Before Amelia (31 page)

Appearances throughout the fall won Katherine a national following. She once told an interviewer that she found the usual flights monotonous, that she started doing acrobatics because they were more challenging. They also attracted bigger crowds. By the time she finished her appearances during Market Week, August 2—7, at Grant Park, Chicago, newspapers around the country were hailing her achievement—looping. On Labor Day she looped at Caro, Michigan, and later at the Michigan State Fair at Detroit, working her way by stages through the Midwest to Arizona and California. She was warmly received in Tucson, where she carried mail again, met with youth groups and aviation enthusiasts, and was filmed in flight by the Cuauhtemoc Film Company of Tucson, before leaving for California. In San Francisco she was hailed as “the first pilot to fly at night.” Although not actually true, the claim was good advertising. The preparations in the Bay City pleased her: “There was a beautiful lawn, illuminated by hundreds of lights for starting and landing.” Newspaper accounts of her flights were glowing. Traveling south to Los Angeles, she decided to try skywriting using magnesium flares that released a stream of light and smoke at the touch of a button. Before a large crowd of newspapermen gathered outside of Los Angeles (the city authorities did not want her flying over inhabited areas), she traced the abbreviation for California—“Cal”—in the darkened sky, pictures of which were flashed to newspapers nationwide. Landing was tricky. Katherine complained later that the field was lit by only a few pine knots, unlike the conditions in San Francisco; even more disconcerting, her motor stopped just as she was coming down to land. Although the flight made history, she could see the need for improvement, particularly to prevent the flares' smoke from blinding her.
Aerial Age Weekly
reported the event and observed that she had done it “to eclipse the feats of her male competitors.”

Katherine was not shy about voicing her intention in a Los Angeles interview: “When I looped in Chicago last July, it was a bitter pill for the male loopers to swallow, but I accomplished all their stunts and in my case went them one better.” (She added a snap roll on top of a loop.) When she heard that Art Smith was skywriting at night with flares attached to his plane, she decided she would do it, too. Both the press and Katherine played up her competition with the men; it made good copy. A Los Angeles reporter watching her night flight wrote that she used her aeroplane “like a great invisible pen, writing in molten fire on the curtain of the night.” Reporters were impressed by her “perfect control”: The graceful handling of the aeroplane; the rapid, confident ascents and soft landings; and her soft, southern accent charmed them.

The Los Angeles success was soon routine. Katie lit up the Chicago night sky with a drawn–out “S” over Grant Park to celebrate the New Year, before returning to San Antonio for the winter. The family was busy at the end of 1915 with plans for an aviation school, with Marjorie and Eddie as teachers. Katherine was an interested observer but took no part in teaching or managing the school. Some of her earnings may have financed the school; family records are not clear on that point.

The past year had been successful for Katie; the Partr idge–Keller machine was marvelous for stunt flying. In 1916 the Stinson name played coast to coast. In May, at Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn, the “most daring woman aviator in the world” raced Dario Resta, a renowned auto driver, around the speedway and crossed the finish line seventy–five feet ahead of him. Spectators watched with disbelief as Stinson dropped to within six feet of the track, flying sixty miles an hour, to cross the finish line ahead of her competitor, an act that was popular from coast to coast. The meet, a benefit for the National Aeroplane Fund of the Aero Club of America, was an eye–opener for easterners, who watched enthralled as the young pilot dropped bombs and looped over the field.

She played a repeat performance at the Sheepshead Speedway during the Military Naval and Aviation Tournament, held soon after. She arrived at the speedway at night after a flight from Brighton Beach—the first indication of her approach was the buzzing of a distant motor. The grandstand crowds searched the sky as the sound grew louder; next, they saw the magnesium flares light up as the aeroplane flew over the west end of Coney Island. There was a roar of approval as the lights traced somersaults in the sky before burning out. Within minutes, the machine drew closer and another tube of light appeared, tracing twists and a final loop at a thousand feet over the field.

There was more. At nine hundred feet, Katherine turned off the motor, dropped vertically to one hundred feet, and volplaned the remaining distance, to land. Applause and honking horns filled the night air, as the delighted pilot climbed out of her seat. She knew she had scored a hit. Recounting the trip for the press, she said, “After I left Coney Island I didn't know just where I was, for my fireworks had blinded me, and I was afraid I wouldn't be able to find a good place to land.” She knew the speedway was large enough, but “wasn't sure just where it was.”

The applause was tonic; she would go up again. The mechanics were hustled to get more flares, they checked the machine, and at 10:30 the tireless pilot was up again, turning two more flip–flops “while the planes streamed white flares.” The New York press wrote glowingly about her performance before fifty thousand, her youth, and her brown curls. They liked heringenuous manner: “Looping the loop is the easiest thing in the world. Except that you get lost sometimes, and have to hunt around to get your bearings again.”

Katherine could be as busy as she wanted at this stage of her career. She was probably the best–known woman flier in America, but she was not the only one. Blanche Stuart Scott was still flying, although she would soon retire, and Ruth Law was making headlines for her daring flying. Ruth would become Katherine's closest competitor—they were friendly rivals. Katherine's long–distance flights were instigated by Ruth's record flight in November 1916. Katherine couldn't let anyone, male or female, get ahead of her.

Back in Chicago, Katie had “Shorty” Schroeder spend two weeks doing a major overhaul of the Partridge–Keller machine. In a test hop, she reported the motor was running much better, its performance improved. She would be ready for the next tour.

Meanwhile, her reputation had crossed borders. In late June, Katherine began a tour of western Canada, with a fourday appearance in Calgary, Alberta. There had been little aviation in the prairie provinces, so news of her appearance created much excitement. She performed her usual repertoire: bomb throwing, acrobatic tricks, and night flights. She filled dates at Edmonton, Brandon, Regina, and Winnipeg, attracting large crowds and acclaim. At Camp Hughes, near Brandon, the aviatrix was threatened with arrest when she landed unannounced. Explaining that she had come to entertain, she was told “Carry on!” and sixty thousand troops turned out to see her.

The tour was not without incidents. Returning to Brandon, where she had been made a princess of the Sioux by Chief Waukessa (reportedly, the Stinsons were one quarter Cherokee), the Gnome broke a piston, and an emergency landing in a wheat field left the looper on its nose. A farmer came along, studied the machine, and asked: “Is that one of them newfangled threshin' machines?” Katie had to laugh in spite of the fix she was in. Together they got the tail down, and the farmer guarded the aeroplane while she went for help. At Regina her last flight was memorable for the locals. When the aeroplane headed vertically down from a great height, people watching at a distance were convinced the pilot had crashed. The municipal switchboard “buzzed with eye–witness reports from all over town.”

Back in the United States, the fall fair season started up; Katherine was sought after in many places, among them Massachusetts, Tennessee, Virginia, and Iowa.
The Billboard
for October 14, 1916, commented that the contract at Richmond was for “the largest amount paid any aviator for a fair engagement this season.” In November the Pickens office announced that Miss Stinson would make a six–month Orient tour, starting in December.

There was much to be done to get ready. She would need two aeroplanes; the second was insurance in case of an accident. She arranged with Emil Matty Laird to borrow his small machine, with a sixty horsepower Anzani motor—its size would prove useful in small areas. She had to pack clothes that would be warm, not showy. It was announced that mechanic Frank Champion would care for the machines, and Katherine's mother, Emma would accompany her. William Pickens made all arrangements for the tour. On November 25 the party sailed from San Francisco.

Her debut in Japan was arranged when Katie received a cable on board ship from a Japanese woman who wanted the women of her country to see a woman do an extraordinary feat never done before in Japan. The feminist supporter offered twenty–five hundred dollars; Katherine accepted. It would be a night flight with lights—the works. Accordingly, she made her first flight in Japan on the night of December 15 on Aoyama Parade Grounds outside of Tokyo. Huge bonfires lit the field, and hundreds of police were present for crowd control. The awaited performance lasted fifteen minutes: loops, twists, and tracing the letter “S” in the night sky, for a delirious crowd that threatened to mob her on landing. Flowers were everywhere—wreaths, horseshoes, bouquets. Katherine remarked years later in an interview: “I didn't know whether I was expected to get killed, when I saw these arrangements, all those flowers.” Her appearance excited the country; she was hailed as “Air Queen.”

After the Tokyo flights, Yokohama, Nagasaki, Osaka, and Nagoya were next on the tour. Everywhere there was great enthusiasm—government officials and the public alike were caught up in an outpouring of feeling. There were few hitches during Katherine's flights, a rarity considering the winter weather and the crowded topography, but while she was flying at Nagoya on January 15, the Anzani motor suddenly stopped. Intense vibration, a trait of the Anzani, had caused a crack in the crank case. A newsman on the scene wrote that the machine plunged “like a falling arrow until the rudder re–commenced to operate” at little more than one hundred feet above the ground. The Laird machine was damaged slightly on landing. The motor was sent to a local foundry to be rebuilt, while a spare fifty–horsepower Gnome was fitted into the Laird. When she was not flying, Katherine visited local model–aeroplane clubs and fan clubs that sprang up overnight; she was frequently photographed in a kimono—it was comfortable, and beautiful. She watched a performance of a Japanese play in which the characters were dressed like aviators, but she didn't have a clue about the plot. Every where she went, women greeted her as an emancipator for demonstrating women's potential; wearing a kimono made Japanese women feel she was one of them. She was showered with gifts and money, and collected “a bag full of medals.” For her part, the aviatrix found the Japanese very accommodating, quick at sizing up a situation, and with a “no problem” attitude, which endeared them to her.

China was a different matter. The crowds were large, extremely curious about the aeroplane, and uncontrolled. Whoever made arrangements for the flights lacked any idea of what was involved. More than once, Katie found it impossible to take off because the crowds surged around the aeroplane on all sides. The first time this happened, she realized the webbing intended to keep people at a safe distance was useless. She asked the consul, who spoke little Chinese, to explain to the local dignitary that the rolled–up webbing should be held by people along the path of the aeroplane to improvise a barrier. The looper had no brakes, which meant that people had to keep clear of the takeoff area, some fifty yards at least, or the machine couldn't go up.

It was a fiasco! In desperation, Katie got out of the machine, took the hand of a Chinese man on one side, and the hand of another man on the other side, trying to form a ring to move people back. The consul knew what she was trying to do but couldn't explain it in Chinese. The crowd was vastly amused and kept asking in Chinese, “Why don't you fly?” They thought the aeroplane went straight up. The consul insisted she
must
fly; people had been waiting all day. There was an ominous tone to his command.

Slowly, as Katie formed a line on each side, pushing people back, she was able to inch the aeroplane forward, making a big noise with the gas to scatter those close up, until people finally understood what she was trying to do. When enough room for a quick ascent was cleared, she took off quickly. She was up, but landing soon became a problem. Below her, an uncontrolled mob drifted about the field. Instead of looping and dropping from on high, Katie contented herself with flying in circles while she tried to figure out a landing site.

Spotting a big yard ahead enclosed by a fence, she could see people in uniform walking about. She had no idea what it was, but she knew the growing crowds outside made landing dangerous. She landed quickly near the fence and motioned to the men to help roll the machine inside the enclosure; that done, they began to climb all over the aeroplane, examining everything. Eventually she positioned it to keep it from harm. Years later this experience, one of thirty–two flights made in China, was the only one of her flights Katherine mentioned in an interview. It made a lasting impression.

Her flight in Peking, a private premiere for the president, who presented her with three thousand dollars, was followed by appearances in Canton, Hong Kong, Tientsin, Nanking, and Shanghai—to thrilled multitudes, who watched her aerial stunts with awe. It was a great relief, however, to return to Japan in April 1917, where she was received royally and with greater public decorum. There, events in Europe and America's entrance into the war caught up with her. The tour was shortened, and Katie sailed home on April 27, 1917, arriving in San Francisco three weeks later.