Before Amelia (38 page)

Seguin, Texas, home of the Seguin Fire Department's annual May celebration, signed up Marjorie to appear, in addition to promised entertainment for all ages—races for cash prizes, a baseball game, dinner, and not one but two grand firemen's balls. Miss Marjorie Stinson would “illustrate peace and wartime uses” of the aeroplane. The war in Europe had stimulated interest in the use of aeroplanes for attack purposes, and bomb demonstrations were popular. A temporary fort built on the Bauer Park field at Seguin was the target for attack with flour bombs. Real explosives were costly and dangerous. The celebration, advertised in German to attract the surrounding German communities, promised “
Moderne Luftkriegs Methoden by Fräulein Stinson.”

To show the peacetime potential of aeroplanes, Marjorie was sworn in as an aerial-mail pilot, to deliver mail from the Bauer Park flying field to the post office in Seguin for disposal, using a special cancelation stamp reading “Aero Post Seguin, Texas, May 19th” to mark the first aerial-mail flight in Texas. On the first flight, messages from the mayor of Seguin to the mayor of San Antonio were carried in a pouch on the seat next to Marjorie. Looking very young in her white tunic and pants, Marjorie was photographed on May 24 being sworn in by Postmaster George D. Armistead at San Antonio. Interested spectators included Emma Stinson; Katherine Childs, a child movie star; and her mother, Mrs. Childs. (Marjorie was also flying in a movie being made by Excel Motion Picture Company.) After one flight between Seguin and San Antonio, made with considerable press, the project ended without explanation. One drawback to flying the thirty-mile trip on a regular schedule was the unreliability of aeroplane motors. Also, air-mail service was still in the planning stage nationally.

The movie enterprise paid fairly well and provided lots of laughs. Marjorie's part in the rather loose plot called for her to make off with the child star because of a divorce dispute. With Baby Katherine belted in the seat beside her, Marjorie took off, circled once, and, following instructions, headed toward the camera for a close-up shot. The first time she was afraid to get too close; the second time, as she headed straight for the camera, an unexpected puff of wind sailed the aeroplane straight into the cameraman, knocking him and his machine to the ground. Fortunately, no one was injured. Since the camera was operating until the moment it was hit,
A Romance of Earth and Sky
had an exciting, real-life sequence.

Like her sister, Katherine, Marjorie flew on the exhibition trail with appearances at Menomonie, Wisconsin, and Bogalusa and New Orleans, Louisiana, where a bonanza rained from the sky. In agreement with local merchants, she flew over downtown New Orleans and dropped the
Daily States
noon edition from the sky, which offered coupons for free merchandise in the local stores. Some of the choice items included a quart of ice cream; a half-pound box of chocolates; one free piano roll; one bottle of Swat, the great mosquito lotion; and a twenty-five-dollar credit on a piano or a player piano. New Orleans dwellers were urged to be in the commercial district between 12:30 and 2
P.M.
“The youngest woman in the world to pilot an aeroplane” would also make exhibition flights at the Fair Grounds, showing the use of aeroplanes in war and, weather permitting, take up passengers one at a time during her two-day appearance.

That spring, Marjorie was appointed a lieutenant in the United States Aviation Reserve Corps, an organization formed by Albert Lambert of St. Louis, the pharmaceutical magnate, to develop a roster of trained pilots who would be available, in case of war, for national aviation service. Marjorie, the youngest member and the only female, received a gold insignia pin of the corps, one of her proudest possessions in old age. The group was more for show than performance, but it anticipated the need for trained fliers.

In early fall, Marjorie was at Fort Sam Houston again. Covering a large spread of Texas ground, the fort was ideal for flying. Eddie, who had gone to Dayton to learn to fly, returned to San Antonio to train with Marjorie because of crowded conditions at the Wright School, bringing four interested Canadians with him. With the arrival of the First Aero Squadron from Fort Sill, Oklahoma, commanded by Captain Benjamin Foulois, as well as a growing number of other students, Marjorie and Eddie decided they needed their own space independent of army approval. “Being chivalrous,” Marjorie wrote years later, “they [the Army Squadron] let me keep the wooden hangar, and they used tents,” which worked temporarily. Needless to say, the army fliers were amazed to find a woman teaching men to fly on a Wright B aeroplane.

The Wright had undergone some changes. The wings, instead of warping by the pilot's maneuvering a small lever on the top of the right-hand stick, were now rigidly braced, and a small section, removed from the outer trailing edge of all four wings, was hinged to the wing, to form flaps, or ailerons. This change reduced pilot fatigue. When more Canadian students arrived, they informed Marjorie the Canadian Aviation officials wanted them to learn another method of control, the three-in-one, with all movement centered in a steering wheel that rocked back and forth for the elevator and turned for the ailerons. The mechanics went to work to find parts: An auto lost a steering wheel, a separate hand grip mounted on the wheel shaft worked the rudder, the elevator controls were connected, “and we had a plane with two distinct and complete ways to fly it,” Marjorie recalled. She stuck with her Wright system; the Canadians used the wheel method. As with the aileron change, she took the machine up to see if there was any interference in the air between the two controls. There was none. She was ready to teach.

Toward the end of December, after scouting the countryside, Marjorie and Eddie found a parcel of land on the South Loop that would be an ideal flying field—it was flat and free of obstructions. Brother and sister clambered over the site, anxiously looking for rattlesnakes but, to their relief, found none. Meeting with the town fathers in January, Marjorie presented a petition to lease the five hundred acres of city land they had chosen for the Stinson School of Flying. Fifty acres were reserved by the U.S. government for an experimental farm, and a small parcel was used as a cemetery; otherwise, there were no claims on the land. Marjorie voiced one objection: The sight of graves being dug would not be encouraging to amateur students in the air, nor make for good flying.

However, on the plus side was the field's location along a road much traveled by tourists—the rich and leisured class, who regarded flying as a sport and would furnish students to the school. For good measure, Marjorie told the commissioners that Houston and other cities were eager to obtain the school, but the school would remain in San Antonio “if a suitable tract of land could be obtained at a reasonable rental.” The
San Antonio Express
predicted the lease would be drawn up shortly, providing for a nominal rental and annual renewal. Marjorie's pitch was effective— its practicality appealed to the city fathers—and the growing prominence of the Stinson name in aviation had a certain leverage.

Even before the move to the new field, the school had graduated the first four students, who came with Eddie, and started training six more, who arrived within weeks. Joseph Gorman, the first Canadian graduate, won his license on December 4, 1915, after two weeks of training on Marjorie's “flapper” Wright. The observers for Aero Club were Lieutenants Ira A. Rader and Thomas S. Bowen of the army squad. There were three machines in use, reworked Wrights built from parts bought by Emma at a government sale. Marjorie kept the Wright system, the Canadian students used the three-in-one wheel, and Eddie installed dual wheels on all the aeroplanes like those on the French Deperdussin to conform with aeroplanes in use overseas. Students usually flew both systems.

Gorman had written to the Naval Department in Ottawa, Canada, in November to explain his move to San Antonio from Dayton. He liked the Stinson School for several reasons: There were enough machines and instructors to avoid long delays, the Wright control was used throughout (the wheel was not installed yet), and the flying field was the same as used by the army squadron. A bonus for Gorman was the presence of thousands of troops, which, in addition to the regular course, provided training in scouting work and observing troops on the terrain below.

Gorman's test flights were admirably performed and loudly cheered by the group on the ground. Marjorie had given him a last bit of advice: “Don't forget, Mr. Gorman, start your glide at once if the engine stops.” It didn't, and the young Canadian went through his figure eights in consecutive flights, landing within ten feet of the designated marker on the second. Then, before the weather changed, the machine was gassed and oiled, and he took off for the altitude flight. Climbing in wide circles, the barograph strapped on the seat beside him, he continued upward until he more than surpassed the required height, before cutting the motor and gliding down to a gentle landing. (He could land anywhere he chose on this test.) Lieutenants Rader and Bowen signed the proper forms for Aero Club of America certification, and Canada had another volunteer for the Royal Flying Corps. Herbert MacKenzie, the second Canadian graduate, finished his tests on December 5 and left that night with Gorman for Canada. Both men were in England in the new year, training with the Royal Navy.

At Christmastime, Marjorie made a special flight for the children of St. Joseph's Orphanage and the Protestant Orphans' Home. She decided it would be a nice gesture to shower gifts from the sky for the children, many of whom were regular visitors to the field and had caught Marjorie's eye. The
San Antonio Express
explained her reasons: “If you could only see the utter amazement clothing their countenances when someone is in the air—why, you'd appreciate what I'm getting at.” The flight wasn't charity; it was a thank-you for the lift she got from their smiling faces. There was a bit of feminine attitude, too. “Men Santas have had the stage long enough,” said Marjorie; she would show what a modern Santa could do, minus the reindeer. On December 30, gifts and candies rained down from the sky (Emma was cautioned to select only toys that would survive the drop safely), and when the flight ended, the pilot joined the children to hand out presents to those who failed to get something from the “shower.” Souvenir cards were also dropped, undoubtedly designed by Emma.

On January 19, 1916, the school moved to its new location, which is still known as Stinson Field, though greatly reduced in size. The field was ideal. Marjorie never tired of praising it; the ground was level, with no hills for miles to cause adverse currents, air holes or bumps, or sudden wind puffs that veer over hilltops. The main part of the field was rolled; it was as hard and smooth as a floor. Otherwise, the far reaches of the field were a tumble of mesquite and sagebrush. In addition, the genial winter climate (the first students lived in unheated tents without suffering, according to a newspaper account) allowed for aerial activity through much of the winter season. A hangar and a machine shop for the care of aeroplanes were under construction, with quarters for the men next on the list. Tuition was $250 for four hours of training, Marjorie's records note, but there is confusion on that score. A copy of a Stinson contract indicated four hundred dollars as the tuition fee, cash in advance, with the number of hours blank. Another time, Marjorie said the fee was four hundred dollars for four hundred minutes. She was consistent, however, on two other points: There was no deposit for breakage, and the use of the school machine for license tests was free. Students paid the Aero Club five dollars for the license, which came in a blue leather cover.

Running the field was a family affair: Emma was business manager and raised chickens and sheep on the side; Marjorie and Eddie were instructors; Katherine made occasional appearances but never taught, even though her name appeared on the stationery designed by Emma. By April, news of the Stinson School was spreading.
Aerial Age Weekly,
under the headline “Youngest Flyer in America a San Antonio Girl,” described the personnel, the school equipment, and the students already successfully graduated. It was excellent publicity.

Writing in 1929 for
Liberty
magazine, Marjorie explained her method of teaching. In case there were doubts about her ability among the young men, she made several short flights to show she could fly safely and the aeroplane was in good order. A lecture followed (as a woman, she felt she had a right to talk a bit) to explain there were only three things to consider in flying: the direction (left or right), the banking (using rudder and ailerons), and the ascent or descent, with examples to clarify each point. Remembering her own training, she promised that each student would have as much control of the machine as possible, but in an emergency she must have control; she would ground anyone who did not relinquish all control at a given signal. “The air is no place to settle a difference of opinion about how to fly.” Pointing to a fire extinguisher within reach on the aeroplane, she assured the young men that, if pressed, she would use it, since she couldn't possibly win a physical argument with a heavier student.

That settled, the men drew lots to see who would take the first joy hop. To fill the bill, Marjorie would be flying continually, but since it was for a good cause, she was willing. The first flights lasted about ten minutes, enough to get the embryo pilots used to being in the air and to give them a chance to look around, followed by short flights, which introduced the rudder control to them. The trademark white string was tied on the skid brace in front for directional control. Overcontrol or undercontrol of the rudder made the string fly back at an angle; the error was corrected by flying in the direction in which the string pointed. The string also served as a stall indicator, but Marjorie didn't tell her students about that or how to correct it, because if they stalled, as the string registered, it was too late.