The Spirit of ST Louis (49 page)

I fly above, below, between the layers, as though following the interstices of a giant sponge; sometimes under a blue sky but over an ocean veiled by thick and drifting mist; sometimes brushing gray clouds with my wings while my wheels are almost rolling in the breakers' foam. It's like playing leapfrog with the weather. These cloud formations help me to stay awake. They give me something on which to fix my eyes in passing, but don't hold my stare too long. Their tremendous, changing, flashing world removes monotony from flight.

The wind continues to decrease. Angular rays from the sun spread through crevasses in clouds ahead. I climb to 500 feet. That keeps me above most areas of fog, and below most of the heavier cloud layers. Now and then I have to fly blind for a few minutes,. but never for long.

A cloud arches above me, like a great bridge. If I pulled back on the slick, I could almost loop around it. That would help to keep awake. But looping bridges isn't part of a transatlantic flight --

"Come on folks, take an airplane ride with Captain Frank Dunn, the only man in the world who's ever looped-the-loop completely around a bridge over a navigable river! See your farm from the air! Tell the gals what it's like to fly! Only five dollars for a flight over town! Sure, take her up with ya. Who's next in line? Hi there! Stay away from that propeller!"

Captain Frank Dunn hasn't looped around any kind of a bridge, river below it navigable or not; he's a steady, cautious flyer. But it's a good line for the circus barker --extra mouthfuls of words -- prestige for the pilot, bait for the crowd.

It's a summer week end, in 1925. Frank Dunn, Bud Gurney, and I have brought three planes to this pasture near St. Charles, Missouri. Bud learned to fly last year. He overhauled an engine to pay for his instruction, scraping in the bearings with a pocket knife. Now, he's one of the best pilots at Lambert Field. Our flying circus has been ballyhooed by press and handbills for a week. Business has been good all afternoon. Not a spark plug has fouled; not a tail skid has snapped. It's been a pleasant afternoon too -- light wind, smooth air, and a field large enough to make each take-off and landing routine rather than adventure.

In order to attract passengers out to our rented pasture, we've advertised wing-walking and acrobatics. Now, the crowd is restless, demanding the show we promised. That means turning down good profits, but sunset's not far away.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The barker's voice shrills through my idling exhaust. "Captain Lindbergh will now take the air for an exhibition of death-defying acrobatics. He flies upside down and rightside up! There's no stunt he will not do! Keep your eyes in the sky! Don't miss it! There he goes!"

I push the throttle open, zoom off the ground, climb, loop, spiral, and spin. I blow leaves off treetops with my slipstream, chandelle around the field, and land.

Now it's Dunn's turn. His engine has more power, so he's carrying the wing-walker. We pilots are concerned about the wing-walker. None of us has seen him perform, and he's to do a break-away. He says he's done them before; but he shows a slight uncertainty, a lack of sure technique that makes us wonder. I switch off my engine and walk over to his plane to make sure that his ladder is properly attached to the landing gear, that his harness strap is strong enough, that he understands the vital need of snapping on before he "breaks."

It's only a few weeks ago that R--- lost his performer in a breakaway over a suburb of St. Louis. That man said he had experience, too; but he slipped off the wing with a slack ladder and a weak snap on his safety cable. The snap broke and his muscles gave way. He plunged down to his death.

I find the ladder's knots well tied. It's stretched taut along the wing. The performer's harness is ruggedly built. Its fittings are oversize. Yes, he knows about snapping on. "No need to worry," he says. There's nothing more I can do. I go back to my Standard. But no passenger steps forward. Every man and woman wants to see the show.

Captain Dunn takes off, banks, points back toward the crowd. A figure moves slowly from the fuselage, over the wing, to the outer-bay strut, waves as the plane passes overhead, climbs up to the cabane, crawls down onto the landing gear as the pilot circles. So far, so good. Now for the breakaway.

The Standard noses up to five hundred feet. The performer is sitting at the wing tip. He's a thousand yards away --five hundred -- two hundred -- one hundred – fifty -- He falls off, swings in an arc beneath the plane, angles tailward with the force of air. That finishes our performance. Now, we can try to get a few more passengers before dark -- But what's wrong? The performer dangles at the ladder's end. He should be halfway up. The plane turns back toward us. Was he injured in the jump? But the swing was smooth --there appeared to be no jerk.

Bud Gurney comes running up. "Dunn's only got twenty minutes of gas left in the tank."

"Can you cut him loose?" I ask. Bud's an expert wing-walker.

"I can if you put him in the cockpit."

"Got a knife?"

"A pocket knife; but it's sharp."

"Pull the prop, then."

I open the throttle while Bud is climbing into my plane. No need to worry about him -- clear head -- steady nerves -- agile as a monkey.

We're off the ground, banking, climbing. It's not going to be an easy job with my OX-5 Standard -- no extra power for control; and I'll have to fit the front cockpit around the performer, and hold it there while Bud cuts through both ropes of the ladder with his knife.

But we're too late. Captain Dunn is gliding down to land. He's headed toward a cornfield next to our pasture. I drop my wing to get a better view. The performer hangs limply in air -- no sign of life -- He's cleared the trees -- he's cleared the fence -- His body drags through tassels -- through stalks -- strikes the earth -- plows a furrow along the ground -- The plane stalls down ahead of him -- bounces -- ground-loops -- stops with dead propeller -- The pilot jumps out -- runs back -- helps the performer to his knees -- to his feet --

Bud and I circle twice, and fly back and land on the pasture. Most of the crowd have rushed off to the cornfield. The sun is below the horizon. No more passengers will ride tonight.

It's nearly two hours before pilot and performer return, riding together in the back of an open car. Captain Dunn laughs as he steps out. "We took him to the hospital, just to make sure no bones were broken. The doctors say there's nothing wrong. He'll be a little stiff for a few days, that's all."

The performer limps out, smiling sheepishly. Purple bruises ring his eyes -- "from the cornstalks."

"The ladder twisted around 'till he couldn't climb up," Dunn explains. "Ropes were too new, I guess. And" (a low-voiced aside to us) "I think he was badly scared, too. I could see him hangin' down there, lookin' up at me with his big eyes wide open. God, it was an awful feeling! Nothin' I could do to help him. Pretty short of fuel, too -- thought I better land before I had a dead stick. Thought it would be softer for him in that cornfield -- wouldn't drag him as far as on the pasture. I was afraid the tail skid would come down on top of him -- but it didn't. How's my plane? Corn do much damage?" Dunn had rushed off to the hospital without even glancing at his ship.

"A few tears in the wing," I tell him. "We'll give you a hand patching 'em up in the morning."

"Say, how much did I clear that fence by? I wanted to be sure I didn't snag him on a wire."

"You had lots of room -- twenty feet at least."

"Let's tie down for the night."

"Tie down for the night!" How lightly we said it at the end of a flying circus day. There was always a townsman's car to carry us to a hotel, always a warm supper, always a clean bed. And sleep was as certain as the sunset.

Sunlight flashes as I emerge from a cloud. My eyes are drawn to the north. My dreams are startled away. There, under my left wing, only five or six miles distant, a coastline parallels my course -- purple, haze-covered hills; clumps of trees; rocky cliffs. Small, wooded islands guard the shore.

But I'm in mid-Atlantic, nearly a thousand miles from land! Half-formed thoughts rush through my mind. Are the compasses completely wrong? Am I hopelessly lost? Is it the coast of Labrador or Greenland that I see? Have I been flying north instead of east?

It's like waking from a sound sleep in strange surroundings, in a room where you've never spent a night before. The wallpaper, the bed, the furniture, the light coming in the window, nothing is as you expected it tp be.

I shake my head and look again. There can be no doubt, now, that I'm awake. But the shore line is still there. Land in mid-Atlantic! Something has gone wrong! I couldn't have been flying north, regardless of the inaccuracy of my compasses. The sun and the moon both rose on my left, and stars confirmed that my general direction was toward Europe. I know there's no land out here in mid-ocean -- nothing between Greenland and Iceland to the north, and the Azores to the south. But I look down at the chart for reassurance; for my mind is no longer certain of its knowledge. To find new islands marked on it would hardly be stranger than the flight itself.

No, they must be mirages, fog islands sprung up along my route; here for an hour only to disappear, mushrooms of the sea. But so apparently real, so cruelly deceptive! Real clouds cover their higher hills, and pour down into their ravines. How can those bluffs and forests consist of nothing but fog? No islands of the earth could be more perfect.

Did a wind of hurricane velocity blow me on toward Europe through the night? Have I been threading a tornado's corridors? That may be the coast of Ireland I'm passing. It would take less than five minutes to fly over and make sure. It can't be just fog—the pointed tops of spruce trees rise above the common mass; I can almost see their branches spreading out. How can it be all fog, when there are wisps of fog along the coast, when I can tell the difference between the fog and land? If it's not Ireland, it must be the shore line of some Atlantis.

I bank northward; then, before the Spirit of St. Louis turns ten degrees, I straighten out again. It's nonsense, pure nonsense, to be lured off course by fog islands in the middle of an ocean flight. I'll not allow myself such indulgence. I'll waste no time and gasoline on fanciful excursions which can only end in disillusionment and additional fatigue.

But if those islands aren't real land, if they are not of earth's substance, how can I distinguish land from air? How will I recognize Europe when I reach it? I see surf on the beaches and trees in the forests, yet my reason tells me that it all is fog!

An island lies across my route ahead, wooded and hilly. Now, curiosity can be satisfied without cost to conscience. As I fly toward it, my eyes almost convince my mind that it is land. Then, like the desert mirage that turns to burning sand, shades of gray and white and purple disappear. Boulders are only shadows next to sunlight. Trees and rolling hills become crevasses in the fog. Beaches are but wisps of mist; and the surf, a line of whitecaps on the sea.

Clouds break and lift as the angle of the sun increases. The horizon is now sharp and bright. I must get down to business. Navigation can't be neglected longer. If I keep putting if off for fifteen minutes at a time, the entire day will pass. Each apathetic hour adds hazard to my flight, becomes a blot on my record as a pilot, a depressant to morale. I feel shame at my lack of resolution, like dull internal pain. How disgusted

be with myself, after I'm rested and alert again. I've smiled at men who succeed only in the luxury of normal life. I've believed that fatigue and hardship are the real tests of character; and now, confronted by them, I'm failing. My body and my mind are dreaming; I'm flying as a somnambulist might walk, conscious of surrounding danger, yet unable to attain a woken state. I'm capable only of holding my plane aloft, and laxly pointed toward a heading I set some hours ago. No extra energy remains. I'm as strengthless as the vapor limbs of the spirits to whom I listen.

In San Diego, I'd planned on taking drift sights at dawn, and every hour through the day. Behind me in the fuselage, the drift-indicator is lying in its rack. The movement of an arm could slip it into the brackets on my window. I'd only have to line up its parallel hairs with the foam's apparent path. Then I could read off my exact angle of drift, and offset it on the compass. So simple. So impossible. Why did I ever think I could fly the Spirit of St. Louis straight while I lean out over the eyepiece of a drift-indicator? Why didn't I foresee the fatigue of morning after twenty-odd hours of flight? I could have traded the instrument's weight for another half gallon of fuel.

The sun is out half the time now. Its rays beat down through the top window. My flying suit is uncomfortably hot.

THE TWENTY-FOURTH HOUR
Over the Atlantic

HOURS OF FUEL CONSUMED
NOSE TANK
¼ + 1-1-1-1-1 1-1

LEFT WING CENTER WING RIGHT WING

¼ + 11 ¼ + 1 ¼ + 11

FUSELAGE

The twenty-third hour is almost past. But I won't bother keeping the log any more. Its sequence has been broken, and the effort of filling in its columns is out of all proportion to any future value. The fuel valves can stay where they are, too -- no need of shifting them each hour. I pencil one more score on the instrument board, for fuel, and go on struggling vaguely with my navigating problems.

Twenty-three hundred miles from New York. Thirteen hundred miles to Paris. I look down at the chart -- then it's only 700 miles to Ireland -- probably less than that -- probably not over 600 with the tail wind that's been blowing. That 5 degrees I allowed for St. John's ought to have brought me north to my route by now. I reach down and remove it from my earth-inductor heading. And I should add 3 degrees for course change, too. But how about all the other factors? I must work with more precision.

Let's see, I'm making a little over 90 miles an hour on the indicator. Suppose the wind has added another 30 miles to my speed. Then for every hour I've flown since leaving Newfoundland I could add 20 miles to my estimated even 100. I'd be a long way ahead of the marks on the chart. I left Newfoundland -- when did I leave Newfoundland? I seem no longer able to deal with figures. St. John's was 11 ¼ hours from New York, and I'm now 23 hours from New York - 11 from 23 is -- twice 11 is 22 -- then 11 and 12 make 23 -- Twenty-three -- what do I want with twenty-three? What was I going to use it for? I'll have to start again -- in a minute or two -- after my mind is clearer -- I'll let my mind rest for a minute or two, and start again --

"Lindbergh, you do better in your sleep than most of the other fellows." It's Mr. Livermore, my university advisor, speaking. I'm a student again, in engineering. He shuffles through my practice lettering cards for drawing class. It's true that I've filled them out in midnight hours. "You'll get by on these. But what's the matter with your mathematics?"

"Well, sir, I can get the problems all right, but --"

"Lindbergh, your compositions are good, but why can't you learn to punctuate and spell?" Mr. Brosius, my instructor in freshman English, sits before me. He hands back the last essay I submitted. "I can't let you get by with commas where semicolons ought to be. You'd better put some extra study into the rules of construction --"

Why should one spend the hours of life on formulae, semicolons, and our crazy English spelling? I don't believe God made man to fiddle with pencil marks on paper. He gave him earth and air to feel. And now even wings with which to fly. I'd like to stop taking English, and concentrate on engineering. Then, maybe I could get my average grades up above the danger line. I wish I could take an aeronautical engineering course. I believe I'd be more successful in that. I could work hard to understand the magic in the contours of a wing. But the University of Wisconsin doesn't teach much aeronautics. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology is the best place one could go -- but- I couldn't pass the entrance requirements there.

I have not been a good student. My mind has been the partner of my body rather than its master. For so long, I can sit and concentrate on work, and then, willy-nilly, my body stands up and walks away -- to the shores of Lake Mendota; to the gymnasium swimming pool; to my motorcycle and distant country roads.