The Spirit of ST Louis (34 page)

The compass needle is leaning. I rudder the Spirit of St. Louis back onto course
.

There'd been plenty to do at Lambert Field -- instructing, passenger-carrying, taxi flights, barnstorming trips. I found no trouble getting planes "on shares." New possibilities opened up each day. The Robertson Aircraft Corporation offered me the position of chief pilot if their bid for the St. Louis-Chicago air-mail route were accepted. I barnstormed through Missouri, Illinois, and Iowa, attended two weeks' Reserve training at Richards Field, near Kansas City, where I instructed on military aircraft, and dislocated my shoulder in an emergency 'chute jump over Anglum. August found me carrying passengers in a Curtiss Oriole at the National Guard encampment near Nevada, Missouri. There, I received a letter from the president of The Mil-Hi Airways and Flying Circus, at Denver, Colorado, offering me a flying job at four hundred dollars a month.

I'd always wanted to fly around mountains, and Denver was within gliding distance of the Rockies. That would give me a chance to explore the air currents around canyons, slopes, and ridges. I could study the effect of turbulence, about which aviators knew so little and speculated so much. The mail contract was not yet awarded. As soon as the encampment was over, I flew the Oriole back to St. Louis, and then boarded a train for the West.

On arriving at Humphrey's Field, outside of Denver, I found that The Mil-Hi Airways and Flying Circus consisted of one old Hisso-Standard, with a huge green dragon painted on each side of the fuselage. Closer examination showed it to be the same plane Lynch and I had barnstormed with three years before. Under its added coats of paint, it was "the silver job" that Page had sold to Rogers. Now, I had the role of pilot. The rear cockpit was mine. The inner-bay strut was for someone else's parachute, and the wings for someone else's feet.

Our contracts with fair officials usually called for daytime acrobatics and fireworks at night. What fun those fireworks contracts were. But how close one of them came to causing me a crash!

"Slim, whatever you do, don't get caught in the air after dark." One of the pilots at Lincoln had given me that warning when I was a student looking forward to my solo. "A fellow's crazy to fly at night. You're up there; you've got to land; and you can't see to do it."

Of course when you put on a night fireworks exhibition, you had to fly at night. The first time I tried it, I persuaded a dozen drivers to line their cars up along the edge of the field so I could take off and land across the beams from their headlights. It was more difficult with only one car for a marker on a dark night, but there were several occasions when that was all I could get. The patch of earth a single car illuminates seems awfully small as you glide down toward a strange stubble field or prairie.

Once, I got caught without any lights at all, circling a Colorado town I'd never seen before. That was really serious. We had a contract for night fireworks. But four passengers had come late to ride, at our previous location, and we'd stayed on after our planned departure time. That meant twenty extra dollars for the company. We'd still have gotten through before darkness if the engine hadn't run short of oil en route. It was only a half hour's flight. But I'd cut the margin close on that too, and my estimate was wrong. When the oil pressure gauge started fluctuating, I had to throttle down and land outside the nearest village.

By the time we found a car to take us to town, bought our oil, and got the cans back out, the sun had set. The president of Mil-Hi Airways, Wray Vaughn, was with me on that trip.

"Maybe we'd better tie down here," I'd suggested. "It's pretty hard to pick out a landing strip in dusk."

"We'll lose two hundred and fifty dollars," Vaughn argued. "It's the last night of the fair. I know right where the field is. It will only take us fifteen minutes to get there. There ought to be a little light left. Let's try it."

I was as anxious as he to make that money. I pushed the engine, and we flew low. The western sky was still bright when we reached the town and started circling, but you couldn't see much on the ground. It was essential to land right away. Vaughn was scanning the earth in all directions. After the third circle, I throttled my engine and shouted:

"Where's the field?"

"Right next the golf links," he replied anxiously.

"Well, where are the golf links?" I asked, as I eased on a little power.

"I don't know," he shouted. He said something else, but his words were lost in the engine's roar.

By that time, ditches and fences had merged with

darkness. I'd done just what I'd been warned against as a student. I'd let night catch me in the air. I was up there. I had to land. And I couldn't see what was below. I headed away from the lighted streets, toward more open country. I'd simply have to throttle back, stall down, and cut the switches before I hit. On Colorado plains, there was a chance of not cracking up; but it wasn't very good.

The sky still reflected a little light, enough to show stubble field from pasture vaguely, like a cliff on early dawn. I throttled the engine again.

"Get your belt tight," I shouted. "We've got to land. Brace your arms against the cowling."

Vaughn nods, doesn't speak, follows my instructions calmly.

There's a big, dark area -- probably a stubble field. There's a roundish patch near the center, not quite as dark -- probably a strawstack. There are several blotches just beyond one end -- probably trees. I bank and take my gliding distance, grateful for those meager scraps of information. Are there prairie dog holes, ditches, cows, or posts in that black area? We won't know until some substance touches our plane -- until we hear a shattering of wood, or feel wheels clatter over ground --

"Well, we had luck that time," I say as we climb down from our cockpits and I dig my heels into the earth to see how soft it is.

"How far from town do you think we are?" Vaughn asks. "Pretty close to five miles," I reply -- not feeling at all sure. ' "There's a car coming. I'll flag him down."

"Okay. I'll be there in a few minutes. I want to walk over the ground."

The field is smooth, and plenty big enough -- I couldn't have picked a better one by day. .I turn back. The lights have stopped. I hurry toward them.

"These men say they'll take us into town," Vaughn calls to me. "Maybe we can still put on the show. Our contract doesn't expire till midnight."

"There's not much wind. The plane'll be all right where it is." I climb into the back seat of the car.

"I'll locate the fireworks," Vaughn says. "You get the boards and hardware. It's not going to be easy—the stores will all be closed."

It's half past nine when we get back to the field, and we didn't stop for supper. We unload fireworks, boards, bail wire, hammer, saw, and nails. Stars are bright. The air is calm. I taxi the plane up close to the fence. Two automobiles turn on their lights to help us work. The owner of another takes me back and forth over the field to make doubly sure there aren't any posts or holes in the area I'll have to use.

It's half past eleven before we get the racks wired into place and the Roman candles fastened on. There are only thirty minutes to go, and I have two thousand feet to climb. All cars have left but one. We make a final check of terminals and lashings, and pause a moment to survey our efforts.

"You know these fireworks are going to be wasted," I say. "Everybody in town will be in bed."

"Our contract says 'midnight'," Vaughn replies firmly. "We've done our best, and we can't afford to lose that money."

"Where do you want me to throw my lights?" the car owner breaks in.

"Angle them down field so they just touch the edge of that strawstack," I say.

The Hispano starts smoothly. I warm it up for two minutes, and swing around for take-off. But what's the matter? Down field there are only two faintly glowing spots, like the eyes of a big animal. They're not pointed at the strawstack. They're moving back toward my plane. The car's battery must be going dead!

"Get him to drive you out so you can throw your flashlight on the strawstack," I call to Vaughn. "I've got to see something when I take off. Try to get another car before I land. If you can't, then flash your light up at me when I fly overhead after the show. Keep on flashing it right at the plane until I'm on the ground."

I taxi out a few feet, wait for Vaughn to reach his station, and open the throttle wide.

"It's 11:40 when I get in the air and bank left in a steady climb. The city's pretty well asleep. More than half its lights are out. I've got to mark the stubble field's position in my mind. I'll be in a real jam, now, if I get lost. Let's see: that line of street lamps points about ten degrees northward. Four times its length projected southwest should about bring me overhead. I edge the throttle farther open. How slowly the Standard gains altitude with those racks tied on its wings!

Now it's 11:50. I'm over the fair grounds, at 1800 feet -- high enough, and there's no more time. The bombs are in a box at my side. I pick one up, pull off the cap, rub the igniter, toss it over the cockpit's rim. One --two – three -- four -- five -- six --green, red, and purple streamers arch out, fall, and fade. That ought to attract attention down below. I toss a second bomb out; pick up a third. There are seven seconds between ignition and explosion. But don't count on more than five. Hang on tight after the fuse starts burning. If you let the bomb slip down into the fuselage, you'd be better off with the devil in hell. There, that's the last one -- it bursts out brilliant red.

Now for the Roman candles. I turn eastward for position, nose down, and close the switch. Trails of flame stream backward, four below each upper wing. Colored sparklers blossom out between them. I pull up into a loop. My plane's brilliance blinds me to the stars, but the city's sprinkling of lights gives me a plane of reference which shows gravity's direction. There's my fiery trail below. I dive through it, loop again, bank over in a spiral. The candles sputter, fade into night. Now the flares ignite. They're so bright that people half a mile away can read a newspaper's printed page. For me, it's like driving a chariot of the sun. I can't even see the instruments in the cockpit. I shade my eyes with one hand and look straight down at the city's lights until the flares burn out.

My eyes adjust slowly to the blackness of the night. I pull the watch from my pocket -- 11:57. We've completed our contract with three full minutes to spare. I ease back on power, find my row of street lamps, angle off at ten degrees. Down in the great dark sea ahead are only a half dozen pricks of light. Well, there'll be no flashes until my engine's heard.

I should be about over the stubble field now. I open my throttle and start to circle. Can that be the signal? There are regular blinks to the south—probably half a mile away. It must be the signal; but I didn't think an electric torch would show so dim. I glide lower. I circle at 500 feet. There's no longer a difference in shade between prairie and stubble. Even the strawstack is lost to human sight. The blinks continue. They're all I've got to land by. They seem as weak as the flame of a match. But we agreed that they would mark the strawstack. I can hold direction by the city and the stars. I straighten out on a southward heading, ease back the throttle, and sink down toward the hard, black bottom of the night. Thank God for the length of Colorado fields – –

Winter found me back in St. Louis, instructing students, test flying, and laying plans for the air-mail route to Chicago. The Robertson Aircraft Corporation had been awarded the contract, and had appointed me chief pilot, in charge of operations. Mail flying was to start with good weather in the spring. There was much to be done during the winter. I'd have to hire two other pilots to help me. There was equipment to be selected. The route had to be surveyed.

For the first time since I'd entered aviation, I had a permanent home. I would be based at Lambert Field for months, possibly for years. I could take part in activities that my nomadic life had prevented in the past. I enlisted in the 110th Observation Squadron of the 35th Division, Missouri National Guard, and became engineering officer for the squadron. Soon afterward I was promoted to the rank of First Lieutenant. I instructed wartime pilots in new techniques of flying, attended armory drill one night each week, gave lectures on navigation, parachutes, aerodynamics, and similar subjects. I attempted to pass on to officers and men as much as I could of what I had learned both from civil experience and from the Army schools at Brooks and Kelly.

My military work became so interesting that I managed to find the hours needed. By cutting down on barnstorming trips, and spending extra time with my flying students on weekdays, I could usually have most of Sunday free to pilot the Hisso-Jennies of the Guard. We'd schedule formation flights over St. Louis, practice acrobatics, and send photographic missions to nearby towns. With Army planes and parachutes, I could try maneuvers that were too dangerous for our civil aircraft. One afternoon, I climbed my Jenny to 14,000 feet, and brought it down in fifty consecutive turns of a power spin.

It was during that winter I met the men who later joined with me in The Spirit of St. Louis organization. Then there was Fonck's crash, and that moonlit night in the mail cockpit when I conceived this flight across the ocean. And those were only a few of the coincidences it took to create the Spirit of St. Louis, flying, at this instant, across the center of Placentia Bay, on the great-circle route to Paris. There were other coincidences that ran through the difficult months of organization and finding a plane. There were all those that joined together to take me into aviation in the first place --