The Spirit of ST Louis (53 page)

And the stars lure a pilot southward with their movement through the heavens, when he follows them, no matter how stubbornly he tries to compensate by change in heading. I'll make an estimate of ten to twenty miles.

The fourth factor, which disturbs me most of all, is the direction and velocity of the wind aloft. I flew over clouds for seven hours, at high altitude, without any indication of the wind whatever. I have reasons to hope that a strong tail or quartering tail wind blew me far along during the night. Possibly it also drifted me many miles southward. Since there's no way of knowing, this too must be treated as an X quantity.

Now, the northward compensations. For the last seven hours I've been lax in changing compass headings. That would leave me somewhat north of the course on my chart, but probably not over five or ten miles. Much more important is the northward error caused by hours of lethargic and inaccurate flying, by the fact that the compass needle leaned so far and so frequently to the left of its lubber line. Sometimes I was two or three degrees off heading, sometimes ten, sometimes close to twenty. All I'm certain of is that the needle usually lay to the left of the center point, as though a stronger mind than mine were deciding its position. How far this carried me off course is as uncertain as the wind drift. But in this case it was definitely to the north. And since an estimate must be made, I'll put it at between 25 and 50 miles.

My equation contains southward errors of 35 to 70 miles, northward errors of 30 to 60 miles, and two X quantities. The most practical approach to a solution seems to lie in assigning probable maximum values to the X quantities—first in one direction and then in the other. That should bracket the extreme positions where my plane might be.

Suppose the wind aloft, during the night and morning, blew constantly from the north at 50 miles an hour. In 7 hours I would have drifted 350 miles southward. Adding 70 miles for thunderhead detours and star-steering errors would make 420 miles. If I allow 50 miles for compass swinging, it brings the total to 470 miles. From this must be subtracted the 25 miles estimated minimum error caused by faulty flying (by the compass needle riding always on the left). That leaves 445 miles. And finally, there's the estimated minimum of 5 miles I angled northward through not changing compass heading. The result gives me a probable maximum southward error of about 440 miles.

I look down at the chart. Four hundred and forty miles would take me off the edge of the strip. If I'm that far south and hold my present heading, I'll strike the coast of Europe where the Bay of Biscay scallops farthest into France -- and after darkness. I'll have to fly over half a thousand more miles of ocean than if I make my landfall on the Irish coast. It will be hard to locate my position even if the moon shines down through a clear sky. If there are clouds, and the earth's so black that I can't recognize some coastal landmark or some foreign city, I'll have to throttle down and keep awake while I wait for another dawn. After that, I may not have enough fuel to reach Paris.

Maybe it would be better to turn twenty degrees northward, even though I strike Ireland well above my route. Then, I'll have a good chance of locating my position before darkness. If I can do that, and if fog doesn't hide the ground, I'll find my way to Paris through the blackest night.

But suppose a south wind blew at 50 miles an hour above the clouds last night. It's possible that the Spirit of St. Louis is north of course: 350-miles for wind, plus 50 miles for letting the compass needle wander, plus 50 miles for swinging (it might have turned me north instead of south), plus 10 miles for not changing my heading on time, makes a total of 460 miles. Subtracting 25 miles for detouring the thunderheads and 10 miles for following the stars (it must have been at least that), leaves 425 miles. If I'm that far north of route, I'll hit the Scottish coast. If I subtract another 20° from my heading, on a mistaken theory that I'm too far south, I may miss the British Isles entirely! That would mean striking the foggy, fjorded coast of Norway in the night.

Suppose an east wind blew at 50 miles an hour, and slowed my ground speed down to 50 miles. That would leave me nearly a thousand miles from Ireland at this moment. Then, a twenty degree change in compass heading would carry me close to Glasgow.

Suppose, which thank God is most probable of all, the wind aloft was both strong and tail. If it blew 50 miles an hour from the west, I'm within 300 miles of Ireland at this moment. Then there's no need to turn northward; even if I'm south of course, I'll strike the French coast before nightfall.

Three conditions argue against turning northward, and only one argues in its favor. Certainly any major change in heading involves a dangerous risk. It seems wisest to fall back on the basic plan of navigation I laid out in San Diego when my mind was fresh and there was more time to think. Sitting at the drafting table, with all my charts spread out, I'd decided that I would compensate only for known and highly probably factors until I estimated my position to be 100 miles east of the meridian cutting the western Irish coast. At that time, if land were still unsighted, I'd subtract thirty degrees from my heading. Then, regardless of how the winds blew or how faulty my navigation had been, I could hardly miss striking somewhere on the western coast of Ireland, or the southern end of England, or the northern coast of France.

I'll estimate that I've averaged 120 miles an hour since I left Newfoundland. That would put me 1560 miles to the eastward of St. John's. Suppose I lost an hour in climbing, detouring, compass swinging, and poor flying. I'd be 420 miles from Ireland. I'll let my known northward and southward errors cancel out. They're all estimates, and there's not enough difference between them to justify a change in course.

Now for wind drift. I look down at the waves. The streaks are nearly paralleling my course, and the velocity is probably about 30 miles an hour. The great circle on my chart, 400 miles from Ireland, calls for a magnetic course of 119°. Plus 1° for westerly deviation makes 120°. A 30-mile wind from 290° must drift me about 5° to the right. 5° from 120° leaves 115°. I reach down to adjust the earth-inductor compass -- But that's almost exactly the heading I've been following! It calls for a shift of only 2°.

Then all those lethargic hours may not have been squandered. Maybe I haven't lost much efficiency by giving way to dreams and sleep. And by resting, I've built up strength to fit me for the day, afternoon, and night. I'm probably better off than if I could have forced myself to stay alert.

My navigating plans complete, I settle back with clear conscience, letting my eyes sweep leisurely over the sea and horizon on both sides. If I've drifted far south of my route, I may at any time see ships. At least it's worth while watching for them.

Suppose I sight a vessel on the sea. What will I do? That's pleasant to think about. If it's far to the north or south, I won't waste time and fuel detouring. But if it lies close to my route, a slight change in angle will cost only a minute or two. Possibly I could get a check on my heading from the direction in which it's steaming. Most ships will be on lanes that round the southern tips of Ireland and of England.

The people on board probably wouldn't notice the Spirit of St. Louis at first. Then, as I came closer, somebody would hear my engine and shout that a plane was approaching. I'd dive down past one side of the ship, about even with the bridge, and wave, and zoom up onto course again. How surprised the captain and the crew would be to see an airplane diving past them out here in the ocean. Everyone would run out on deck.

The sun is overhead, burning between clouds. I wish I could move over into the shade of a wing, the way I used to barnstorming, between flights. When no one was waiting to ride, I'd cut the engine, jump down from my cockpit, and stretch out on the grass. It's a sociable place, under a wing, and good for business, too. People like to come and sit beside you. They start asking questions about flying, and telling about their farms. Pretty soon they begin kidding each other into taking a flight over town. If you help them along a little, they're the best salesmen you could have.

Some of the pleasantest hours of my life have been spent in the shade of a wing -- waiting for the Nebraska wind to calm when I was learning to fly; waiting for passengers on Kansas fields; waiting for a fuel truck to drive out from some Missouri town. There, one meets the extremes of human character -- from bank presidents to tramps; from sheriffs to outlaws; from professors to idiots; from country preachers to town prostitutes --

I see a sun-baked plateau, near the city of Red Lodge in Montana. It's midafternoon. Our plane has been idle all day.

"It's too hot for anybody to fly now," I say. "Maybe we'll get some passengers this evening."

Lynch and I are sitting in the shade of the Standard's lower panel.

"Maybe we're going to get some passengers right now," he replies, pointing.

An open touring car has left the main road, and is curving upslope toward our strip of prairie. It is large, new, and brightly painted -- good omens to the barnstorming profession. The car skids to a showy stop, a few yards from our Standard. A tanned, broad-hatted man springs out. He looks like a rancher, and he's the only occupant. Lynch and I get up on our feet to meet him, brushing dried bits of grass from our clothes. The stranger's eyes sparkle and his teeth show white as he strides toward us.

"Howdy! Turner's my name. Say, what'll ya charge to fly me over the town?" he asks.

"We'll give you a real good ride for ten dollars," Lynch replies.

"That's a deal."

We strap our passenger down tightly in the front cockpit. I pull the propeller through, and Lynch takes off into the wind, between patches of prickly pear.

There isn't a square foot of shade, with the plane gone. It's too hot to sit down. I wander over the ground, keeping well clear of Spanish bayonet and kicking stones into prairie-dog holes. Whirlwinds of dust spiral in the distance.

Close to a quarter hour passes before the Standard returns. The rancher, beaming, jumps down from his cockpit, hands us a ten-dollar bill, walks jauntily to his car, and spins his wheels over the gravel to a skidding, jack-rabbit start.

"Slim, in all the years I been flying, I never had a ride like that." Lynch's face is half-humorous, half-serious, as we search for cactus-free ground under the wing. "I've heard about fellows like him, out here in the West, but I never met one before." We settle down as comfortably as we can. "After we got in the air, he twisted around and shouted something at me," Lynch continues. "I couldn't hear, of course, so I pulled the throttle. 'TAKE ME LOW DOWN THE MAIN STREET,' he yells. You know, Slim, I've always been an obliging cuss. He seemed to be having such a good time that I just couldn't say no. And we were charging him a pretty good price for the flight, too. I took a chance on the engine cutting, and flew him along the store fronts, about a hundred feet high. Everybody in town was running out into the street and looking up. First thing I know, when we were right smack over the business section, the son-of-a-bitch pulls two horse pistols out of that jacket of his and begins shooting past the wings. I was afraid he'd cut through one of the wires, but he had the guns empty before I could do a damn thing about it. God a'mighty, do you know what he says while we're taxiing in? He turns around with that grin all over his face and yells, 'I SHOT THIS TOWN UP A'FOOT, AN' I SHOT THIS TOWN UP A'HOSSBACK, AN' NOW I SHOT THIS TOWN UP FROM A AIRPLANE.' And he just laughs and laughs! Well, that sure ought to bring the passengers out if there are any. God a'mighty, I hope none of those bullets hit anybody!"

THE TWENTY-SIXTH HOUR
Over the Atlantic

HOURS OF FUEL CONSUMED

NOSE TANK
% 1-1-1-1- 11

LEFT WING CENTER WING RIGHT WING
¼ +1-1-1 ¼+ ¼ + 1-1-1

FUSELAGE

Twenty-five hours from New York. High cumulus clouds dot the sky. I'm cruising at 1575 r.p.m., with mixture control pulled back slightly from the point of roughness. The air speed shows 93 miles an hour.

In 25 hours the engine has burned about 300 gallons of fuel. The Spirit of St. Louis is light enough to throttle down still farther. It should fly nicely at 1550, possibly even at 1525 r.p.m. To obtain maximum range, it's necessary to take a little less power from the engine with every hour that passes. I reach for the throttle, but spectres of fog and darkness rise in my mind. With the tail wind that's been blowing, I hope to reach the coast of Europe before dark. If I throttle down, I may not.

Which is more valuable, fuel or time? If I'm south of course I'll miss Ireland entirely; but I might still strike land by sunset. Fifty r.p.m. could make the difference between day and night. Shall I build up a fuel reserve against the possibility that I'll have to spend the entire night over a fog-covered continent? Or shall I draw on my reserves now to increase the probability of a daylight landing? Security and caution demand the conservation of fuel. Success and adventure argue for a higher speed. With plenty of fuel, I can get down without a crack-up, regardless of the weather. Flying faster will give me a better chance of finding Paris and Le Bourget.

But if security were my prime motive, I'd never have begun this flight at all -- I'd never have learned to fly in the first place. Security is a static thing; and without adventure, lifeless as a stone. I open the throttle to 1650 r.p.m., reset the mixture control, and watch the indicator needle rise 7 miles an hour. It seems very little extra speed for such a sacrifice, but it will add up to 50 miles by sunset.

How satisfying it is just to sit still and fly eastward toward Europe; with the engine running smoothly; with my course set, and navigating problems no longer pressing on my mind. The hours of afternoon stretch out, empty, warm, and safe, like the limitless sky ahead. Whatever may come later, these sun-filled hours are mine. I'll take advantage of them, rest in them, enjoy them, push worry off my shoulders until either I see land or the dangers of night draw near.

Reaching into my flying-suit pocket for a fresh handkerchief, my fingers touch a small object, hard and thin. I hadn't noticed it before, mixed in with hunting knife, pencils, and flashlight. There's a little chain attached. I pull it out, hold it in my palm. It's a St. Christopher medal. Silvered Saint and staff and Child, from whom did this gift come? Man or woman; young or aged -- whose hand slipped it in my pocket? It was a person who asked for no thanks, who cared for no credit. It was sent with me like a silent blessing or a prayer.