Before Amelia (2 page)

Courageous beyond belief, with confidence and eagerness, the early women fliers climbed off their bicycles and motorcycles, out of their automobiles, into the flimsy contraptions fashioned from bamboo, wire, and fabric that first carried people aloft. Seated precariously between the wings of the earliest machines, sometimes below the wing, lacking any protection from the elements, these intrepid women, by their example, pointed the way for women to attempt the unusual. For them, it was conquering the skies to reach for the horizon.

One thing was certain: Most of the early women fliers had no qualms about being in the public eye. Some, like Marie Marvingt and Raymonde de Laroche of France, Lyubov Golanchikova of Russia, and Harriet Quimby and Katherine Stinson of the United States, reveled in it and went out of their way to promote their careers.

One deterrent that women thought unfair was the Aero Club regulations that prevented women from competing with men. As the gentler sex, women were limited to flying circuits at aerodromes with their own sex or alone. No speed races, no cross-country competitions for them, because, as Grahame-White, England's foremost aviator, announced publicly, “Women lack qualities which make for safety in aviation. They are temperamentally unfitted for the sport.” Apparently, there were similar thinking men in the international Aero Clubs. Hélène Dutrieu, Melli Beese, Lilly Steinschneider, who was from Hungary, and Jeanne Pallier, from France, were the only women to compete with men. These four women gave creditable performances against men, and Dutrieu beat all competitors to win the King of Italy Cup in 1911.

According to Grahame-White, the sense of balance, essential in flying, comes naturally to the aviator—a man, of course. “One elevates or lowers his planes almost instinctively, the same as one turns the handle-bars in bicycling or varies the stroke in swimming or tennis,” he said, believing this was a quality women lacked, forgetting that women had proved their ability in all of these things. This kind of male arrogance was a major hurdle for women fliers, especially in Germany and England, less so in America, Russia, and France. The Wright Brothers opposed women flying at first; American aviator Glenn Curtiss didn't think they should attempt such an activity. The German aviator Hellmuth Hirth at Johannisthal resisted women as aviators, claiming they were physically unsuited for the role. Hirth and other aviation stars of the period worried about loss of public esteem if women were seen performing the same feats. After all, how difficult could they be?

Arnold Kruckman, the aviation editor for the
New York American,
was typical of the critics. In 1911, he expressed the attitude of male aviators who, though willing to assist female aviators in every way, held, deep down, a “defined feeling” that aeroplane sport was not for women. Women were too emotional, they were not mentally equipped to withstand the intense nervous strain of flying, they lacked discipline, “the natural heritage of many men.”

Kruckman lamented the lack in 1911 of “one real first-class woman flier in the world.” Women were unable to compete with men equally. In fact, Kruckman reported, when men knew a woman was flying on the field, they refrained from notable feats. French aviator Louis Blériot strenuously opposed women competing, and the Wrights declined “to sell their machine to a woman.” Why? Because women lacked “coolness and judgment.”

The beginning of the Aero Club of the United Kingdom is a fine example of male behavior of the period. According to historian Patricia Stroud, the idea for the club, born in the basket of a balloon somewhere between the Crystal Palace and Sidcup, was the brainchild of Vera Hedges Butler, a passenger on the flight. Once on the ground again, the gentlemen went off to Somerset House to register the name of the club. Miss Butler's name was not listed among those of the organizing committee. Later, “the magnanimous men” allowed her to become a member along with several other ladies. Writing in 1954, Stroud commented, “Even now women are tolerated (though not encouraged) to take part in the Club's activities.”

Harry Harper, an English journalist who observed and wrote about the early years of flying, was a rare champion of women in aviation. He ticked off the reasons: Their instructors found them quick to learn; they took nothing for granted; they did not mind being told their mistakes; they were punctual and eager to master every phase of the subject. Once they had the knack of maneuvering a machine, “their quickness of movement and lightness of touch prove assets of the utmost value.” According to Harper, maneuvering an aeroplane required small, swift, accurate movements, which women were adept at.

The British author Stella Murray, writing on women in aviation in 1929, had these points to add: Women drank less than men, a major factor in aeroplane safety, and they withstood cold altitudes better than men because of years spent enduring chilly temperatures dressed in wispy dresses.

The first women aviators had their own thoughts on the suitability of women in aviation. Hélène Dutrieu wrote that women could enter the male world of aviation and not lose their natural femininity, a rebuttal of the unwomanly criticism that was prevalent. The Americans Matilde Moisant and Harriet Quimby were almost self-consciously feminine, appearing for photographers in long gauzy gowns with picture hats when not dressed for flying. Like the French women who preceded them, Moisant and Quimby's size and weight were suited to the fragile aeroplanes they flew, their smaller hands moved more dexterously than a man's, their brain was just as able to concentrate on the levers as a man's was, and women like Melli Beese and Hilda Hewlett were quite capable of working with machinery. Lydia Zvereva, Harriet Quimby, and Katherine Stinson spoke out clearly: Their goal was equality with men in the air. The Russians, out of necessity, would be the first to allow women to serve as military aviators.

Tragic accidents predictably caused the
New York Times
to editorialize: “It would be well to exclude women from a field of activity in which their presence is unnecessary from any point of view,” a sentiment that lurked within some males, much as they might be entranced by a woman's performance in the air. Males dropped out of the sky all too frequently, but that was to be expected—they were men. But a woman, and a young one to boot, was outside the realm of what was natural. Women pilots, while saddened by the loss of a friend, did not dwell on the dangers of flying. Matilde Moisant put the thought of death out of her mind when she flew. The worst that can happen is to be killed, and, she reasoned, “there is only one death.”

When the first two American women, Harriet Quimby and Matilde Moisant, became pilots, the
New York Times
observed, “Aviation is not for a favored few.” If two women had earned a license, “almost anybody, man or woman, after a week or two or three of instruction and practice, can fly.” At the same time, the editorial cautioned that the women's success “can hardly be taken as the opening of a great and promising as well as new ‘career' for all their ambitious sisters.” The editorial was quick to point out that one drawback remained: the high mortality rate from accidents, due often to needless risks, and the fact that cautiousness was not usually an aviator's trait.

If the press sometimes questioned women's place in aviation, other journalists searched for nouns and adjectives and apt nicknames for the new breed of pilots. Was a woman pilot an aviator, an aviatrix, or an aviatress? “Female
oiseau,
” “Girl Hawk,” “Tomboy of the Air,” “The Flying School Marm” were some of the nicknames;“daring,” “fatalistic,” “girlish” were favorite adjectives. Journals discussed the appropriate dress style for women pilots: Pants were a shocking departure from long skirts, and the absence of a corset was scandalous. The French, particularly, were fascinated by the costumes—pants and bloomers, divided skirts, leather suits, some all of one piece, and headgear—worn by various pilots.

If some writers thought women's presence was “unnecessary,” the public didn't think so—excited spectators cheered themselves hoarse—and other journalists, much taken with the female “birds,” wrote a lot that was sheer invention for the delight of their readers. The women aviators collaborated happily.

The pioneer era of aviation took on a circus mentality within several years, particularly in the United States. To the average person on the ground, early aviators were special, performing acts so extraordinary that they seemed superhuman. Harriet Quimby was the first woman to fly across the English Channel, and she did it under circumstances that would have tried the stamina and nerves of any man. Melli Beese competed in the same sphere with her male competitors until she found she was being cheated. Ruth Law set a distance record from Chicago to Hornell, New York, that beat every American male pilot at the time.

When the public became jaded with flying exhibitions, the need for more daring, more exciting maneuvers co-opted the air scene. Europeans looked askance at this development; their effort went into longer cross-country and international flights, requiring stronger motors and more stable machines. For too long, Americans were content to entertain, and technical development was left to overseas developers.

This had an effect on women fliers. Those who realized the increasing danger in straining for aerial acrobatics switched their interests elsewhere or gave up aviation altogether. Those with special technical experience, like Lydia Zvereva, Melli Beese, Hilda Hewlett, and Marjorie Stinson, turned to building aeroplanes or teaching. Blanche Scott went into the movies. The promise of the very early days gradually dissipated.

Once Europe was enveloped by war, civilian flying ended. Women were not allowed to use their aviation ability, but they could drive ambulances or do hospital work—safe activities for women. Those who had gone into building aeroplanes continued to do so during the war. When the war ended, the coterie of women fliers, never large in number but exemplary in their performance, with rare exceptions, never returned to aviation. They were older, technology had passed them by, and new lives claimed them.

Raymonde de Laroche, the world's first woman pilot, was one of the exceptions. She renewed her love of aviation and planned to become a test pilot. Her death in 1919 as a passenger in the crash of a new model aeroplane was an apt closing to the era of pioneer women aviators.

IN AN EARLIER DAY, following the male lead, women had stepped into baskets to travel aloft in balloons, and by 1909 they had formed their own club in France, the Stella Society, to promote an interest in aeronautics. A socially prominent group, the members of Stella reported their doings in a special column in the French journal
L'Aérophile.
Although they encouraged aeronautical exploration, few of the Stellas made the leap from balloon to aeroplane.

The first women pilots, on the other hand, a more adventuresome group, climbed into aeroplanes as the logical next step from bicycles and automobiles. As a group they were remarkably unconcerned about negative attitudes or prejudices that claimed women were unsuited for such activity. Aviation offered excitement, monetary gain, and freedom; joined with their enthusiasm, confidence, and courage, it was a splendid match.

She was a most unlikely candidate for an aviator. Tall, elegant, a standout in the theater and fashion worlds, the first woman in the world to receive a pilot's license to drive a heavier–than–air machine into the air was Raymonde de Laroche. A glamorous brunette, she was a natural for the theater and she had numerous friends in the Parisian art world. When Alberto Santos–Dumont, the Brazilian–born French aeronaut, fired French imagination with his 1906 flight, Raymonde along with millions of others was caught up in the excitement of this marvelous new plaything, the aeroplane. Not content to be a shining light of the Belle Èpoque, she would learn to fly!

Born Èlise Deroche on August 22, 1886, in a Paris neighborhood that, according to one source, smelled heavily of creosote and beer, her early years were ordinary for the time, as the daughter of a plumber. Her education was the usual elementary grades, and, as family circumstances were limited, the precocious young girl made her mind up early to achieve success. Nature had been kind to her; she had an alluring figure, eloquent brown eyes, and bountiful dark hair. The theater and the worlds of art and fashion would be her entry to the wider world of fame. By the time she was twenty, she had adopted the name Raymonde de Laroche— it was modern with a hint of social cachet, to which
Flight
attached the title “Baroness” on the occasion of her first solo. Her stylish clothes were the envy of the fashion world; her theatrical appearances won approval, though detractors claim her experience was more burlesque than drama; she had entrée to the art world. Reportedly, Léon Delagrange, an artist and one of the early stars of French aviation, fathered her son, André.

In an interview following her success as France's first woman pilot, Laroche confided that she had always loved sports. As a child she rode a pony, and as she grew older she took up, successively, tennis, rowing, ice–skating, skiing, and the bicycle, followed in turn by the motorcycle. There may have been some exaggeration in her account, but whatever she did she embraced wholeheartedly. When automobiles became the vogue, Laroche began driving and raced enthusiastically before switching to the aeroplane.

Wilbur Wright's flights at Hunaudières racetrack near Le Mans in August 1908 astonished the French aviation world, which hadn't really believed in the brothers' invention. He had come to France to interest the government in the Wright aeroplane. Invited by the military authorities to use a military field at Auvours seven miles east of Le Mans, Wright proved the biplane's ability to rise quickly, circle with ease at sharp angles, and land “like a bird.” In a series of flights with the elite of Paris watching, Wilbur lengthened his flying time to an incredible one hour and thirty–one minutes on September 21. Impressed by his performance, the French government signed a contract with the Wright Company, and that winter Wilbur Wright opened the first aviation school for training military fliers at Pau, in the southwest of France.