The Spirit of ST Louis (25 page)

THE SIXTH HOUR

Over Nova Scotia

TIME - 12:52 P.M.

Wind Velocity 30 m.p.h Visibility Unlimited

Wind Direction WNW Altitude 700 feet

True Course 60° Air Speed 101 m.p.h.

Variation 22° W Tachometer 1700 r.p.m.

Magnetic Course 82° Oil Temp. 42°C

Deviation 0° Oil Pressure 57 lbs.

Compass Course 82° Fuel pressure 3.5 lbs.

Drift Angle 10° R Mixture 1.5

Compass heading 72° Fuel tank Nose

Ceiling Unlimited

The wind is rising. I'm already crabbing fifteen degrees into its drift. Hills ahead roll up to a mountain range. I open the throttle fifty revolutions, and begin climbing. The Spirit of St. Louis gains altitude easily, considering its heavy load.

My course takes me over a saddle in the range. Wings flex in moderate turbulence as I pass between summits. Then, ground drops steeply on the eastern side, to another land of hills, lakes, and forests.

I wonder if my plane has been reported over Nova Scotia. That little village of wooden houses back on the coast, half a mile west of my landfall -- a plane would be no ordinary sight to people living there. Maybe their local newspaper carried an article about the New York-to-Paris flight. Some of them must have heard my engine overhead and looked up to silver wings against the sky. Did anyone think to send a message back over wires to the United States, saying a plane had reached the shores of Nova Scotia?

One o'clock; it's lunch time in New York. It's lunch time in St. Louis, too, though there's an hour's difference by the sun; people eat earlier in the Mississippi Valley. My friends are probably sitting at their midday meal, speculating about where I am at this moment. What a contrast between my cockpit, high over Nova Scotian wilds, and the silvered settings of a city table! What amazing magic is carried in an airplane's wings—New York at breakfast; Nova Scotia at lunch. There hasn't been time enough between to prepare my mind and body for the difference. How can breakfast-tolunch in time equal New York-to-Nova Scotia in distance? Flying has torn apart the relationship of space and time; it uses our old clock but with new yardsticks. If I'd watched fresh-sown wheat spring to a harvest since the dawn, it would hardly be stranger than this experience.

Lunch time! I drop my hand to the bag of sandwiches, but I'm not hungry. Why eat simply because it's lunch time? A drink of water will be enough. Mustn't take too much, though -- can't afford to waste water -- suppose I'm forced down at sea!

In hanging up the canteen, I let my map slide toward the window. One corner flutters in a puff of air. I jerk it away with a start. Suppose my chart blows out, as my data board blew out of the cockpit on that test flight in California? My key to Paris would be gone; I'd have to turn back and start again -- turn back for lack of a sheet of paper. "On course, plenty of fuel, all readings normal; but the chart blew out the window." What an explanation that would make! No, the chart must never get close to a window.

But why not put the windows in? Why didn't I put them in before? Why have I wasted their streamlining value for these five hours of flight? They're in their rack, an arm's reach behind me. I carried them because they were worth more than their weight in fuel. They're included in the performance curves as extra gallons of gasoline would have been included. They'll smooth out the flow of air along the fuselage. Smoother flow means less resistance; less resistance means more speed; and more speed will result in additional miles of range.

I open the cockpit ventilator and start to slip the left window into place, when I realize that a new factor has to be considered, one of those factors engineers can't measure with their curves yet one on which all performances must rest -- the condition of the pilot. Windows would cut down the flow of air through my cockpit. They'd form a barrier between me and elements outside my plane. They'd interfere with the crystal clarity of communion with water, land, and sky. They'd insulate me from a strength I'll need before my flight is done, and which, for some reason, cannot penetrate their thin transparency.

No, I'll leave the windows in their rack, waste the miles of range they offer. I'll sacrifice their efficiency to mine. It's a new experience. Always before, I've had a reserve of energy and skill on which my plane could draw, as during an overloaded take-off, or to compensate for instability or lack of forward vision in fuselage design. Now, for the first time, I'm taking a favor from my plane. It makes the Spirit of St. Louis seem more a living partner in adventure than a machine of cloth and steel.

Below, spreading across a narrow dirt road and a winding creek, is the largest Nova Scotian farm I've seen. It's eastern pasture is almost level, with only scattered rocks and stumps. As I look at it, my mind divides into two personalities who argue back and forth:

"It was a mistake not to put dump valves in the tanks. Now if you could dump 300 gallons of fuel, you could probably stall-in there with nothing worse than a blown tire and a bent propeller. You might get down with no damage at all."

"Yes, but we considered all that at the factory while the plane was being built. You know how much time we spent studying the problem. Dump valves might have leaked. No one was quite certain how to make them. And there'd be all the extra mechanism to go wrong. Suppose one of them opened halfway across the ocean. Suppose seepage filled the cockpit with fumes of gasoline. Besides, dump valves would have meant more weight and more resistance. You remember we decided to sacrifice everything to take-off and range -- those were the danger points of the flight."

"But the rubber boat, and the red flares, and the emergency rations, and the extra gallon of water -- we didn't sacrifice them. They're all here in the fuselage right now – thirty pounds of them. That's worth more than a half hour's flight when the tanks are low."

The sky has been filling slowly: first, a few stray cumulus clouds, blinding in the sunlight; then flocks of them, with a higher layer drifting in above until now there's less blue than white and gray. A solid mass blocks out the north -- tremendous, dark, and foreboding. Angular streaks of gray break the horizon ahead into segments -- rain squalls. I hope that doesn't mean an area of storm over the rest of Nova Scotia and Newfoundland.

The Spirit of St. Louis is already bumping. Lakes and ponds down below are wave-roughed and lined with wind streaks. White beaches of foam have formed against islands and leeward shores. It takes a gale to whip up water like that -- forty or fifty miles an hour.

For the last quarter hour, the wind has been blowing directly across my route, mounting constantly in velocity. I should be crabbing toward it at an angle of 25 degrees to compensate for drift. But that would leave my plane pointing into the great black body of the storm. I won't change my heading for the time being. I'll let wind drift me where it will. If the storm area is large, and the wind continues strong northwest, it will take me to the coast where ceilings should be higher, or blind flying safer. If the storm is small, the wind may shift again in a few more miles and blow me back on course. Winds which arise suddenly on the edge of storms often change just as suddenly and blow in another direction.

For five hours, the danger of turbulence has hardly entered my mind. I left it behind with the last gentle bumps over New England. It was crowded out by the warm sunlight, the majesty of the ocean, and the smooth, gliding flight above the waves. The slight trembling I felt over the Nova Scotian coast, and crossing the mountain range, was pleasant rather than alarming. But now, as I approach these storm clouds, air is really getting rough. Wing tips flex with rapid, jerking movements, and the cockpit bumps up, down, and sideways. I buckle my safety belt. Of course the Spirit of St. Louis is some 500 pounds lighter than on take-off; but with a ton of fuel left on board, its structure is still dangerously overloaded. A violent gust might easily snap a spar or fitting. I throttle the engine to 1625 r.p.m., and let air speed drop to 90 miles an hour.

The wings were never designed for such a wrenching! I feel as though the storm were gathering my plane in its teeth as a dog picks up a rabbit. If only I had a parachute! But there's no use wishing for things I don't have. A few minutes ago I wanted dump valves; now it's a parachute. After all, I can't carry everything.

I considered carrying a parachute, but decided against it. A parachute would have cost twenty pounds—a third of an hour's fuel—enough food and water for many days adrift. And it would be useless over the ocean. Without a rubber boat, no one could live long in icy northern waters. It would be better to stay with the plane, even if it crashed.

Over Long Island and New England, I flew too low to use a parachute. By the time I get to Europe, the wings will be so lightly loaded that I won't have to worry about turbulence of air. And the Spirit of St. Louis will be able to land so slowly that I could stall it down almost anywhere and walk away. No, the only portion of the route where I might need a parachute is right here in Nova Scotia, and possibly for an hour or two over Newfoundland. Even here, it would take quick work to get out of my cockpit from an altitude of 1500 feet if a wing gave way.

I'm not much higher than Lieutenant Smith was when he lost a wing looping his National Guard Jenny. He never did get clear of his plane. As the highest ranking officer on the field when the accident happened, I'd taken charge of the wreckage. I found Smith's parachute strung out on the ground beside the fuselage when I reached his broken body. His foot, shoe leather torn in struggle, had apparently caught between the cockpit's rim and an angular fuselage-to-centersection wire. He must have pulled the rip cord just before he hit, in the desperate hope that the 'chute would billow out and jerk him free.

Smith's observer had gotten clear of his cockpit. He must have been 800 feet high when I saw his figure sail out through the air. But there was no sign of a parachute's white canopy. I'd stood glued to the ground as I watched wing, plane, and man -- fabric fluttering, and wires screaming toward the earth -- all in a single vista of the eye. An extra kick -- a ten-pound pull -- would save a life. If only my hand could have traveled with my vision!

The observer hit first -- in a cornfield. His body bounced six feet back into the air. Then plane and body struck together, leaving only the wing and bits of lighter structure in the sky. We never knew what happened to the observer. Some thought he was dazed by fear and couldn't locate the pull-ring, for he was a young and inexperienced airman. It was one of his first flights. But I've found senses more acute when falling down through space. If he'd been dazed, he couldn't have jumped so quickly I think his head hit some part of the plane's structure, and that he was unconscious during the seconds that passed before his death.

Parachutes hadn't done those flyers any good, even with open cockpits to jump from. The Spirit of St. Louis would fall faster than that Jenny, with a wing off, and it would take extra seconds to squeeze out edgewise past a door. Besides, I'll soon have to drop lower to stay underneath the clouds. Everything considered, I was right when I decided not to bring a 'chute along – – – and yet, I'd feel better if I had one.

Logic's not enough to calm my senses. They know what it's like to feel fittings snap in air—the physical jolt—the mental shock—the tautening of brain and muscle. A wing on my plane once crumpled; but then I had a parachute. It was during a combat maneuver in Texas, not far from Kelly Field. Our pursuit squadron of SE-5s had located the "enemy" and nosed down to attack. Lieutenant Blackburn, our instructor, was in command. We had three units of three planes each. I was flying left wing in the top unit, with Cadet Love leading and Lieutenant McAllister on my right.

Our "enemy," a De Haviland observation plane, was cruising below us, some 5000 feet above the ground and over a layer of broken clouds. It was piloted by Lieutenant Maughan of "Dawn-to-Dusk Flight" fame. We pursuit pilots reached a pretty high speed in our dive. After Love pulled up, McAllister and I closed in to confirm the "kill." Then we pulled up too. I'd kicked left rudder, as I hauled back on the stick, into what I thought was empty sky.

Then it happened. I heard the snap of parting metal and the jerking crunch of wood, as my forehead bumped the cockpit's cowling and my plane cartwheeled through the air. I yanked the throttle shut as muscles tensed body back in place. There, canted sidewise, less than a dozen feet away, was the fuselage of another SE-5. Our wings were ripped and locked together.

For an instant, after that first crashing bump, both planes seemed to hang motionless in space. I saw McAllister reach for his safety belt and half rise in his seat. Then we began to rotate in the air. A trailing edge of the broken top, wing folded back over my cockpit and vibrated against my helmet, shaking sight from my eyes and thought from my brain -- except for the imperative idea of clearing the wreckage with my parachute.

By that time I had the rubber safety band removed and my belt unbuckled. Wires were howling; wooden members snapping; my cockpit had tipped toward the vertical. Our planes were revolving like a windmill. I pushed past the damaged wing, hooked my heels on the cowling, and kicked backward into space.

How safe the rushing air had seemed when I cleared those planes—like a feather bolster supporting me. I fell flat, face upward, for a time. My hand was on the rip cord but I didn't dare pull it, for the planes were right above me, spinning, and spewing out a trail of fragments to the sky. McAllister was nowhere in sight. Either he was caught in the wreckage or he'd cleared it sooner and was falling below me.

Then my feet had angled upward, and I'd turned sidewise, and flattened out again, face down. I remember twisting my head around to look at the planes. They were more than a hundred feet to one side, and gradually sliding farther away. I hit a cloud; sank into it; pulled the rip cord.

My parachute had no more than flowered out when I was below the cloud layer. The wrecked planes plummeted past me, and McAllister's 'chute came swinging down out of the mist above.

McAllister and I were close to 2000 feet high when our SE-5s, still locked together, hit the ground and burst into flames. Fighters from the other two pursuit units were diving and zooming all round us. They'd broken formation the moment they saw us collide, and followed us down through air. I'd been watching the disintegrating wreckage so intently that my eyes were blinded to other objects in the sky. Now I had time to look around, I realized that every cadet and instructor within sight was either there or headed toward us. Every few seconds, a pair of wings saluted by—too close for comfort.

We were over an area of mesquite and cactus, but angling with the wind toward a plowed field which was ideal for parachute landings. Being lower than McAllister, I had to slip my 'chute a little to reach it. I wasn't able to keep standing after my feet touched the ground; but my landing was soft —across a shallow, furrowed ditch.

I lost a vest-pocket camera and my goggles on that descent. And I'd forgotten to hold onto my rip cord. You always got razzed for losing the rip cord.

"What! You threw away your rip cord? And you want to be an aviator?"

But such things were too trivial to worry about as I gathered up my parachute. Being alive was what counted. McAllister was trudging toward me. Planes were chandelling around the edges of the field. Several DHs landed on the plowing. Everyone was happy because no one had been killed. Lieutenant Maughan laughed, and claimed two of the "enemy" brought down. Two DHs were sent over from Kelly, rear cockpits empty, to carry us home. Two fresh SE-5s, with parachutes, were placed on the line at our disposal; and in slightly over an hour we were back in air again—members number twelve and thirteen in the Caterpillar Club—that exclusive and unorganized group of flyers whose lives have been saved by the silkworm's product.

Suppose I hadn't had a parachute on that flight! It might easily have been the case - our class was the first to go through Kelly equipped with them.

The first squall isn't a large one. I can see right through its mist of rain. Hills and lakes beyond are only thinly veiled in white, But with each succeeding squall, clouds grow darker, rain is heavier, and lightning flashes down on trees and rocks. Finally, I give up my course and turn eastward, to skirt the edges of the more violent storms. I weave in and out, flying now through a cloudburst, now under a patch of open sky; returning to my heading, and then leaving it again rather than drill through the heart of a storm. Water lashes over the wings, turns the propeller into a whitish disc of vapor, trickles along silver surfaces, eddies behind screw heads and fittings; seeps into my cockpit, splashing over flying suit and charts, moistening my lips, freshening the air I breathe.

Rain beats down against the wind-scraped lakes, until it seems to rebound a foot or two in air and then fall back again. Water glistens up from narrow dirt roads and shines on farmhouse roofs. Smoke is ripping away from the chimney of a backwoods sawmill I skim over. At times I can barely see the outline of the ground. Then I fly still lower, just clearing the top of a hill, !closing down into the valley beyond, watching the seething branches of spruce and pine, holding myself in readiness to turn sharply back if cloud and summit meet ahead. Can the ignition system stand such drenching? I haven't tested the Spirit of St. Louis in a cloudburst. I don't dare check the magnetos now; but not a single cylinder has missed.