rudder and stick in the front cockpit are connected with those in
the rear so that any false move the student makes can be corrected
by the instructor. Every move is duplicated and can be felt by
both flyers. One lands, takes off, turns, all with an experienced
companion in command. When passengers are carried these controls are
removed for safety’s sake with little trouble. If there is telephone
connection, communication and explanation are much easier than by
any methods of signs or shouting. This telephone equipment, by the way,
seems to be more usual in England than here.
I am glad I didn’t start flying in the days of the “grass cutters,”
which exemplified an earlier method of flying instruction. One of the
amusing sights of the war training period was that of the novices
hopping about the countryside in these penguin planes. They could fly
only a few feet from the ground and had to be forced off to do that.
The theory had been that such activity offered maximum practice in
taking off and landing. In addition it was a sort of Roman holiday for
the instructors—they had nothing much to do but, so to speak, wind up
their play-things and start them off. And nothing very serious could
happen one way or the other.
It was really necessary for a woman to wear breeks and leather coats
in these old days of aviation. The fields were dirty and planes
hard to enter. People dressed the part in a semi-military khaki outfit,
and in order to be as inconspicuous as possible I fell into the same
styles. A leather coat I had then, I wore across the Atlantic, eight
years later.
Neta sold her plane and I bought one and changed instructors after
a few hours’ work. John Montijo, an ex-army instructor, took charge
of me and soloed me after some strenuous times together. I refused
to fly alone until I knew some stunting. It seemed foolhardy to try
to go up alone without the ability to recognize and recover quickly
from any position the plane might assume, a reaction only possible
with practice. In short, to become thoroughly at home in the air,
stunting is as necessary as, and comparable to, the ability to drive an
automobile in traffic. I was then introduced to aerobatics and felt not
a bit afraid when sent “upstairs” alone for the first time.
Usually a student takes off nonchalantly enough but doesn’t dare
land until his gas supply fails. Any field is familiar with the sight
of beginners circling about overhead, staying up solely because
they can’t bear to come down. The thought of landing without their
instructors to help them, if need be, becomes torture, which is only
terminated by the force of gravity.
In soloing—as in other activities—it is far easier to start something
than it is to finish it. Almost every beginner hops off with a whoop of
joy, though he is likely to end his flight with something akin to D.
T.’s.
I reversed the process. In taking off for the first time alone, one of
the shock absorbers broke, causing the left wing to sag just as I was
leaving the ground. I didn’t know just what had happened, but I did
know something was wrong and wondered what I had done. The mental agony
of starting the plane had just been gone through and I was suddenly
faced with the agony of stopping it. It was all in a matter of
seconds, of course, and somehow I contrived to do the proper thing.
My brief “penguin” flight came to a prompt conclusion without further
mishap.
When the damage had been repaired, I took courage to try again, this
time climbing about 5,000 feet, playing around a little, and returning
to make a thoroughly rotten landing. At once I had my picture taken by
a gentleman from Iowa who happened to be touring California and wanted
a few rare sights for the album back home.
[Illustration:
description: Photo wide shot of 5 people. Earhart is in middle
holding a bouquet of roses; Earhart and Stultz are
wearing flight gear
caption: SOUTHAMPTON—MRS. GUEST, GORDON, A. E., STULTZ,
MRS. FOSTER WELCH
© _Keystone Views_
]
[Illustration:
description: Photo wide shot of Earhart in flight gear standing in
front of a biplane
caption: AFTER MY FIRST “SOLO,” 1921
]