Before Amelia (3 page)

To demonstrate the safety of aeroplane travel, Wright carried a number of women aloft as passengers, among them Mrs. Hart Berg, wife of the European manager of the Wright Company, who shared her impressions with the press. She had been warned she might feel seasick while the machine was running down the rail (the original launching device), but she had no distress. As the aeroplane soared upward, it felt like “a boat sailing on air waves.” Best of all was taking the curves, which was how she had always imagined real flying would be. Her only wish was that the flight “would go on for hours.”

Mrs. Berg's attire did not go unnoticed by fashion–conscious Paris. Her full skirt was tied at the ankle to prevent it from billowing up during the flight, an adjustment promptly adopted by fashion designers as the hobble skirt. The style, denounced as a “fad” and a “freak” by the American National Cloak, Suit and Skirt Manufacturers' Association, proved short–lived and gave way by 1910 to a freer and “dignified use of feet and limbs.”

The sheer beauty of Wright's aerial maneuvers and a ride as a passenger convinced Laroche that flying was superior to the automobile for travel. Already an accomplished motorist, she eagerly embraced this new invention, which had caught the public's attention and offered greater speed and the chance of stardom.

She was familiar with the efforts of the French aviation pioneers— Alberto Santos–Dumont, Henry Farman, and Lçon Delagrange. Santos-Dumont had pointed the way in 1906 when his fragile machine, looking like a large butterfly, took to the air. Farman flew the first closed circuit in January 1908; Delagrange piloted the first passenger flight, with Farman aboard, in March of that year. Now, Laroche prevailed upon the Voisin brothers, Gabriel and Charles—the latter was a special friend, who had built aeroplanes for Santos–Dumont and Farman and were successfully established as aeroplane builders—to give her instruction.

Schools of aviation were just beginning to emerge; builders taught interested students on machines of their own construction using whatever method they chose. Other builders quickly followed the Wrights' example, usually on national land provided by the Ministry of War. The range of differences in training made for a chaotic state—“anarchy” was the term the Aero Club of France used to describe the carnage caused by aviation accidents—which forced the club to establish the first standards for a brevet, or license, in January 1909. Instructors would take their task more seriously and give students proper training. What form that took was left to the aeroplane builders.

Beginning on January 7, 1909, the test for a pilot's license required three closed circuits of five kilometers each; altitude was not mentioned. By the following year, the test included landing and stopping within 150 meters of a designated point to show adequate control of the aeroplane. Further refinement in 1911 required two circuits around a course, making figure eights to prove the candidate's ability to make right and left turns; a third test required the candidate to reach an altitude of fifty meters above the departure point, and to land and come to a stop within fifty meters of a designated spot. Very shortly the altitude was raised to one hundred meters. When war began in 1914, the number of fliers breveted was 1,720. Of that number, women were a very small part.

At the Voisin camp at Châlons, M. Chàteau, a company engineer responsible for training new pilots, took Laroche in charge, supervised by Charles Voisin, who was already captivated by her charms. Charles was a tall, handsome man, and Raymonde was equally impressed with him. The two were inseparable, which did not please Gabriel, who complained that Charles was giving too much time and attention to the young student instead of concentrating on his work. Both brothers were experienced pilots who tested their own machines, but they were not interested in competitions. Their business was lucrative enough.

Raymonde proved a deft pupil. Learning to fly was very much an individual matter; one had a talent for it, or not. Instruction consisted of a few comments from a mentor on the ground on what made an aeroplane go up, how to bring it down, how to keep it balanced in the air. Technology was so primitive that such information could be given in a few short sessions. Would–be pilots learned by doing, especially what not to do, by making many short flights over time. With a good measure of luck, they gained the seasoning necessary to earn a pilot's brevet without smashing the machine or themselves.

Raymonde listened attentively to M. Cháteau's instruction and soon was steering the Voisin training aeroplane across the ground to get the feel of the machine. Later, when her success won headlines, she endorsed the Voisin aeroplane for its manageability and stability, two important qualities for a machine. Her first attempts showed aptitude: She could drive the machine across the field in a straight line, have it turned by a mechanic, and bring it back to where she started. From that beginning, she progressed to making short hops. On her first try, she revved up the fifty–horsepower motor and taxied across the field, turned into the wind, and with full power raced back across the field. Suddenly, her wheels left the ground, and she continued in the air for three hundred meters before gently settling down. There were loud cheers from the ground crew, and M. Cháteau nodded approvingly to his pupil, who was flushed with happiness at her first “getting off.” For the record books, it was the first female flight. The date was October 22, 1909, a day she never forgot.

La Baronne de Laroche seated in the first plane she flew, a Voisin
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MUSÉE DE L'AIR ET DE L'ESPACE, LE BOURGET

Four days before, the Comte de Lambert had flown over Paris in a Wright biplane and circled the Eiffel Tower twice at an altitude of four hundred meters before returning to his landing site. For the Parisian public, the flight proved that aviation was no longer entertainment but a serious reality, “truly the French science” predicted by
La Petite République
following Blériot's Channel flight the previous summer.

Laroche continued making hops, gradually lengthening them in the weeks that followed, as she gained confidence. The tests for the Aero Club demanded the ability to land precisely and to achieve distance. Besides learning to maneuver the machine smoothly, students learned to judge the air, whose currents are never constant. A maneuver that worked well one day would be hazardous the next because of shifting air currents, or a sudden gust that could tip the aeroplane over. Early morning and late afternoon were usually the calmest times for flights, but not always. Judging distance was another essential requirement; other aeroplanes and obstacles must be avoided, especially when landing. In each case, the pilot must move instinctively to avoid disaster, an adeptness that would come only with experience.

Laroche learned the hard way on January 4, 1910. On that day, wind conditions required her to approach the Châlons field for a landing over a row of poplars. After a turn at the far end of the field, she approached the trees but misjudged their height. As she flew over, the tail of her machine brushed a tree branch before she could pull up, causing the machine to drop heavily some twenty feet, throwing her from her seat. The machine was shattered, but its pilot, at first unconscious, received only a broken collarbone and bruises. The fall did not discourage her; she was determined to be the first woman aeroplane pilot in the world. Through the weeks of recovery, aware that other women—Hélène Dutrieu, Marie Marvingt, Marthe Niel, and Jeanne Herveux—were learning to fly, she worried that one of them would beat her to it.

As soon as she was well enough to climb into an aeroplane and work the controls, Laroche was planning her next move. She would join a troop from the Voisin company and travel to Egypt to compete in the Heliopolis air meet in February. After that seasoning, she would take her tests for a pilot's license.

The Heliopolis meet was not a great success. The weather was difficult for flying, with three days of storms followed by two days of heavy wind that kept all but the most intrepid fliers on the ground. Twelve aviators competed, driving five monoplanes and seven biplanes. The Grand Prix d'Egypte for aggregate distance was won by Henri Rougier, who flew his Voisin 153.5 kilometers in spite of the weather. Madame de Laroche was listed as eighth, with twenty kilometers flown on February 10. Hubert Latham and Hubert Lablon, known in France for their aerial ability, each totaled five kilometers on the same day. Raymonde had plenty of courage.

On March 8, 1910, Fédération Aéronautique Internationale issued the world's first female pilot's brevet, No. 36, to Madame Laroche after successful flights before club officials. Her satisfaction was evident, as was her fatalism about facing risks. Questioned by crowds of reporters, who were delighted with aviation's new star,
la femme–oiseau
(“female bird”), Laroche declared flying to be ideal for women. It didn't rely on strength as much as physical and mental coordination. As for the risks, she insisted she knew no fear when she flew. She philosophized that many people spread danger over a lifetime; others pack it into a matter of only minutes or hours. With a strug of her shoulders, she observed: “In any case, what is to happen will happen.” Her matter–of–factness won praise; she had courage and sangfroid.

Eighth place at Heliopolis did not bring financial rewards, but Raymonde was content with her appearance. She had made her debut in the aviation world; there would be other opportunities for prizes. Winning her brevet established her in aviation, and she had beaten her competitors to become the first woman pilot in the world.

Thérèse Peltier, a sculptor and protégée of Léon Delagrange, almost certainly flew an aeroplane alone, but she never received a pilot's license, although she was pictured seated in a Farman biplane on several occasions. She made headlines in 1908, first as a passenger with Delagrange when he broke the record for duration in a flight-thirty minutes and twenty-seven seconds—when he flew in Turin and, later, Rome. Peltier reported on the aviator's success in Rome for the French press and his meeting with the queen mother. Delighted with the aviator's aerial feats, the queen mother anticipated that in two or three years “we shall have a royal aeroplane.” However, for her part, she preferred a new automobile.

In September 1908, Delagrange was listed in the press as head of a new commercial organization, Compagnie d'Aviation, to encourage aviation technology and promote exhibition flights. At the same time, he presented one thousand francs to the French National Aerial League as a prize for the first woman aviator to fly one kilometer, operating the machine on her own, with or without a passenger. Peltier, according to the same story, was continuing her training to try for the prize. When Delagrange was killed in January 1910, she gave up flying. France lost one of its heroes; his death plunged the country into mourning.

Following Laroche's success, there was a burst of female activity. Hélène Dutrieu piloted a fragile Santos-Dumont machine in 1908—9 trial tests, but didn't try for her brevet until August 1910. Her certificate, No. 27, was issued by the Aero Club of Belgium. Marthe Niel won brevet No. 226, issued August 29, followed by Marie Marvingt, who passed her tests and earned license No. 281, issued November 8. Jeanne Herveux passed her tests before the end of the year, earning certificate No. 318, issued on December 7. The number of French pilots had grown steadily from Raymonde's No. 36 nine months earlier. By 1910, the Aero Club of France ruled that aviators without a brevet, or one from the proper agency in a foreign country, were prohibited from entering aviation meets organized by the club. The carefree days of early flying were fast disappearing.

With confidence gained from her pilot's license, Laroche flew in meets around Europe during the spring. In St. Petersburg she was congratulated by Czar Nicholas II. Writing about her appearance there, Raymonde described the aviation ground as small, less than thirty meters wide, which made all the fliers hesitant to fly. Once she was up, she discovered that smoke from surrounding chimneys poured skyward, causing uncertain shifts in air currents and poor visibility. Mounting higher, she flew over houses and forests until she was about a hundred meters high. Circling in four broad turns, she turned off her motor and volplaned (glided) down. To her surprise, “nothing broke.” The czar was much impressed by her performance, although Raymonde admitted her heart was in her mouth. Following her Russian appearance, where she was presented as la Baronne de Laroche, the title was used habitually in the press. There were hints that Czar Nicholas had “entitled” her, but Raymonde was using the title before her visit. It was good for publicity and set her apart in a title-conscious society.

Budapest followed St. Petersburg on the spring tour. Here, again, chimneys acting like pylons on the flying field belched smoke into the air, causing dangerous currents. She won first place in a consolation prize; there were no takers for a cross-country flight of 110 kilometers. The memory of Budapest's hazardous air currents haunted the Baronne until she flew at Rouen, which she discovered was even worse for dangerous currents. Feeling her Voisin caught in a tempest, she immediately started down and landed head-on; the machine upended, into the fence enclosing the aerodrome. Commenting later, Raymonde was thankful she had the wits to keep the motor running. Otherwise, the biplane would have fallen on the crowd. Happenings like these made flying an ongoing learning experience.