PREPARATIONS
When it was all over I read in the papers that I had been planning a
trans-Atlantic flight for a year. I read much else that was equally
imaginative. In fact, the press introduced me to an entirely new
person. It appeared that I was a demi-orphan; my father, I learned,
had been dead four years—I saved that clipping for him. One day I read
that I was wealthy, the next that the sole purpose of my flight was to
lift the mortgage from the old homestead—which there isn’t any—I mean
homestead.
The truth about the chance to fly was as amusing as the journalistic
scenarios. The opportunity came as casually as an invitation to a
matinee, and it came by telephone. As a matter of fact, the three
of us who made the Atlantic crossing together all were similarly
collected by telephone.
Commander Byrd telephoned Stultz, suggesting the possibility. Stultz
then communicated, by telephone again, with those organizing the
flight. Tentative arrangements were made as regarded himself. They
asked him to choose his flying mechanic. On April 7, via long distance
telephone, he reached Slim Gordon, then at Monroe, La., with the “Voice
of the Sky” Corporation. “Meet me at the Cadillac Hotel in Detroit on
the 9th, if you want to fly the Atlantic.” “Sure,” said Gordon.
So next morning Slim serviced his ship; told the boys he wasn’t taking
off with them that day and left to keep his appointment.
It was settled in no time at all—certainly within the limits of the
conventional three minute telephone conversation.
As for me, I was working as usual around Denison House. The
neighborhood was just piling in for games and classes and I was as busy
as could be. I remember when called to the phone I replied I couldn’t
answer unless the message was more important than entertaining many
little Chinese and Syrian children. The word came assuring me it was.
I excused myself and went to listen to a man’s voice ask me whether I
was interested in doing something aeronautic which might be hazardous.
At first I thought the conversation was a joke, and told the gentleman
so. At least twice before I had been approached by bootleggers who
promised rich reward and no danger—“absolutely no danger to you, Leddy.”
The frank admission of risk piqued my curiosity and I enquired how and
why I had been called.
I demanded references and got them. They were good references, too.
After checking up, I made an appointment for late the same day.
“Should you like to fly the Atlantic?”
Such was the greeting when I met Hilton H. Railey who had done the
telephoning.
He told me, without mentioning specific names, that Commander
Byrd’s tri-motored Fokker had been purchased and was destined for
trans-Atlantic flight. He asked me if I would make the flight if
opportunity offered. Then he told me that a woman owned the plane, and
had intended flying it herself. Circumstances had just arisen which
made it impossible for her to go but there was a chance that another
woman might be selected in her place; and Mr. Railey had been asked by
George Palmer Putnam, New York publisher, to help find such a person.
Then followed the first period of waiting. I did not know whether or
not I was going. I didn’t know whether the flight really would come
off. I didn’t know whether I should be selected if it did. And in the
meanwhile I was asked to clear the decks so I could get off if the
opportunity actually arose.
At Denison House we were just working out our summer plans, with me
in charge of the summer school. If I actually was to leave, Marion
Perkins, our head worker, must get someone for my place. So the chaos
of uncertainties spread in ripples out from me as a center.
I think what troubled me most just then was the difficulty of my
relations, under the circumstances, with all these people whose plans
were so much dependent upon my own. Yet I was pledged to secrecy and
could not say a word to them. And of course, it is rather disconcerting
to carry on a job at a desk, or with settlement children, with the
probability of a trans-Atlantic flight pending.
In ten days or so I was asked to go to New York. There I met David T.
Layman, Jr., who, with Mr. John S. Phipps, talked things over with me.
I realized, of course, that I was being weighed. It should have
been slightly embarrassing, for if I were found wanting on too many
counts I should be deprived of a trip. On the other hand, if I were
just too fascinating the gallant gentlemen might be loath to drown me.
Anyone can see the meeting was a crisis.
I learned that the Fokker had been bought from Commander Byrd by the
Honorable Mrs. Frederick Guest, of London, whose husband had been in
the Air Ministry of Lloyd George and is prominently associated with
aviation in Great Britain. Mrs. Guest, formerly Miss Amy Phipps of
Pittsburgh, financed the expedition from first to last, and it was due
entirely to her generosity and sportsmanship that opportunity to go was
given me.
The transfer of ownership of the plane from Commander Byrd to Mrs.
Guest had been kept secret. It had been her desire to hop off for the
Atlantic crossing without attracting any advance attention. When
subsequently, for personal reasons, Mrs. Guest herself abandoned the
flight she was still eager to have the plans consummated, if possible,
with an American woman on board.
A few days later I was told the flight actually would be made and
that I could go—if I wished. Under the circumstances there was only
one answer. I couldn’t say no. For here was fate holding out the best
in the way of flying ability in the person of Wilmer Stultz, pilot,
aided by Lou Gordon as flight mechanic; and a beautiful ship admirably
equipped for the test before it.
When I first saw Friendship she was jacked-up in the shadows of a
hangar at East Boston. Mechanics and welders worked nearby on the
struts for the pontoons that were shortly to replace the wheels. The
ship’s golden wings, with their spread of seventy two feet, were strong
and exquisitely fashioned. The red orange of the fuselage, though
blending with the gold, was chosen not for artistry but for practical
use. If we had come down orange could have been seen further than
any other color.
The plane just then was being equipped, presumably for its use on
Byrd’s forthcoming Antarctic trip. Stultz and Gordon were supposed to
be in Byrd’s employ, and Commander Robert Elmer, U.S.N. retired, was
directing technical activities.
[Illustration:
description: Photo wide overhead shot of Earhart in flight
gear escorted by police through a crowd
caption: WELCOMED BY THE SOUTHAMPTON CROW
© _Wide World Photos_
]
[Illustration:
description: Photo full shot Earhart laying wreath at the base of
the Medford, Massachusetts Honor Roll Memorial
image text: ... IN THE ARMY, THE NAVY, AND THE MARINE CORPS.
AND IN MEMORY OF THOSE WHO MADE THE SUPREME SACRIFICE
IN THE WORLD WAR. MCMXX
caption: AT MEDFORD, MASSACHUSETTS
]
Our purpose was to keep the plans secret. Once the world knew, we
should be submerged in a deluge of curiosity making it impossible to
continue the preparations in orderly fashion. Then, too, it would do no
good to aviation to invite discussion of a project which some accident
might delay. Actually the pontoon equipment on this type of plane was
experimental, and no one definitely could tell in advance whether or
not it would prove practicable. Another objection was the possibility
of instigating a “race,” which no one wanted. Mrs. Guest proposed that
the Friendship, as she afterwards named the plane, should cross
the Atlantic irrespective of the action of others. By our example we
did not want to risk hurrying ill-prepared aspirants into the field
with possible tragic results.
Only twice did I actually see the Friendship during all this time. I
was pretty well known at the landing fields and obviously it might
provoke comment if I seemed too interested in the plane. For this
reason I had no chance to take part in any of the test flying. Actually
the first time I was off the water in the Friendship was the Sunday
morning when we finally got under way.
The preparation of a large plane for a long flight is a complex task.
It is one that cannot—or at least should not—be rushed. Especially is
that fact true where, as in the case of the Friendship, the equipment
was of a somewhat experimental nature.
Throughout the operations Commander Byrd kept in close touch with what
was being done, with Stultz and Gordon, and with Commander Elmer,
who was overseeing the technical detail. Necessary instruments were
installed and gradually tried out; while varying load tests, countless
take-offs from the bay, and brief flights around Boston were made. The
radio was tested and the inevitable last minute changes and adjustments
arranged.
With the radio, we were particularly fortunate because Stultz is a
skilful operator. It is unusual to find a man who is a great pilot, an
instrument flyer, navigator, and a really good radio operator all in
one.
Finally the ship itself was ready to go, and our problems focussed on
the weather. At this stage weather is an important factor in all plans
of trans-oceanic flying.
Supplementing the meagre reports available from ships to the Weather
Bureau, the Friendship’s backers arranged a service of their own.
Special digests of the British reports were cabled to New York each
morning, and meteorological data were radioed in from the ships
at sea. All this information, supplementing that already at hand, was
then coordinated and plotted out in the New York office of the United
States Weather Bureau. There we came to feel that no flight could have
a better friend than Dr. James H. Kimball, whose interest and unfailing
helpfulness were indispensable.
The weather service for a flight such as ours must be largely planned
and entirely underwritten by the backers of the flight itself. And,
like so much else, it is an expensive undertaking.
Nearly three weeks dragged by in Boston. Sometimes Mr. and Mrs. Layman
were there, hoping for an immediate take-off, sometimes Mrs. Putnam.
Commander Elmer and Mr. Putnam were on hand constantly. Mrs. Guest’s
sons, Winston and Raymond, followed the preparations as closely as they
dared without risking disclosure of the ownership.
It was during this period that I had the pleasure of seeing
something of Commander and Mrs. Byrd, at their Brimmer Street home,
just then bursting with the preparations for his Antarctic expedition—a
place of tents and furs, specially devised instruments, concentrated
foodstuffs, and all the rest of the paraphernalia which makes the
practical, and sometimes the picturesque, background of a great
expedition. There I met “Scotty” Allan, famous Alaskan dog driver, who
was advising Byrd as to canine preparations.
The weather remained persistently unfavorable. When it was right in
Boston, the mid-Atlantic was forbidding. I have a memory of long grey
days which had a way of dampening our spirits against our best efforts
to be cheerful. We tried to be casual by keeping occupied. On fair days
my battered Kissel roadster, dubbed “Yellow Peril,” was a means for
sightseeing. On rainy days the top leaked too much for comfort, so we
walked. We tried restaurants of all nationalities for variety and
went, I think, to all the theatres.
One of the last plays we saw, I remember, was “The Good Hope,” with
the charming Eva LeGallienne. The story is a tragedy; all the hopeful
characters drown while the most tragic one survives to carry out a cold
lamb chop in the last act. A recurring line is “The fish are dearly
paid for,” and our crew adopted that as a heraldic motto, emblazoned
under a goldfish rampant. I had the opportunity of thanking Miss
LeGallienne for her cheering sendoff when I met her on returning to
New York. She helped Charles Winninger auction off one of the flags we
carried on the flight, at a theatrical performance for the benefit of
the Olympic team which was about to sail for Europe on the ship which
had brought us back, the President Roosevelt. Anyway, that evening she
got us on the stage before 17,280,891 people, so we have two grievances
against her.
As I look back on the flight I think two questions have been asked
me most frequently. First: Was I afraid? Secondly: What did I wear?
I’m sorry to be a disappointment in answering the first query. It
would sound more exciting if I only could admit having been shockingly
frightened. But I honestly wasn’t. Of course I realized there was a
measure of danger. Obviously I faced the possibility of not returning
when first I considered going. Once faced and settled there really
wasn’t any good reason to refer to it again. After all, even when
driving one admits tacitly there is danger, but one doesn’t dwell on
the result of losing the front wheels or having the rear end fall out
on a mountain.
Perhaps the second question may be thought feminine, but I have had as
many men as women appear interested.
Remember the early stages of automobiling? In those days an “auto”
ride was a rare experience, made rarer by the clothes one wore. A linen
duster, gauntlets and a veil were the requisites of touring in 1907.
Fashions in air clothing are emerging from the same sort of chrysalis
stage. For routine short flights I wear every-day clothes—what one
would use for street wear or sports. But obviously the Friendship
flight was different. Compare it, perhaps, to a strenuous camping
trip. One couldn’t tell what might happen. Serviceability was the prime
requirement. I had to wear breeks because of the jump from the pontoon
to the door and also because of the necessity of slipping on and off
the flying suit which is worn outside one’s other clothing.
In Boston I remember a solicitous friend wished to give me a bag for
extra clothing.
“There isn’t going to be any,” I explained.
That appeared to concern him somewhat—certainly much more than it did
me. There seems to be a feeling that a woman preparing to drop in
on England, so to speak, ought to have something of a wardrobe.
However, I chose to take with me only what I had on. The men on the
Friendship took no “extras.” Pounds—even ounces—can count desperately.
Obviously I should not load up with unessentials if they didn’t.
I’m told it’s interesting to know exactly what the outfit included.
Just my old flying clothes, comfortably, if not elegantly, battered and
worn. High laced boots, brown broadcloth breeks, white silk blouse with
a red necktie (rather antiquated!) and a companionably ancient leather
coat, rather long, with plenty of pockets and a snug buttoning collar.
A homely brown sweater accompanied it. A light leather flying helmet
and goggles completed the picture, such as it was. A single elegance
was a brown and white silk scarf.
[Illustration:
description: Photo closeup of Earhart strapping on a leather helmet
caption: READY TO GO
]
[Illustration:
description: Photo wide shot of flying tri-motor plane with
autographs by Byrd, Stultz, Gordon, and Earhart below
image text: R E Byrd
W. L. Stultz
Lou Gordon
Amelia M. Earhart
caption: A PICTURE OF THE “FRIENDSHIP” OVER BOSTON, AUTOGRAPHED
BEFORE THE FLIGHT STARTED
]
When it was cold I wore—as did the men—a heavy fur-lined flying
suit which covers one completely from head to toe, shoes and all. Mine
was lent to me by my friend Major Charles H. Woolley of Boston, who,
by the way, had no idea when he lent it what it was to be used for. He
suspected, I think, that I intended to do some high flying.
Toilet articles began with a toothbrush and ended with a comb. The
only extras were some fresh handkerchiefs and a tube of cold cream. My
“vanity case” was a small army knapsack.
Equipment was simple, too. Mr. Layman let me take his camera and Mrs.
Layman her wrist watch. Field glasses, with plenty of use in the Arctic
behind them, were lent me by G. P. P., and I was given a compact log
book.
Besides toothbrushes—generic term—and food, our “baggage” was a book
and a packet of messages which some of those associated with the
enterprise asked to have carried across to friends on the other side.
The book—perhaps the only one to have crossed the Atlantic by air
route—is Skyward, written by Commander Richard Evelyn Byrd. He sent it
to Mrs. Guest. Commander Byrd, of course, had owned the Friendship and
has outstandingly sponsored the wisdom of utilizing tri-motored ships
equipped with pontoons, for long-distance over-water flying. So it was
appropriate that his book should be taken to the woman who bought his
plane and made the trans-Atlantic flight possible.
This copy of his book which I delivered bears the following
inscription: “I am sending you this copy of my first book by the first
girl to cross the Atlantic Ocean by air—the very brave Miss Earhart.
But for circumstances I well know that it would have been you who would
have crossed first. I send you my heartiest congratulations and good
wishes. I admire your determination and courage.”