The Spirit of ST Louis (5 page)

POLE CONQUEROR PREDICTS
OCEAN CROSSING NEXT YEAR

BRIDGEPORT, CONN., Oct. 28 (AP).—Conquering the Atlantic Ocean by air from New York to London or Paris in a heavier-than-air machine would be accomplished next summer, Lieut. Commander Richard E. Byrd declared here tonight, intimating that he himself would attempt the journey.

The American naval officer, who commanded the first successful expedition to fly to the North Pole, said that he could make no announcement of the exact plans for an expedition which he admitted were being formulated at present.

That's formidable competition. Commander Byrd is a keen and able officer. It's not long ago that I met him here in St. Louis, and heard him speak. He's experienced in organization; and he knows how to get financed. Maybe he can put a bigger wing on his North-Pole Fokker, and carry enough fuel to fly from New York to Paris.

And what about those French pilots who say they are going to win the Orteig prize by flying from east to west? For weeks there have been newspaper rumors to the effect that they were ready to take off. And the other American projects—I've read reports about two or three of them. A lot of people want to be first to make the nonstop New York-Paris flight. It looks as though my idea will end as it began—a dream.

10

"The Post-Dispatch wouldn't think of taking part in such a hazardous flight. To fly across the Atlantic Ocean with one pilot and a single-engine plane! We have our reputation to consider. We couldn't possibly be associated with such a venture!"

Major Robertson and I sit uncomfortably in front of the editor's desk. He hasn't even asked us any questions. The Post-Dispatch is not impressed either with the advertising value of a flight to Paris or with my plan for making it. There's nothing else to say. We get up, shake hands, and leave.

"I'm surprised, Slim. I didn't think they'd feel that way about it. I think they're losing a good bet." Bill's face is as long as though the mail were unreported. "Well, we'll have to try somebody else," he continues. "I juste know there are people who'll get behind that flight. We've got to find them, that's all. Say, I wonder if – – –" His face brightens. He's off on a new idea. You have to admire Bill Robertson. He doesn't stay down for long. No matter how hard he's hit, he bobs back up like a cork in water.

"I’m going to talk to the Wright people before we proposition anybody else," I interject. "I want to know just what the Bellanca can do, and how often Whirlwind engines fail. If I'd had accurate data, I could have put a better argument up to that editor. It's time for me to make a trip east."

11

A student is waiting for me when I get back to the hangars—a Catholic Father, who has become a personal friend. He arrived at Lambert Field one day last summer and announced that he wanted to take flying lessons. It was a great surprise to all of us pilots, for he's close to sixty years of age, and we look with doubt on any prospective student over thirty.

I had taken Father Hussman up in an OX-5 Standard and turned the stick over to him, simply because instructing was my job. His handling of the controls was just as bad as I'd expected. But how he loved to fly! I learned that he didn't care much whether he soloed or not. He wanted to climb up above the earth and look down on its farms and villages, over its horizons, to see the great winding lengths of its rivers, and handle the controls of the plane he was in—wallow, slip, or skid as it might. He couldn't afford to fly often; but every week or two he came out to the field for another hour in the Standard. And he wasn't a fair-weather flyer. If it was windy or raining, he'd still go up with you if you'd take him, as though he wished to know God's earth and air in all their phases.

It's cold, overcast, and blustery this afternoon. We have a hard time getting the OX-5 started, even with five gallons of hot water in the radiator. Ground is soft after the morning's thaw. Water oozes slowly into tire tracks. It's not a day for student landings and take-offs. I suggest that we do an hour's air work, and the Father happily agrees. The wind's northwest, blowing kitty-corner downfield from the hangars. I take off with it on our tail to keep from rutting the sod any more than necessary. Besides, the engine's not revving up too well, and I don't like the downdrafts on the higher, western border. With an OX-5, one doesn't clear the electric wires by many feet even in the best of weather.

The Father has his hand on the stick, and his feet on the rudder. He's studying my movement of controls; but he's touching them so lightly I can barely feel the pressure he exerts. No need to worry about him "freezing." We clear the ditch by, a man's height, and start climbing the cornfield slope beyond. I lift both hands above my head as a signal to the Father to take complete command. It's time for him to learn what rough air is like. He fights stick and rudder while wings rise and drop. I motion a left turn into wind, twist against my belt, look back, and laugh. It usually helps a student if you laugh when flying is hard. The Father smiles back. He's all right. He doesn't need any assurance. He's perfectly content to be bouncing around, and now he's not doing such a bad job. I put my right hand to my cheek to signal that he's skidding slightly, and then let him alone to fly in whatever way he will. He doesn't want to be trained in precision like an ordinary student. I pull on my goggles, button my jacket around my throat, and sink down into my cockpit. The next hour is his. – – –

How
am
I going to contact the Wright Corporation? No friend of mine knows anyone in the organization, even indirectly. It won't make a very good impression if I just arrive at the reception desk and say I want to talk to one of the officers. There are probably dozens of people asking for interviews each day—salesmen, job hunters, and promoters. "What is your business?" the girl at the desk would ask. And how she'd look at me if I told her that I wanted to fly the Wright-Bellanca from New York to Paris! She'd class me as another "aviation bug," and sit me down with half a dozen others in the waiting room. I'd receive scant courtesy—if I got an interview at all.

I've got to remember that New York isn't St. Louis. Here in St. Louis I'm well known in aviation circles. I can get a good reference from anyone connected with Lambert Field. But I'm unheard of in New York and at Paterson, New Jersey, where the Wright Aeronautical Corporation has its plant.

(I motion the nose down. We're still quite a way from stalling, but if the Father ever does solo, he's got to be more careful.)

I can write a letter to the Wright Corporation in dignified business language, mentioning our St. Louis group, our interest in the Paris flight, and our wish to discuss purchasing the Bellanca. I can say, casually, that I plan to be in New York in the near future, and that I will phone for an appointment. That's a better procedure. It would probably get me by the girl at the desk.

But the Corporation might be cautious and write back for more definite information, for banking references, and for the names of my partners in the enterprise. That would be the worst thing that could happen. I could only say that three responsible men in St. Louis are interested in my plan for a flight to Paris, and have more or less committed themselves to take some part provided I can get together a large enough group to finance the project adequately. Such a statement wouldn't make a very good impression.

I might not get any reply to my letter. That happened once, when I applied for a pilot's job. I spent hours framing and refraining my paragraphs. But weeks passed and an answer never came. Big companies receive hundreds of letters a day. I've got to get the Wright Corporation really interested in my project before I arrive; and it's going to take more than a letter to do that.

(The stick is shaking. I look back at the Father. He slants his hand downward behind the windshield, and raises his eyebrows. He wants to dive. Oh yes, we're above the Catholic school. He has friends down there. I nod. He'll enjoy it, and his dive won't be much more than a steep glide. He won't clip any branches with our wings. We bank, skid a little, and nose down. I signal to ease the throttle back. Black-gowned figures run outdoors, spread over the lawn and gravel driveway, look up, and wave. We're fully two hundred feet high when we level off and start to climb again. Now the Father heads west, toward the Missouri.)

I might telegraph the Wright Corporation. A telegram carries an impression of importance and urgency. But I'd like to do something more out of the ordinary. Why not telephone the Wright Corporation all the way from St. Louis? It would probably cost at least five dollars, but a long-distance call would carry a prestige which no letter or telegram, signed by an unknown pilot, could possibly have. Besides, like whistling in the dark, it would add to my own confidence. There's so much unreality about this dream of a nonstop flight to Paris that a little whistling may help. I'll tell them that I'm coming to Paterson to discuss buying the Bellanca for the New York-to-Paris flight. A long-distance

phone call and a two-thousand-mile train trip ought to impress them enough for a starter.

(Now, we must head back toward the field. The Father's hour is almost up, and it's my turn to fly the mail tonight.)

12

It looks as though I'll have to entrain the mail. Yes, trees ahead disappear in fog and twilight. I open the throttle and bank sharply right, away from the Illinois River. Peoria is only a ten-minute flight away, but there's not a chance to get there. I take up a compass course back toward Springfield. The ceiling south is lowering too, with the night, and it's getting hazy. I let the propeller turn a hundred revolutions fast—better to save every minute of twilight. If I miss the cow pasture at Springfield, a forced landing under a parachute flare will be hazardous in reflecting haze and on frost-softened ground. Oblong lights appear, here and there, beneath me as farmhouse doors fling open at the roar of my engine. I pull up to 500 feet. The radius of lights contracts. The ground fades. I nose down to 400 feet. A wisp of cloud burrows in below me. I drop down to a hundred feet above the treetops.

In the distance, on my left, the cloud layer glows dimly. That's Springfield. One of these roads I'm angling across leads to the mail pasture. It's too dark to tell exactly where I am. I press the button on my stick which turns on the compass light—about 185 degrees. That's approximately the right heading. The card is swinging too much to read accurately. I release the button and look down. The compass light, too faint to be seen by day, has blinded my eyes to dimmer details of the night.

A bright light appears between my right wings. I bank toward it. Yes, it's the "beacon" that boy put up and wrote to us about.

"Your mail planes fly over my house every day," he'd said in his letter, "so I have fixed up an electric light in our yard. Maybe it will help you when the weather is bad this winter. I will keep it lit every night."

We'd circled overhead once or twice to thank him. Now, his hundred-watt beacon is of real value. I shift course five degrees and watch for the straight row of lanterns that will mark our mail field. We have no electric lights there. There's no power line nearby. But we've arranged with the mail-truck driver to hang a half dozen lanterns on fence posts along the southern border.

Four lanterns are still burning when I find the pasture. Fortunately the wind's north—or at least it was at dusk. I leave the lanterns a quarter mile to my left, let them angle back sixty degrees toward my tail, bank around steeply, and pull back to half throttle – – – hold a hundred feet – – –quarter throttle – – – stick back a little – – – down to fifty feet – – – up slightly on power – – – stay right of the telephone poles along the western edge – – –keep left of the gulley that cuts through from the east. South and north there's nothing but the fence lines. Night's black brush has swept over posts and poles, trees and earth, leaving no contrast between them to help a pilot's eye—only four dim points of light, a yard above the ground, and several farmhouse windows for horizon.

Too high—close throttle—left rudder—right stick—slip-straighten – – – remember, the size of Springfield's pasture is less than forty acres – – – A burst of engine – – –ten feet above a lantern – – – blackness – – – keep the tail up – – – ready with the throttle – – – Bump—let her bounce once—stick forward—back – – – a little power – – –good—almost three-point that time – – – let her roll – – –how near is the fence? – – – a slow ground loop – – – taxi back toward the lanterns.

There's nobody on the field, of course, and not a car on the dirt road alongside. I pull up close to the fence corner, swing into wind, cut switches, turn off the fuel valve, unsnap the belt, and climb out of my cockpit. The ground is starting to freeze—a sharp ridge dents the sole of my sheepskin moccasin. We've had a telephone installed on one of the poles—a party line. I wait until the receiver is clear of voices, and put in a call for the post office.

"This is the flying field—Pilot Lindbergh. I've got to entrain the mail. Peoria's closed in."

"We'll send a truck out. Is there anything else you need?" "That's all, thanks, but could you notify St. Louis?" "We'll get a wire right off."

The Springfield post office knows its business.

I walk out along the fence line, gather up the lanterns, and station them around my plane. From the looks of the weather, it's not likely that I can take off before sunrise. If I drain the engine and tie my DH to the fence, I can ride to town on the mail truck and get a night's sleep. But then it would take two men, at least, to start up tomorrow morning, even if I pour boiling water into the radiator. Once a Liberty cools off, it's a devil's job to get it running again. And you can't ask help from just anybody who comes along—it takes training to handle either throttle or propeller. I'd probably have to phone for a mechanic to be flown up from Lambert Field. No, I'll stay with the plane, and start the engine every twenty minutes. That will keep it warm. And the ceiling might lift after midnight; then I could get through to Chicago in time to take the southbound mail. But in that case, I'll need more gasoline. There's plenty to keep the engine warm through the night, but not enough, after that, to fly to Chicago. We haven't got extra fuel cached at Springfield. I walk back to the pole box and phone the oil company.

"This is the air-mail pilot at the flying field. I'm down in weather and low on fuel. Can you send a truck out about an hour before daybreak?"

"Sure. How much'll you need?"

"My plane will take about eighty gallons of gasoline, and the driver better bring a five-gallon can of oil."

"You don't want the truck out now?"

"No, I'll probably have to idle the engine all night, and I want to fill the tank just before I take off. If the weather starts to clear, I'll call again."

"Okay. We'll be there about four o'clock."

It feels good to move around after spending so much of the day in office, car, and cockpit. The air is sharp; my flying suit, comfortably warm. I walk out into the pasture's darkness. Why shouldn't I telephone the Wright Corporation tomorrow, from Chicago? I could make an appointment, fly the mail to Lambert Field the next morning, and take the afternoon train east. Or why not take the train right on through from Chicago? It's closer than St. Louis—there'd be both time and money saved. No, I'll have to go back to St. Louis for my clothes. It wouldn't be good technique to present myself at the Wright Corporation's offices in boots, breeches, and a three-day-old shirt. But what do I have to wear after I get back to St. Louis? A captain's uniform is the only good suit I own, and one just doesn't wear an officer's uniform on personal business. My blue serge business suit goes back to college days; besides it's shiny and worn, and never did fit very well. It's good enough for visiting friends in St. Louis, but I want something better than that for a conference with the Wright people. I'll need a felt hat and an overcoat, and I haven't either one. All the successful businessmen I know wear felt hats and overcoats—they give an impression of dignity and influence.

Car lights skim along the road and stop opposite my plane. "Hello there!"

"Hello!" I shout.

"Need any help?" Figures appear in the lantern light.

"No, thanks very much." I hurry back over the fifty yards I've covered.

"Want a ride to town?"

"No, I've got to stay with the plane."

"Engine trouble?"

"Weather."

"Hell, you're not going to stay here all night are you? The weather won't get any better."

"You're the air-mail pilot, aren't ya?" another man breaks in. "You fellers can have your job. I wouldn't fly one of them things for a million dollars."

"I feel just like my dad. He says he just a' soon fly in one of 'em as long as he can keep one foot on the ground. Haw-haw-haw!"

That joke comes out wherever an airplane lands, and the teller always expects you to laugh with him.

"Man, I wouldn't think of going up in one of 'em. I get dizzy looking down from my barn roof. How does it feel to be a aviator? You fellers sure live with your life in your hands."

"My uncle saw a airplane fall once. They was two fellers in it. The passenger, he got killed right off. The pilot wasn't dead, though. He was just all smashed up—bones busted and bleeding all over. They took him to a hospital. I guess he died too, a couple of days later."

"D'ya have a radio set on board?"

"No, mail planes don't carry any radio."

"I never could understand how these things stay up in the air." One of the men pokes a wing with his finger.

"How fast can you make this machine go?"

"It can do about a hundred and twenty miles an hour at full throttle," I reply.

"Jesus Christ! Say, that's two miles a minute. How'd you like to travel two miles a minute, Bill? That would take you from the farm to town in about two minutes, wouldn't it?"

"Hell, it takes longer than that to get started."

"Do you s'pose people'll ever travel around in airplanes like they do in automobiles?"

Lights are coming along the road from the south. It's probably the mail truck. I leave my new friends, and go round and unstrap the hatch to the mail compartment.