Before Amelia (12 page)

At this point, news of her friend Georg Schendel's death at Johannisthal reached Melli. He had crashed attempting a new altitude record during the Spring Fly Week. His death hit Melli hard, despite her awareness that death was always present and waiting. Such a good person deserved better, but his star was unlucky. Realizing how much she missed her comrades at Johannisthal, she packed her bag and departed. Ludwig would follow shortly.

Melli returned to Berlin to find the situation at Johannisthal had changed in her absence. The once primitive field was now enlarged with grander seating—the most expensive placed near the train station— a restaurant, a promenade, and new office space for the field management and the Aero Club representatives. The field area, so essential for takeoff and landing, was extended to 2,100 meters by 1,240 meters, the whole enclosed by a high wooden fence with entrances at intervals around the enclosure. The roof of the clubhouse held a beacon light to provide orientation for the aviators. New hangars indicated a steady growth in aviation activity, and there was still room for further expansion. Competitions were planned for the 1911 summer and fall in anticipation of many more aviation fans.

The military establishment, newly awakened to French progress in aviation and the dangers that entailed, realized Germany must take steps to catch up. The Rumpler Works, already turning out machines in increasing numbers, was positioned to catch the attention of the government, while smaller builders, like the pioneer Dorner, who worked on a shoestring, had little chance of winning the military contracts that would keep them afloat. Ad Astra had already gone under, its workers scattered to other companies. The next two years would see growing military activity at Johannisthal, with the larger establishments increasingly busy.

Georg von Tschudi, who was planning ever bigger flying competitions at Johannisthal, took Melli under his wing and persuaded Edmund Rumpler to take her on as a student. Tschudi saw her as a magnet to draw the crowds that would make the field a financial success. Rumpler, involved with building a new, fast monoplane, the Taube, had a clever idea for promotion: A woman pilot would demonstrate the machine to show the government how easy it was to fly. Melli's appearance was timely. She would have lessons, promote his aeroplane, and his company would make millions. Melli, oblivious of these designs, was thrilled at the prospect of flying again.

Rumpler's chief pilot was Hellmuth Hirth, one of the stars of early German aviation, who later spent eighteen years in aviation in the United States. Handsome, egotistical, he believed firmly that women were unsuited for flying. They might be useful for entertaining the public, but they lacked the physical ability to fly; besides, their presence detracted from the stature of the male pilots. The rumor that a woman was about to enter the school under his instruction had the field agog. His attitude was well known.

Hirth assigned numbers to his students and called them for instruction from either the first or the last, a system that kept the students in high expectation. Who would be first? Melli was number four. Dressed in a white shirt with a black tie, she sat waiting at a table for the drawing that established the order. As numbers were called, it was soon apparent there was no number four. The male attitude was “the woman after us.” When questioned, Hirth was defensive; he promised she would have her turn in good weather. The café crowd waited with some amusement.

When Melli finally took her seat in front of Hirth in the Taube, a two seater monoplane, she found the ar rangement farless satisfactory for instruction than it was on the old Wright biplane. Not only were the structure and the steering apparatus different, the entire feel of the monoplane was different. Contact with each other was difficult. The motor below her, at twelve hundred revolutions per minute, hummed smoothly; then, with surprising speed, they were off. Turning to the side, she saw the large wingspan that provided the machine's lift. Straight ahead, the horizon beckoned as Melli absorbed the machine's power and speed. Under Hirth's direction, she discovered the slightest finger pressure maneuvered the aeroplane. It was faster, more powerful than the Wright, but in the turn it took more strength to steer. It seemed to Melli the Taube was flying her as if she lacked the power to control it, unlike the Wright, which was easy to maneuver. Hirth warned her before landing, “Be careful or you'll drill a hole in the grass.”

Very quickly the turn was reached; pushing with her right foot, Melli gracefully curved the machine to the right—the ease was wonderful. Mindful of Hirth's warning, Melli worried as landing neared. As the machine touched down, the uneven ground caused the Taube to swing from side to side as it slowed. But they were down, and Melli was in love with the Taube. The curious onlookers decided that a woman might do after all.

Eager to advance, Melli asked when she could take the aeroplane up alone. Hirth was not enthusiastic. She needed more knowledge, he explained, but Melli was quick to recognize an excuse. When pressed, he leveled: “But, you're a woman.” Hirth pleaded responsibility and concern for her; Melli would have none of it. After endless protests, Hirth agreed she might solo in a week's time.

On July 27, Melli flew for the first time alone, climbing to one hundred meters before making two circuits of the field. When it was time to land, she dropped down lower to test the gliding speed, then landed without bouncing near the Wright hangar. The Berlin press noted that for the first time on the airfield at Johannisthal a woman, Miss Base, demonstrated her flying skill by flying two times around the field without her teacher and landing “without smashing the machine.” Melli appreciated the recognition of her achievement, but the misspelled name was a bit of a put–down.

Hirth's resistance was just one obstacle to be overcome. The men around the flying field had watched Melli's progress with interest. Some played tricks on her, convinced by their own importance that she was there only to catch a man. Taking their cue from Hirth, others considered her presence strictly as amusement for the public. Melli put up with these attitudes but learned to check her gas tank before each flight, after one experience with an empty tank caused an emergency landing. That time, she came down so suddenly that the delicate machine was a tangle of wires. Another time, Melli was less fortunate. Unequal cable lengths, upsetting the machine's balance, brought her machine down and she received a broken nose. Early fliers knew only too well that emergency landings seldom enjoyed the luxury of level or clear ground, but an emergency was more upsetting when suspicion pointed to a malicious prank.

In September 1911, before observers of the German Aero Club, Ellery von Gorrissen and Cornelius Hintner, Melli became the 115th licensed German aeroplane pilot, the lone woman of the group. Melli had picked her test day to coincide with Hirth's absence because of a flying competition; Gorrissen and Hintner, both teachers at Johannisthal, had no connection with the Rumpler company or its chief pilot. Melli was taking no chances. The
New York Tribune
in a Berlin dateline of September 8 announced that Melli was Germany's first woman pilot. September 13, her twenty–fifth birthday, the date commonly given, is the date the certificate was issued by the German Aero Club. Observers at the time described her glide, the last requirement for the test, as a downward spiral of fifty meters that ended in a faultless landing. The journal
Flugsport
wrote that her eights and loops in the Taube showed “outstanding knowledge.” It was a triumphal day for Melli and her friends, Josef Suvelak and Alfred Pietschker, who toasted her with champagne that night at the café. Pietschker, following on Melli's heels, earned license No. 116.

Within two weeks the Autumn Fly Week was to begin at Johannisthal. It was an ever–expanding event since the first Fly Week in 1909. Now, a more sophisticated and knowledgeable public was expected, lured by ballyhoo in the press, to watch Germany's best fliers perform. Women came in larger numbers, hoping to see their favorite airmen, the public's newest heroes, at close range; prizes, world records, and national fame were the attractions for the fliers. Melli entered the competition (she would fly an older Taube with a seventy–horsepower motor loaned by Rumpler) along with twenty–three other entrants—all men.

In the flying before the exhibition began, Melli found herself ostracized by the men on the field; no one trusted her enough to go up with her. Charles Boutard was her savior. He went up with Melli and returned safely to the ground, followed by Alfred Pietschker. As soon as the spectators saw she was proficient, “the ice was broken,” said Melli. She had more takers than she could handle. Although the Rumpler pilots—Hirth, Suvelack, and Hans Vollmoeler—at first threatened not to compete with a woman, the meet was too important, the prizes too attractive, to miss. They changed their minds.

Opening day, September 26, was not favorable. Gray clouds covered the sky, fog hovered near the ground, but the wind was calm, always a flier's delight. Berliners stayed at home despite the chance to see the “Flying Girl, Melli Beese.” The expensive seats in the grandstand were largely vacant, but the cheaper standing area was packed with die–hard fans. Melli looked forward to a keen, friendly competition with her fellow pilots, undisturbed, if she knew of it, by the Rumpler pilots' reluctance to compete with her.

The first competition, beginning at noon, was the endurance flight, with a prize for the aviator who stayed in the air the longest carrying a passenger. Melli had a full tank of gasoline, but pressure from the Rumpler group kept her from finding a willing passenger. Thanks to a young Swiss, Robert Gsell, a Dorner pilot who volunteered, she was able to enter the event. Gsell wrote his impression years later: Melli could
really
fly; she wasn't on the field just for publicity photographs. Waving to the fans with a small flag, she took the Taube up and was lost to sight in the fog and clouds. Two hours and nine minutes later she landed, one minute less than the best duration flight of the day and a world record for women. The field crowd was impressed. Gsell, recalling that day, joked that he enjoyed brief fame as an “accessory.”

The next day, a sunny flier's day, seventeen machines were in the air at the starting gun, with Melli's soon among them. In spite of the weather, attendance was still below expectations. Round and round the machines raced, competing for endurance. Melli missed her old Wright biplane on the turns. Gustav Witte was flying one with remarkable success. It was easier to maneuver than the Taube, but then the joy of racing in the air crowded out all thoughts. Pietschker in his Albatros played tag with Melli, cutting under the Taube when turning toward the field, to delight the viewers below. At the day's end, Pietschker and Witte were in the lead; Suvelack, third; Melli, fourth; and Karl Caspar, fifth. Considering that Melli lost fifteen minutes tinkering with her motor at the start, it wasn't a bad day.

A smiling Melli Beese, Germany's first woman pilot, lands after setting a women's flight endurance record with Robert Gsell as her passenger, 1911.
FLUGSPORT

One exciting moment, captured by the photographers, made the international press. As Melli was flying the course, the
Parcival,
a German dirigible, one of the week's attractions, loomed up ahead of her on its way to its base. She could see activity in the gondola and the maze of ropes suspended from it, a dangerous threat to the delicate Taube. Melli made a quick decision and flew under the airship, giving the spellbound spectators below a thrill. The picture, snapped at that moment, was spectacular.

On Tuesday, reports of the preceding activities at the field finally brought out the crowds. Tschudi rejoiced as the cashier's box overflowed. Machines rolled out to the starting line, motors clattering, as excited spectators looked for their favorite aviators. Melli came in for much attention, as much for her fur costume with pants as for her record. Women in pants were as novel as a rare specimen at the zoo. There were cheers and applause all around as the mechanics finished their checks, pilots mounted their machines, passengers climbed aboard, and one by one the big birds took to the sky.

Again Pietschker played tag with Melli. She tried to shake him off by going up as they flew around the course, but at eight hundred meters her machine was slow responding to the stick. In the sky, more springlike than fall, the Taube climbed slowly upward while the crowds below watched the machines' gyrations with open mouths. The Albatros and the Taube disappeared from sight as they climbed upward and outward. Were they lost, in danger? When the cannon signaled the end of the day, aeroplanes gradually returned to earth, until all were down except the Albatros and one Taube. At the last moment, they appeared. The Albatros landed in front of its hangar; the Taube, at almost the same moment, stopped at the starting line.

The cheering and noise were thunderous. Melli, mystified by the crowd's roar, was helped out of the machine by Ludwig, who shouted in her ear: “A world altitude record, Miss Beese!” Reaching 825 meters with a passenger, Melli had broken the women's record set by Hélène Dutrieu's 450 meters and established a new endurance record by extending her first record by eleven minutes. Pietschker's barograph registered 1,280 meters, but Melli's older Taube was unable to push any higher. Melli was speechless. She was presented with flowers to mark her achievement and made a brief statement, expressing the hope that many more women would follow. On this third day of the Fly Week, Melli was in third place behind Pietschker and Suvelack.