Before Amelia (32 page)

On her return,
The Billboard,
in a long article, mentioned some of the adventurous pilot's impressions from her trip: The two cultures intrigued her; each had something to offer the rest of the world. Chinese writers had “mastered the art of delivering sterling thoughts in sugar–coated fairy tales”; the Japanese were “the most polite people I ever met.” Her feminism rebelled at the idea of walking ten paces behind a man, as Chinese wives had to do; no American woman would do that! She was glad to be home, glad she was an American.

The coming of war changed aviation in America. Aeroplanes, recognized as an important weapon in Europe, already three years into the war, became the focus for an industrial revolution in America. The old, leisurely, one–model–at–a–time production was finished. Manufacturers geared up to meet the challenge, among them Glenn Curtiss, who was producing the new government JN–4. At the same time, civilian aviation activity ceased and schools around the country were taken over by the military or closed.

Against this background, Katherine planned a distance flight to break Ruth Law's record of the previous year, but to do this, she would need a different aeroplane. She had contacted Curtiss before she left for the Orient about the kind of machine she would need, and gradually the “Junkshop Hybrid,” the nickname the mechanics had given it, was assembled from parts belonging to other experimental models. To continue flying during wartime restr ictions, she volunteered to assist the Red Cross in its fund drive by flying from Buffalo to Washington with stops at New York City and Philadelphia. It was a chance to help the war effort and further the distance–flight goal. When the United States had declared war, Katherine offered her services to the military, but she received a polite turndown. No women need apply.

Katherine was not nonplussed. She found ways to keep busy with recruitment promotions, Red Cross drives, and appearances at a few fairs. In the late fall the Curtiss JN, a hybrid with clipped JN–4 wings and an S–3 triplane fuselage, was ready. First tests by company engineer Roland Rohlf showed it was nose–heavy; a nearly fatal crash sent it back to the shop for balancing and repairs. There were more adjustments before Katherine began practice flights to get acquainted with the ninety horsepower OX–2 motor. In the late fall, pilot and machine were ready; a small mirror positioned in the cockpit allowed her to present a clean face before climbing down, on landing.

On December 5, 1917, twenty thousand soldiers at Camp Kearny, near San Diego, scanned the sky in anticipation. Shortly before noon, Katherine's special aeroplane,
Speed Scout,
was spotted in the distance. Flying in low, it looped once over the parade grounds and landed. Standing on the reviewing platform, she announced she would make a nonstop flight to San Francisco. The applause and cheers were thunderous from the assembled troops, who were treated to a special afternoon performance of aerial stunts.

Six days later the determined aviatrix rose before dawn and took the trolley to the North Island ferry landing. She had a quick breakfast while waiting and forgot to pay, in her haste to get on the ferry. At 7:31, the heavily fueled Curtiss took off from North Island and headed north. Sticking to the coast for the first lap, then over Los Angeles, the pilot plotted a northern course over a piece of Mojave Desert toward the eight–thousand–foot–high Tehachapi Mountains and the pass.

By noon, Katie was having hunger pains; breakfast was hours ago. She admitted years later that she was sorely tempted to land and get something to eat, but she gritted her teeth and the OX–2 engine continued its steady beat. The hours ticked by as the Curtiss passed over the California landscape: Bakersfield shortly after noon; Madera at two o'clock; Mission San Jose at four; and in forty minutes, the historic city on the bay. Making a wide turn over the San Francisco harbor, the Curtiss landed on the Presidio parade grounds, neatly swept in anticipation of its arrival. A tremendous din from the waterfront—horns, sirens, whistles—greeted the aeroplane as it touched down. An Aero Club observer clocked the time: 4:41
P.M.
The record distance was 610 miles in nine hours, ten minutes, a national record for distance and duration; the Curtiss had used all but two gallons of its seventy–six–gallon tank. Katherine was fond of saying she was “the first person to travel from San Diego to San Francisco between meals.” It had been a grueling experience; in the future, food would go with her. One advantage of such a flight was the opportunity to meet famous people who were equally impressed with her. In Los Angeles, she met and was photographed with America's heartthrob, Douglas Fairbanks Sr.

During her winter rest in San Antonio, Katie planned her next flight. If she wanted to fly, she had to find some kind of official support. Reports from Europe indicated that aerial mail delivery was proving rapid and efficient. In the United States, war regulations dictated military aviators should carry the mail on military aeroplanes, but there was no organized system. That would come later when the Postal Department assumed responsibility.

Katherine applied to the War and Postal departments and, because of her sensational California flight, received permission to fly from Chicago to New York City in her Curtiss. Supplied with a ration of malted–milk tablets and swathed in woolens and leather, she took off unannounced at 7:37
A.M.
on May 12 from Grant Park. A new 24–cent stamp, featuring a blue aeroplane on a red border, was issued for air–mail use on the sixty one letters she carried. The flight ended abruptly when the engine threw a valve, and, coming down on a farm, the aeroplane ran into a tree. The structural parts were quickly repaired, not so the engine.

On May 23, having been sworn in by the postmaster at Chicago, with her machine in good running condition, she started again for New York. It was tough going; strong winds fought her all the way and, after ten hours, she ran out of fuel at Binghamton, 150 miles short of her goal. Coming down on a muddy hillside didn't help. The machine nosed over; a new propeller was needed before the flight could resume. Mechanics worked all night to ready the Curtiss. On takeoff, the hillside location proved unsuitable. The machine flipped over on its nose again; mud had worked into the engine. More repairs were needed. Six days later, on takeoff the machine turned turtle again for the third time within a week. Katie, strapped into her seat, hung upside down a few inches from the ground. Finally, a third try was successful, and sixty–one letters were delivered on June 2, when the Curtiss landed at Mineola, Long Island. The distance recognized by the Aero Club for the Chicago–Binghamton flight was 601.763 miles, bettering Ruth Law's record of the previous year; newspapers headlined the railroad mileage: 783 miles. Newspaper accounts credited her with distance and endurance records (ten hours, ten minutes), even “first to fly the mail” (not correct—others flew with official recognition before Katherine), and played up the success of a nineteen–year–old “slip of a girl.” Despite the poor landing at Binghamton and the subsequent takeoff failures, her flight demonstrated the aeroplane's potential for mail service. Today, stamps from that flight are highly valued collectors' items.

Katherine's next venture was a flight for the Red Cross. At 11:50
A.M.
on June 24, Katie took off from Buffalo, flying a new military–t ype, two–seater Curtiss JN, with wings forty–five feet in length—loaned especially for the flight. The second seat was convenient for carrying her luggage and Red Cross literature. She had exactly fifteen minutes of instruction from Curtiss's head instructor on the new machine before winging her way south, with stops at Rochester and Syracuse, arriving at Albany at 6:45 that evening. The next morning, her flight was delayed until ten o'clock to ensure a noon flight over New York City. Guided by railroad maps, Katie had bombarded towns along the route with cards urging folks “down there on earth” to do their bit for the Red Cross onehundred–million fund.

At 12:15 she landed at Governor's Island in New York Harbor for a welcome by Aero Club and Red Cross officials, and lunch. Her next stop was Philadelphia, with another large welcoming party of Red Cross officials and newspaper reporters; then, finally, she arrived in Washington, where a large white canvas cross marked her landing spot on the polo grounds near the Washington Monument. The field was packed with automobiles and people who had waited hours to greet the young aviatrix at the end of her 670–mile flight. The last 373 miles from Albany made another distance–record flight for an aviator flying to Washington. Before landing, the pilot gave the waiting crowds a fifteen–minute acrobatic performance, ending with an eighteen–hundred–foot nosedive and glide to the ground.

Red Cross officials greeted her and presented her with a check for fifty thousand dollars, as the first donation from the Washington area. This, together with more contributions than expected from Buffalo, was presented to Secretary William McAdoo at the Treasury Department shortly after eight o'clock that evening. The flight, the longest Katherine had flown, had given the new giant machine a fine christening. Reporters on the scene all commented on the pilot's youthful appearance; her age, given variously as nineteen or twenty–one, remained a public mystery.

From Washington, Katherine took a train to Chicago, where she packed up her Curtiss machine and traveled to Canada for appearances. In late June she flew into western Canada, visiting the ranching communities. On July 9, as the Calgary Exhibition was in full swing, she took off at 6
P.M.
from the gopher–hole–pocked field north of town to begin a flight to Edmonton, an outpost of civilization at that time, carrying a mail pouch with 259 letters. She had been granted a special dispensation by the postmaster general at Ottawa to make the mail flight. Two hours and five minutes later, she landed at Edmonton, where an enthusiastic crowd greeted her. Elsewhere, this would have been a night flight, but, as reported in
The Curtiss Flyleaf,
in Western Canada, in the summer, it is possible “to read a newspaper in the open as late as 10:30 at night.” Expectations ran high, following her flight, that western Canada would see increased aerial–mail development—the potential was there, with good topography and climate, according to Canadian commentators.

Back across the border again, Katherine applied to the U.S. Aerial Mail Service to become a member. Captain Benjamin Lipsner was dumbfounded. He listened, then declared that some time in the future her application might be considered. He didn't know Katherine. She went to Postmaster General Albert S. Burleson and, in short order, the air–mail service was told to add her name to the list of pilots, all men. When she asked that Wright controls be put on the Curtiss aeroplane, Lipsner demurred, pleading cost, and was overruled by Burleson.

On September 26, Katherine made her first flight as an employee, flying the Washington—to—New York route via Philadelphia, the only airmail route at that time. Her escort was Maurice Newton, who led the way with Katie flying close behind, each carrying 150 pounds of mail. Three hours later the two aeroplanes landed at Belmont Park, at Elmont, Long Island, which had been donated by August Belmont for the government's use, with Newton touching down first. On the return flight the following morning, Katie took off first, Newton second. Some newspapers, treating the flight as a race, hailed Katie as the winner when she landed first in Washington. Newton was furious, as were the other male pilots, and because of this misunderstanding, and the ill feeling it generated, Katherine left the service without fanfare. In December, Lipsner, increasingly unhappy about Postal Department interference with his prerogatives, resigned in protest.

Still anxious to do something useful during the war period, Katherine joined an ambulance service organized under Red Cross auspices and went overseas shortly before the end of the war. There are claims that she flew around London before shipping to France, but this is highly unlikely. Her stint in France as an ambulance driver was brief, thanks to the armistice. The
New York Times
reported on her return, March 20, 1919, that she had been delegated to fly mail between Paris and Koblenz, the command center for American forces in Germany, but she was “forced to give up aviation because of a heavy cold contracted while driving an ambulance.” The “heavy cold” was then diagnosed as tuberculosis.

Katherine was never robust—“fragile” and “frail” were frequent descriptions in the press—and her exhausted body had little strength left to fight the disease. Six long years would pass, the first two spent confined to total bed rest, before she won the battle. By that time, flying was no longer possible. She moved to Santa Fe, New Mexico, for its healthy climate and became interested in architecture, especially the Pueblo Indian and Spanish Colonial styles. She won a prize in 1927 for plans for a house costing less than six thousand dollars, and built and restored several structures in Santa Fe, “using remarkable sensitivity in building,” according to the
Santa Fean Magazine.
In 1928 she married Miguel A. Otero Jr., a former aviator and the son of a former territorial governor, and settled down to life as a housewife.

In 1953, Katherine and Marjorie appeared together at the National Aeronautic Association dinner commemorating the fiftieth anniversary of the Wright brothers' flight at Kitty Hawk. Also present was President Dwight D. Eisenhower, who spotted Katherine among the guests and went over to shake hands. “I remember you down on the border in 1916, when you were flying there,” said the president. “I was a second lieutenant and I saw you fly at Fort Sam Houston. Gosh, how I marveled at the new–fangled planes and your ability to handle them.” (Eisenhower, who had a private pilot's license, flew a Stinson Reliant in the Philippines in the late 1930s for interisland transportation.)

In 1962, Katherine suffered a stroke and became a semi–invalid for the last fifteen years of her life, a sad ending to a brilliant career in the air. She died on July 10, 1977, at age eighty–four.