The Spirit of ST Louis (54 page)

Sunbeams are moving in the cockpit. The nose is veering north. I push right rudder I've been daydreaming; I must be more careful. I certainly can't afford to lose control again.

The sunbeams are a great help. Their movements catch my eye more quickly than the compass needle or the turn-indicator. I shake my mind back to alertness, and begin studying the sea. Am I allowing enough for drift? The waves themselves form no stable point of reference; but the foam from a breaking crest remains almost stationary on the water's surface, a patch of white, uninfluenced by succeeding rollers, riding over ridge and trough. I select a spot of foam three hundred yards ahead, and estimate an angle five degrees to the southward. Do I follow that imaginary line of drift as I approach, or do I edge right or left? If a man walks three miles an hour, am I drifting twice as fast as a man walks? If a man runs fifteen miles an hour, am I drifting southward as fast as a man runs?

Is there something alive down there under my wing? I thought I saw a dark object moving through the water. I search the surface, afraid to hope, lest I lose confidence in vision. Was it a large fish, or were my eyes deceiving me? After the fog islands and the phantoms, I no longer trust my senses. The Spirit of St. Louis itself might fade away without causing me great surprise. But -- yes, there it is again, slightly behind me now, a porpoise -- the first living thing I've seen since Newfoundland. Fin and sleek, black body curve gracefully above the surface and slip down out of sight.

The ocean is as desolate as ever. Yet a complete change has taken place. I feel that I've safely recrossed the bridge to life -- broken the strands which have been tugging me toward the universe beyond. Why do I find such joy, such encouragement in the sight of a porpoise? What possible bond can I have with a porpoise hundreds of miles at sea, with a strange creature I've never seen before and will never see again? What is there in that flashing glimpse of hide that means so much to me, that even makes it seem a different ocean? Is it simply that I've been looking so long, and seeing nothing? Is it an omen of land ahead? Or is there some common tie between living things that surmounts even the barrier of species?

This ocean, which for me marks the borderland of death, is filled with life; life that's foreign, yet in some strange way akin; life which welcomes me back from the universe of spirits and makes me part of the earth again. What a kingdom lies under that tossing surface! Numberless animals must be there, hidden from my sight. It's a kingdom closed to man, one he can fly above all day and never recognize. How blind our normal senses are. We look at a star, and see a pin point of light; a forest is a green carpet to a flyer's eye; the ocean, a tossing mass of water. Inner vision requires a night alone above the clouds, the sight of deer in a clearing, the leap of a porpoise far from land.

My eyes sweep over the waves again, and I climb to a hundred feet. How far from the coast do porpoises swim, I wonder? Do they travel all the way across the ocean, or do they stay near shore and fishing banks? In laying plans for the flight, I didn't think about studying salt water life as a part of navigation. If I look carefully, there may be other things to see. But the evenness of the horizon is unbroken by ship or sail or smoke. Scan the surface as I may, I find no second spark of life.

Can it be that the porpoise was imaginary too, a part of this strange, living dream, like the fuselage's phantoms and the islands which faded into mist? Yet I know there's a difference, a dividing line that still exists between reality and apparition. The porpoise was real, like the water itself, like the substance oc the cockpit around me, like my face which I can feel when I run my hand across it.

THE TWENTY-SEVENTH 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 + 1-1-1 ¼ + ¼ + 1-1-1

FUSELAGE

Nine fifty-two on the clock -- twenty-six hours since takeoff. I put the twenty-fifth pencil line on the board in front of me. Sunbeams are moving again; the compass needle leans toward one side. I nose back onto course. Somehow I still can't keep the plane from swinging left, from following my instinctive feeling that Ireland lies to the northward. I can't force my senses to accept my reasoned plan of navigation. I decide to do nothing but watch the compass needle. I'll make it stay in center through pure concentration. I should be awake enough to do that now.

It works for a few minutes. Then I find myself staring at the cockpit's details -- the stitches in the fabric covering, the undoped edges where it's cut and joined, the scrape marks my heels have made on the floor board's varnish. And soon the nose is edging north again.

It's like the first cross-country flight I made as pilot of my own airplane. I was so busy studying my map and trying to make it correspond to the ground below, that I let my plane veer off course just as the Spirit of St. Louis is veering now. And I ended up by not knowing my position over the land, just as I now don't know my position over the water. But I was an amateur pilot then. There was excuse for my inaccuracy in navigation.

That was in May, 1923. I was on my way home to Minnesota with a Jenny I'd bought at Souther Field in Georgia. That trip would be simple for me now, just routine, several days of professional effort. But then, it was at least as hazardous as this flight across the ocean. I'd gone to Souther Field with a few hundred dollars in my pocket, in checks and cash. "That's a good place to buy Jennies cheap," I'd been told the year before.

I'd paid five hundred dollars for my Jenny. It was more than I planned on, but only half the price first asked; and I had my choice from over a hundred planes. Also, I got a brand-new Curtiss OX-5 engine in the trade, a fresh coat of olive drab dope on all surfaces, and an extra twenty-gallon tank installed in the fuselage. The tank doubled my fuel capacity and more than doubled my practical range; but of course it increased the weight of the plane, and Jennies were overweight in the first place.

My father had helped me buy the Jenny, so I still had money left for the trip home; and I hoped to make at least out-of-pocket expenses by carrying passengers from the towns where I landed. I saved a few dollars by living alone on the field while my plane was being assembled and painted. Souther had been abandoned by the Army after the war ended. It was like a ghost city. During the day, three or four civilian mechanics worked in one of the dozen hangars, reconditioning planes which had been sold. Occasionally a car from Americus would drive out. But in the evening, usually there wasn't a sign of human life. Then, I'd explore big wooden warehouses, and roam along weed-lazy streets between barracks where thousands of men once lived.

When my Jenny was assembled and the paint all dry, I faced my greatest problem; for I hadn't flown in six months, and I'd never soloed. Everybody at Souther Field took for granted that I was an experienced pilot when I arrived alone to buy a plane. They didn't ask to see my license, because you didn't have to have a license to fly an airplane in 1923. There were no instructors on the field, and anyway I didn't want to spend more money on instruction.

"Well, she's ready. When are you going to test her out?" The chief mechanic, a young man of about twenty, handed me my plane graciously with word and gesture. It was obvious that he expected me to say, "Let's push her out on the line." So that's what I said. After all, I knew the theory of flying. I'd had eight hours of instruction from Ira Biffle just one year before. I'd had a little "stick time" flying with Bahl, and a little more with Lynch. Souther Field was big and smooth. I thought I ought to be able to get my Jenny into the air and down again without cracking up. I climbed into the cockpit, warmed up the engine, and taxied downwind to the farthest corner of the field.

How I wished I'd had my training in Jennies instead of Standards! I'd flown in a Jenny for only thirty-five minutes at the flying school, only enough to realize that it had quite a different feel, especially in landing. "And you have to be careful of them in the air too," I remembered one of the pilots at Lincoln saying. "They just haven't got the power."

I knew there wasn't any halfway about flying. It wasn't like starting to drive a new automobile. You couldn't loaf along while you were learning, and stop if anything went wrong. Once you decided to take the air, you needed all the speed and power you could get. But I could taxi across the field a few times before I actually took off. That would give me a little practice and a better feel of controls. Then, I could lift the wheels two or three feet off the ground, cut the throttle, taxi back, and try again. It wouldn't matter if I bounced a little. After I gained confidence in my landing ability, I'd climb straight ahead and make a full circle of the field.

I headed directly into wind and opened the throttle -- cautiously. The Jenny swerved a little. I kicked opposite rudder. It swerved the other way. I straightened out -- opened the throttle more -- The tail lifted up -- a bit too high -- I pulled back on the stick -- The tail skid touched -- I pushed forward -- pulled back -- Before I knew it, I was in the air! -- I cut the throttle -- dropped too fast -- opened it wide -- ballooned up, right wing low -- closed the throttle -- yanked back on the stick -- bounced down on wheel and wing skid.

Nothing broke, but it was a hard landing, much too rough for the safety of frail wooden structure. Had I hit a puff of wind, or was it all bad flying? I didn't want to repeat that experience. What an exhibition I'd made! And they'd probably been watching me from the line, too. They'd know now that I'd never soloed. I was sweating all over. I needed time to think. I decided to wait for an hour in which the air was completely calm. I wished I could have switched off the engine and stayed right there in the middle of the field; but of course the mechanics would have driven out in their cars to ask what the trouble was. I turned and taxied slowly back toward the hangars.

A stranger sauntered out to meet me -- young, heavy-set, and smiling -- dressed in typical pilots' costume of breeches and boots. Henderson, he said his name was. It was the first time I'd seen him on the field.

"Why don't you let me jump in the front cockpit before you try that again?" he asked.

I could feel my cheeks turning red, and sweat broke out again. "The air's a little rough, and I haven't flown since October," I replied, hesitant to lay my troubles bare before a stranger. "I'm going to wait until it's not so rough."

"Lots of pilots are in the same spot," he said, laughing. "It's pretty hard to make expenses through the winter. I'll give you some time while I'm waiting for the ship I bought. Are the dual controls hooked up?"

"They've never been disconnected," I answered. "But --

"Why don't we make a few rounds right now?" he asked. "Don't worry, it won't cost you anything. I haven't much to do for the next day or two."

"I'd -- I'd like to – but --"

But he was already stepping into the front cockpit. I taxied out onto the field again and plunged up into air. It was a lot easier when I knew someone was there to check any serious errors I might commit. I made a big circle and came down to a two-point, bouncy landing. After a half-dozen take-offs and landings, my new friend pulled back the throttle and said, "You won't have any trouble. You're just a little rusty from no flying for so long. Why don't you wait until the wind dies down this evening and then make a few hops yourself?"

Three degrees right rudder.

It was nearly five o'clock when I started the engine again. The air was almost calm. There was no one on the field except an old Negro, who wandered in and stood at a respectful distance, looking at my plane.

"Suh, could Ah ask if you all goin' up in the sky dis aft'noon?" he'd said.

"Yes, I'm going to take off in a few minutes," I'd answered, not paying much attention.

"Well, suh, if you all don't object, Ah'll jist stand right heah an' watch, suh."

I'd taxied out, taken a last look at the instruments, and opened the throttle.

No matter how much training you've had, your first solo is far different from all other flights. You are completely independent, hopelessly beyond help, entirely responsible, and terribly alone in space. For the first time, you're free of an instructor's wishes. No one else knows whether you bank with slip or skid. There's no hand to motion the nose down before a stall, no other head to check your fuel or watch your r.p.m. You can choose your point of the compass, and fly on as long as you like. But if you get lost from your field, the penalty is more severe than words of reprimand and laughter.

I kept climbing that day, higher and higher, over red plowing, green forests, and shanty homes of Georgia. There was the city of Americus unfolding in the distance. There was Souther Field, with its lines of buildings, shrinking in size below me. I held the rocker arms above the horizon until my altimeter needle covered the dot at 4500 feet. I might not have stopped climbing then, but the sun was almost touching earth, and dusk makes landing difficult for the amateur's eyes.

"Boss, you sho' are a great flyah!"

The old Negro had been waiting for me all the time I was in the air. He walked up close to the fuselage after I cut the switch; and stood there staring at me admiringly.

"Dese other aviators jist fly 'bout low-down like. They ain't nuthin' compared to a man like you. Boss, you all was so-o high Ah could jist see you. You looked like a bird up thar. Not a smidge bigger; no, suh. Ah'm sho' glad Ah come out here to see you, Boss. Yes, suh."

I knew well enough that the altitude I reached had required no excess skill, and that my old instructor Biff would have cursed each one of my landings. But there was something about the aged Negro's praise and courtesy that gave me confidence. It was pleasant to listen to such an appreciative audience. And besides that, I was happy to have finished my first solo flight without cracking up.

I spent a week at Souther Field, practicing take-offs and landings. Then I felt it was time to start barnstorming. I'd built up nearly five hours of solo, and my funds were getting lower each day. It was important to find a location where I could offset the cost of flying training with an income from passenger-carrying. I decided to work west, through the Southern states, to Texas, and then north to Minnesota. Why detour as far as Texas? Why not fly direct? Well, every barnstorming pilot I knew had flown in Texas. They all talked about Texas. Texas seemed to be a badge of the profession. Now that I had a chance to fly there in my own plane, why miss it?

"You're heading over some of the worst territory in the South," a local pilot told me when he heard of my plans. "If you're bound to go to Texas, I'd advise you to follow the Gulf Coast. That's not so bad."

But my engine was new; and my inexperience great. I'd not be bluffed by a few swamps and hills. Surely, with more than four hours of fuel in my tanks, I'd be able to find good fields, large enough to land on. It would be interesting to see what the South's worst flying territory was like.

I sent my suitcase home by railway express. Then I rolled up an extra shirt, a pair of breeches, a toothbrush, some socks, spark plugs, tools, and other spare equipment in a