The Spirit of ST Louis (18 page)
Read The Spirit of ST Louis Online
Authors: Charles A. Lindbergh
Tags: #Transportation, #Transatlantic Flights, #Adventurers & Explorers, #General, #United States, #Air Pilots, #Historical, #Biography & Autobiography, #Aviation, #Spirit of St. Louis (Airplane), #Biography, #History
I'm over 13,000 feet now. I wonder if it's the Continental Divide—that long, snowcapped ridge, reaching to outer limits of the moonlight. I clear summits by about 500 feet. Those big dark patches, farther down, may mark the timber line.
The Rockies are behind. Mountains melted quickly into foothills, and foothills have rolled out into level plains. I see the lights of four villages, stringing north and south. They're probably tied together by a railroad. I ease my stick forward lose altitude and reach a warmer air. Soon I'll be over the panhandle of Oklahoma, if I've not drifted north of route.
Twelve o'clock, San Diego time. I'm about halfway to Lambert Field. The Spirit of St. Louis has been in the air for better than eight hours. That's much longer than any flight I've made before. Haze is thicker. The moon is low in the west. I'm down to 8000 feet. The Whirlwind runs smoothly now, with the throttle well advanced. I'll have a carburetor heater put on at New York. The warning I received tonight may save my life over the North Atlantic, flying in still colder air.
The moon is setting at -- 1:20 by the clock. I no longer see outlines on the ground; but scattered lights, here and there, give perspective to night's growing blackness.
Stars are fading in the sky ahead—the first sign of morning. I've spanned deserts and mountains during hours of night, but the sun has flown all around the world—over the Pacific, over Asia and Europe, across the Atlantic which I am soon to meet; and now we're about to come together above Kansas plains. I feel sleepy. That's normal with the dawn.
East's horizon sharpens. A tinge of pink precedes the birth of day. I see outlines of fields below—straight-edged shades, one darker than another; and here and there a ravelled line which marks a creek bed. I'm somewhere over Kansas. That's almost certain. But where? How far off course? In a few more minutes I'll know.
A red disc bumps up the sky's edge. A barn roof glints sharply at my plane. Spinning windmills point northwestward. Oil derricks are scattered around ahead. The ground is clearly lit. Now to find where I am on the map. There's the smoke of a train. Tracks come angling in from the northwest, and run on toward a small city several miles away, under my right wing. I unfold the map of Kansas.
About forty minutes ago, in early dawn, I crossed a fairly large river. If I haven't drifted off my route, it must have been the Arkansas. If so, I'm more than three hours ahead of schedule, in spite of the time I lost circling that Arizona valley, and I should be seventy-five or eighty miles east of Wichita. Finding my position will be a matter of elimination. For the moment I can eliminate all railroads which don't run northwest and southeast. There's another roadbed that enters my field of vision from east of north, converging with the first on the same little city. I try to find a line of ink that corresponds to it. And there's a third railroad, with straight miles of track coming in from the east and bending sharply southwest. Such straight lines and definite angles should be distinctive even in the state of Kansas. But I see no printer's counterpart in the area where I think I ought to be.
Could I have drifted south to the Cimarron, or to the Arkansas' west fork? I begin searching farther from my estimated position. My eyes jump up and down across the map. Soon I find the pattern I'm looking for—the same lines, the same angles, villages and towns where villages and towns should be. The track on my right connects Cherryvale with Parsons, Kansas.
Yes, my location is definite. There must have been a strong tail wind during the night; and I've held a higher r.p.m. than I intended. But I'm nearly fifty miles south of my route! I had expected to come out closer than that. Of course I've been nine hours in unknown wind drifts. That's an average of only five miles an hour toward the south. And it won't make much difference to my time—the corrective angle is too small. But I hope to hold a better course across the ocean.
Well, the flight has been successful. That's the important thing. In less than three hours I'll be at St. Louis. And if anything should go wrong now, there are landing fields everywhere below. Soon I'll circle Lambert Field; and then, if my partners agree, after one night of rest, I'll take off for the flight over the Alleghenies to New York. That's a short trip, compared to the one I'm finishing. Tomorrow I may be on Long Island, the starting point for Paris. And then – – –But I won't let my mind go any farther; there's still too much to be done. It's better to concentrate on one stop at a time.
To the south are Ozark foothills. The Missouri River winds below. I barnstormed that town on my left, last year. And thirty miles up this tributary valley lies a narrow pasture, in between hills, from which I carried passengers in an area where no plane had dared land before. Then I wasn't even thinking about a flight across the ocean.
I mark down instrument readings for the last time. In a few minutes more I'll be landing. I see the outline of Lambert Field. Now buildings begin to show. There are the twin, round-roofed "air race" hangars. There, the black hangars of my National Guard squadron. Now I see Robertson Aircraft's shops and office, at first screened off by trees. There's Louie's lunch shack, closer to the line—all as I left them two and a half months ago. How green the field has become! It was a muddy brown in February.
I push my stick forward and open the throttle. A minute or two of full power won't hurt the engine—it's had plenty of running-in. Here at my home field, after a record flight from California, I can indulge in that luxury. I want everyone to see how fast the Spirit of St. Louis is, and how wonderfully it climbs.
Several men are standing in front of the National Guard hangars as I approach. It's only eight o'clock, local time. I wonder who'll be first to spot my plane. The air speed needle touches 160 miles an hour. That's fast enough; I won't push the nose down more—no use putting too much strain on the wings. Figures run out of buildings as I flash overhead. Fifty feet off the ground now. I ease the stick back slightly -- twenty feet -- ten – five -- over the center of the field -- I pull up steeply in a climbing turn -- three hundred feet -- seven hundred -- a thousand -- fifteen hundred. Lambert Field never saw a plane with such a combination of range, speed., and climb.
I circle once, and point my nose toward St. Louis -- I promised to fly over the business district before landing. The city shows clear today, its streets like ruled lines. The west wind has carried off the usual pall of smoke.
There's the bump of office buildings that marks the downtown section. There's Harry Knight's brokerage firm. There's Bixby's State National Bank -- I nose down and fly close to the flagpoles, so everyone there will hear my engine. I'll have to head for the Mississippi if I have a forced landing; but after my night over the mountains, flying within gliding distance of a river in daylight seems the height of safety.
The Spirit of St. Louis touches ground at 6:20 California time -- fourteen hours and twenty-five minutes from takeoff. No man ever traveled so fast from the Pacific coast before. I taxi up in front of the National Guard hangars. Every person in sight is walking or running toward my plane. Bill and Frank Robertson come up to welcome me, and a half-dozen pilots and mechanics -- all old friends. Several St. Louis reporters are on hand. I climb out of my cockpit.
"When did you leave San Diego, Slim?"
"Say, you must'a made pretty good time!"
"What was the weather like?"
"How's the engine?"
"Did you come all the way nonstop?"
Soon we're walking over to Louie's shack for breakfast. "Here's your transport-pilot's license," Bill Robertson says, handing me a Bureau of. Aeronautics envelope. You've got number 69."
"Just fits you," somebody remarks. "Right side up or upside down—the same."
"Any news from Nungesser and Coli?" I ask.
"There's a report that a British ship picked them up at sea," one of the newspapermen replies. "But we can't get confirmation."
"Has the Bellanca taken off yet?"
"No. The last report is that they're going to take off Saturday, if the weather's good enough."
"What's holding them up?"
"Don't know; but have you heard about the warning from the State Department?"
"No. What is it?"
"Our Embassy in Paris sent a cable saying it might be misunderstood if an American plane lands in France before there's definite word about Nungesser and Coli."
"Has the government put any restriction on taking off?" I ask.
"No. That's apparently up to the pilots. There weren't any restrictions issued, just the warning."
"The Bellanca is going to make the flight anyway," somebody else says. "What do you think you'll do, Slim?"
"I don't know. I'll have to find out exactly what the situation is," I answer. "I'll go through to New York at least. If Nungesser and Coli are lost, it seems to me it's up to the rest of us to carry on what they attempted."
Louie keeps a collection of photographs of aviators tacked his lunch-stand walls -- on one wall the flyers who are alive, on another the flyers who are dead. Every now and then someone slips into the stand when Louie is away and mixes up the photographs. We pilots check occasionally, just be sure we are on the right wall. This time nobody has changed my picture -- or maybe Louie looked over his collection and straightened it out before I landed.
While we're eating Louie's ham and eggs, Harold Bixby and Harry Knight arrive. Soon my other partners begin phoning and assembling. I show them the Spirit of St. Louis, tell them about the flight, and of the results of our tests in Diego. We go off together to discuss plans.
"How long can you stay in the city, Slim?" Bixby asks. "We've got a half-dozen dinner invitations for you," Harry Knight adds, laughing. "A lot of people would like to hear about your flight."
"I'll stay as long as you want me to," I answer. "But I think I ought to go right on to New York. If I don't, somebody else will beat us to the take-off. Unless this storm holds them down, the Bellanca crew will probably start before I can anyway. But they may not get through the first time they try."
"That's what we thought you'd say, Slim. It's going to disappoint a lot of people, but you're right. Now that we're really in the running, we're not going to let a couple of
dinners hold us down. We had some things lined up for you tomorrow, but we'll cancel them all. You'd better stay here and get some sleep tonight. Why don't you come out to my house? Take off in the morning if you want to. How's the plane?"
"Couldn't be better," I answer. "All it needs is some grease on the rocker arms and a little gas."
How could one have better partners? They always understand my problems, and they're always behind me when I need help. If I'm not the first to land at Paris, it certainly won't be their fault.
"How's the Spirit of St. Louis Organization coming along?" I ask.
"Fine. We've got some new members, too," Bixby tells me. "Harry Knight's father is with us. Frank Robertson is in with Bill, of course. E. Lansing Ray joined up—he runs the Globe-Democrat. Doc Lambert got his brother, J. D. Wooster Lambert, to come in. We're moving along pretty fast. Don't you worry about finances. You just leave them to us, and we'll leave the flight to you."
V
home
MAY 12-20, 1927
I take off from Lambert Field at 8:13 a.m. and set course for New York City. The sky is clear. My route takes me directly over the Missouri-Mississippi junction. Illinois grain fields ripple in a northwest wind. The Spirit of St. Louis has grown with those crops: I conceived the flight last fall when wheat was planted. Now I'm getting under way with the green blades of spring.
Land below is rolling. Shadows of white, fluffy clouds slide across alfalfa, corn, and wood lot. I've caught up with the tail of the storm that delayed my San Diego take-off. Will the Allegheny Mountains be clear? Maybe I started too early. Maybe I can't get through to New York today. But I've got follow as closely as I can on the area of bad weather. If only it will hover over the Atlantic and hold my competitors the ground for two or three days more, I'll have the engine checked, the compasses in, and the Spirit of St. Louis refueled.
There's Columbus already, and I'm only three and a quarter hours out. This is the way the mail should fly from Lambert Field to New York.
The sky has become overcast. Mountainsides above me slant into heavy clouds, their rocks and forests merging with the mist. Clearings are scarce. Hogback ranges push valleys down to creek beds that are hardly visible through the leaves. Now I follow a pass with the railroad; now I squeeze over a saddle in a ridge. That village of square, gray, dreary houses must be part of a coal mine. I'm over Pennsylvania. I crossed the Monongahela River, south of Pittsburgh, fifty-five minutes ago.
It's the end of the seventh hour, 3:15 St. Louis time. Manhattan Island lies below me -- building-weighted, wharf-spined, teeming with life -- millions of people in that river-boundaried strip of brick and concrete, each one surrounded by a little aura of his problems and his thoughts, hardly conscious of earth's expanse beyond. What contrast to the western spaces I have crossed! I feel cooped up just looking at it.
Ahead, beyond those suburbs on Long Island, lies the field from which I'll start for Paris. Will it be Curtiss, Roosevelt, or Mitchel? How long a run will I have? What obstacles must I clear? For weeks I've tried vainly to get that information; now I'll soon have the answers to my questions.
That looks like a line of hangar roofs. Yes, there's a field beside them, and a second—and a third, not far away. The one on the right must be Mitchel, for its planes are painted olive drab. I bank to circle all three, while I study size and surface.
Mitchel is better kept than the others; after all, it's an Army field. But, except near the center, the sod looks rough as I pass over it -- a bit like North Island. And Curtiss, where I'm about to land, is much too small for a heavy-load take-off. Roosevelt is large enough, and it's the only one that has a runway -- a long, narrow affair, laid out approximately east and west. If the wind blows in the direction of that runway when I want to start, Roosevelt will be the best. Yes, I'll take off from either Roosevelt or Mitchel. I can't decide which until I've walked over them several times and found out whether I can get permission to use the one I prefer. Byrd and Chamberlin must have made satisfactory arrangements for their tests and overloaded take-offs. Whatever solution they found will probably do for me.
I circle over Curtiss. It has peak-roofed wooden hangars to the north and west. Beyond them are scattered houses—the outskirts of Mineola. A short but rather steep slope, clearly visible from my thousand feet of altitude, separates Curtiss from Roosevelt Field. The west end of the long runway is just beyond it. A dozen or so planes are on the line -- Jennies, Standards, Orioles, painted in all the colors of the rainbow.
There must be two or three hundred people down there looking up at me. I glance at the wind sock, bank steeply around, and throttle back. It's 3:31 Central Standard time.
A number of men with cameras have scattered out onto the field. Some of them right where I want to touch my wheels. I gun the engine, bank out of the way, and slip down to land at an angle with the wind. Almost as soon as my plane comes to a stop it's surrounded by newspaper photographers. I shout at them to keep clear of the propeller, but no one pays attention. Two men are trying to get a picture of me in the cockpit. Others are in front, at the sides, and behind the plane. Heavy motion-picture cameras on their tripods are pointing at me. I've never seen such excitement and disorder around aircraft. Why can't they wait until I taxi to the line and stop my engine? I'd put the Spirit of St. Louis wherever they want it for background, angle, and light, just as I did yesterday at Lambert Field. They'd have better pictures, it would save a lot of time, and I wouldn't have to worry about anyone getting hurt.
Several mechanics come out to guard my propeller and lead me to a place on the line in front of one of the hangars. I cut switches, and someone chocks my wheels. A crowd packs around my cockpit, pushing and shouting. A man who obviously has some authority works his way through it with difficulty.
"I'm Casey Jones – – – airport manager." Welcome in eye and voice accompany his extended hand.
Casey Jones, the famous Curtiss test pilot! What aviator hasn't heard of him?
"We've got one of the hangars ready for you," he continues. "You've made a fast flight." His glance sweeps around my cockpit, over instruments and controls.
Another man comes up beside him, slender, moustached: "I'm Dick Blythe," he says. "I represent the Wright Aeronautical Corporation. They've instructed me to offer you all the help they can give."
"I won't need a whole hangar," I tell them -- "just room enough for my plane. I'd like to have an expert mechanic check over the engine. It hasn't had much time in the air, but I want to be sure that – – –"
Blythe doesn't wait for me to finish. "We've got the best Whirlwind men in the country right here waiting," he says. "I think you know Ken Boedecker. He's one of the corporation's field service representatives. And this is Ed Mulligan. He's assigned exclusively to your plane, as long as you need him. I haven't told you about myself yet. I handle public relations. And along that line, how about letting the camera boys get a picture of you in front of the plane? Some of them have a deadline to make."
There's a milling about as I climb down from my cockpit. Several men are making notes on pads of paper. They must be reporters. Space is cleared with difficulty, and I take position, as requested, with one hand on the propeller of the Spirit of St. Louis.
Each moment I feel more uncomfortable. It's not like San Diego or St. Louis. These cameramen curse and jostle one another for position, while they take pictures from every conceivable angle. Some stand up, others kneel or crouch; a few even lie on the ground to point their lenses at me. They take photographs head on, photographs from the quarter, photographs from the side, distant shots, close-ups, motion pictures, and stills.
"Smile!"
"Look this way, will ya?"
"Shake hands with somebody."
"Say something."
"God damn it, stop yer shovin'!"
"Hey, there's Chamberlin and Bertaud."
"Start talkin' to each other."
"Christ, get out of the way!"
They must have enough pictures to last forever. I start to leave.
"Wait a minute. Gotta get a close-up."
"Hold it."
"Just one more."
They crowd nearer. Cameras come within three or four feet of my face. I turn away and begin walking toward the nearest hangar. Photographers run in front. Reporters close around me; there must be a dozen of them.
"When're you going to start for Paris?"
"Tell us something about your flight from California." "Did ya have any close calls?"
"What do you think about Nungesser?"
"What does yer mother say about all this?"
There's no use asking the questions because I don't get a chance to answer any of them. Somebody slaps me on the back, hard. Somebody else pulls sideways on my arm.
"Now fellows," Blythe breaks in, "let's get this organized so it's fair to everybody."
"Look! There's the America."
We all glance up. A big trimotored Fokker drones overhead.
"That's the first time it's been over here."
"Byrd must be about ready to go again," somebody says.
I slip into the side door of a hangar while Blythe is making arrangements for the interview. Mechanics push the Spirit of St. Louis into one end, in front of two Orioles and a Waco. We stretch a rope across the entrance and leave the sliding ors open so people can see my plane, while at the same time it's protected from the fingers of their curiosity. The crowd outside is increasing; and when people are interested enough to come to the field, it would be unfair to confront them with closed hangar doors -- that's not the way to build up aviation.
Now I've got to get the final conditioning of my plane under way; but it's past six, Eastern daylight time -- too late accomplish much today.
"I'll want to phone about my compass in the morning," I start out saying.
"You won't have to bother about that," Boedecker tells me. "Hey, come over here a minute." He beckons to a man looking in through the near window of my cockpit.
"This is Brice Goldsborough, from the Pioneer Instrument Company. He can fix you up on anything about instruments. Just tell him what you want. He's got your earth-inductor compass here, all ready to put in."
To my amazement, I find that all the organizations I planned on contacting have their representatives right here on Curtiss Field, ready to do whatever they can to help me.
Another man steps up. "I'm from the Vacuum Oil Company. My name is Umlauf. When do you want your gasoline and oil sent out? We've got it all ready for you."
A hand grips my arm. It's Dick Blythe.
"Captain, I've got the press representatives all together now. They're waiting for you in the hangar office. But a few photographers didn't get a picture when you landed. They want you to stand in front of the plane again and give them another chance."
"Good Lord, haven't they got enough photographs?" I ask. "I want to get down to business."
"I know," Blythe replies, "but they say it will only take five minutes, and that they won't ask for any more. They didn't think your ship was so fast -- that's why they're late. They probably stopped to get a drink along the road. I think you ought to do it," he argues pleasantly. "It will keep them in good humor, and if you don't, some of them may lose their jobs. New York editors are pretty tough."
I stand in front of the Spirit of St. Louis again, feeling awkward and foolish, with dozens of people staring at me and girls giggling, while the pictures are being taken. Instead of "a few" photographers who arrived late for my landing, there are more than before.
Pictures over at last, I find the reporters waiting in a large office at the side of one of the hangars. There must be twenty or thirty of them, standing, leaning, draped on desks and chairs—all looking at me intently. In between them are scattered more photographers, with flash bulbs attached to their cameras. The questioning starts at once.
"When are you going to take off for Paris?"
"My engine needs servicing, and I'm having new compasses installed," I answer. "After that's done, I'll take off as soon as the weather clears up enough."
"Do you think you'll take off in the morning?"
"No, I don't know yet when I'll start. It may be several days. I won't leave until everything is right."
"What kind of navigation are you going to use?"
"Dead reckoning."
"You're not carrying a sextant?"
"No."
"How about a radio?"
"I'm not carrying one."
"Why not?"
"They're heavy, and they're not very well developed," I explain. "The best information I can get indicates that they cut out when you need them most."
"Well, Byrd and Chamberlin are going to carry radios, and sextants too."
"I looked into it rather carefully, and decided I’d rather have extra gasoline."
"What are you going to do about that State Department warning?" a reporter asks.
"I'll follow whatever requests the government makes," I answer.
Questions about my plane and flights are covered quickly. Then subjects are raised which I feel are too personal or too silly to discuss.
"Do you carry a rabbit's foot?"
"What's your favorite pie?"
"Have you got a sweetheart?"
"How do you feel about girls?"
After the interview, a reporter from one of the tabloids tells me that his editor wants to purchase the exclusive story my flight, and that it's worth several thousand. dollars! That's a huge amount of money for a little writing. Here's chance to build up our cash reserve. I reply that I'll think the proposition over, and suggest that we talk about it more tomorrow. If there's going to be an exclusive story, my partner, E. Lansing Ray, should have first right to it for his Globe-Democrat; but we could sell the rights outside of St. Louis to someone else. I'll phone Bixby and Knight and ask for their advice.