Before Amelia (5 page)

In Berlin, while performing as “the human arrow,” the auto fell on her, and she spent the next six months in a hospital recovering from multiple injuries. Lying quiet for long periods, Hélène had time to think; had she used up her ordained number of lives? She recalled later that this was when the idea of flying first occurred to her. Watching Wilbur Wright's performance in 1908, she was inspired to become a pilot.

Her decision coincided with developments in French aviation. The Clément–Bayard Company was building another Santos–Dumont aeroplane, the Demoiselle, and needed a lightweight pilot to manage the fragile machine. A woman would be just right, and would be good publicity for the machine, considering its feminine name. Hélène, whom Clément-Bayard had met earlier, filled the order, and the young performer signed a contract in mid–1908 with the company for two thousand francs a month, which included an automobile, mechanics, and all hotel expenses.

In the fall of 1908 and early 1909, she was making test flights on the
Demoiselle
at Issy–les–Moulineaux.
L'Intransigeant,
a journal of the period, wrote that her “guileless eyes and timid voice” suited a young convent girl rather than a budding pilot of thirty–one years. The lightweight, unstable
Demoiselle
made for uncertain, demanding work, calling for all the skills Hélène had developed on cycles. Neither the designer, Santos–Dumont, nor the builder, Clément–Bayard, provided instructions for handling the aeroplane. The day before her first flight, a mechanic advised her to push the
manche
(literally “handle”) forward to come down, and to pull back to go up. That was all she needed to know. He forgot to mention the warping belt that fitted over the shoulders to raise or lower the wings.

Armed with this advice, the petite pilot climbed into her seat, determined not to show her uncertainty before the curious onlookers, and started the motor. She concentrated hard on getting up, and the machine responded marvelously, except for one wing, which drooped and made straightening out impossible. She tried to look behind to see what was wrong; perhaps she should go down a bit and push up again to correct the machine. She pushed the stick forward a little and, to her surprise, landed abruptly in a marshy area. The machine was destroyed, but, miraculously, the mud absorbed much of the shock and the pilot was unhurt.

Made wiser by this experience, Hélène was determined to manage the aeroplane, but its fragility caused it to blow here and there with passing currents like a paper toy. In spite of numerous experiments—Hélène was game to try anything—the result was splintered wood, fractures, and contusions. Finally she had had enough; she canceled her contract.

She wrote to Roger Sommer, who was building a biplane at Mouzon in the Ardennes. Convinced by the eager pilot of her ability, Sommer signed a contract with her. Before her first flight, he instructed her briefly on his aeroplane, a heavier and larger machine than the
Demoiselle.
Takeoff was fine. The aeroplane rose in the air, a much more stable apparatus than the
Demoiselle,
and Hélène had a good view of the surrounding landscape, with the Meuse River straight ahead. She reacted immediately; she did not want to fly over it. She would have to turn, something she didn't want to do quite so soon. Gripping the controls—there was little time—she turned, successfully, and headed back over the landscape where she had gone up. Sommer and a few spectators below were gesturing to her, but the dubious pilot was hesitant to land. As she explained years later, it was easier to keep flying than to land. Hélène flew for twenty minutes, a women's record for the time, before deciding she had no choice. Luckily, the dreaded landing was perfect. The journals hailed her April 9 flight, but Hélène knew she had much to learn. Ten days later, she carried a passenger for the first time, another first for women, a claim made by several other French women pilots.

Her career was progressing nicely; Hélène, at last, was satisfying her
“terrible soif de voler”
(terrible thirst to fly). The following month she took part in an air meet at Odessa with Sommers. All went well until one day, coming down to a lower altitude at the end of a flight, she clipped the chimney of a house. In the next instant, she found herself on the ground, the aeroplane smashed. Sommer canceled her contract, convinced that she would never be a pilot.

Back in France again, the unhappy flier turned to Dick Farman, brother of Henry, who knew her from her cycling days. He agreed to the loan of an aeroplane, but without a motor, because the motor was equal to the cost of a machine and then some. Unperturbed, Hélène next went to Louis Seguin, the director of Gnome, manufacturer of the best motor available in France. She got her motor.

One of the hardships of early flying was exposure to motor oil, particularly with the motor up front. Castor oil, smelly and reminiscent of childhood sickness, was the oil of choice for the Gnome and most motors of the period because it was light. Hélène once said the combination of smelly oil—often pilots were spattered with it— and bobbing machine caused bouts of nausea until she got used to it.

The Farmans made one demand: Hélène must get her pilot's license, her brevet. Working with the Farmans was the wisest career decision Hélène made. Henry Farman was interested in building machines that would expand the primitive aviation technology. With Dutrieu he had a pilot as interested in the improvement of flying machines as in making a name for herself.

Belgian-born Héléne Dutrieu learning the ropes from Henry Farman on a Farman plane in France.
MUSEE DE L'AIR ET DE L'ESPACE, LE BOURGET

Writing in 1910 about his aeroplane, Farman explained that the machine's ailerons maintained lateral stability. A single lever controlled movements: forward to go down; back to go up. If the machine leaned to the left, move the lever to the right, and vice versa. The aeroplane was a marvel of simplicity, very practical for training fliers; Farman concluded that pupils required fewer lessons to learn to fly it because “the essential movements are instinctive.”

Accordingly, Hélène practiced the required skills and on August 23, 1910, took her test. Because of confusion among the officials, she was asked to redo the test, but a scheduled appearance in Belgium made that impossible. It would be three months before she received French Aero Club recognition.

At Blankenberge, on the coast of Belgium, the first three days of the exhibition were a washout, with heavy rain and wind so strong that Hélène at times feared for her Farman biplane in the shaking hangar. On the fourth day, the ire of the customers and the promoters of the exhibition, who had no appreciation of the influence of weather on flying, had reached a climax. Late in the afternoon, Hélène's young mechanic, Beau, came running with news—the weather was great! She should take off at once, before officials declared she didn't know how to fly. That did it; the machine was rolled out. Beau, who was crazy about flying, begged to accompany her, and at 6:30 they were off, the brave Beau seated behind the pilot.

Years later, the elderly Hélène remarked, “It was a great imprudence” to carry two people on that machine, but, obviously, she never regretted it. As soon as they gained altitude and circled for the excited crowds below, Beau suggested it would be more interesting to fly across the countryside than the sea. Hélène was thinking in terms of a short flight, but Beau shouted encouragement to go on, pointing out the sights below. Ostende passed quickly, then Bruges appeared, as an excited Beau called out, “There is the belfry!” The marvelous spire of the cathedral reached to the sky as the biplane with its two passengers made a grand circle of it.

Hélène confided much later that if she had been alone in the aeroplane, she might have come undone at that point, realizing where she was and what she had done. But because of Beau, she felt something like a mother's need to protect her child, and she gathered her strength for the return to Blankenberge as day turned to night. In the gathering
dusk it was a great relief to see the lights of the town; they weren't lost. For the first time in Hélène's experience, lights along the edge of the sea guided her to land, where fifty arms waited to help her from her aeroplane and carry her in triumph to her hotel.

The flight with Beau had chalked up a remarkable number of “firsts”:

•  first Belgian woman aeroplane pilot

•  first woman in the world to make a cross–country flight

•  first flight by a woman to go and return nonstop

•  first woman to carry a passenger cross–country

•  official record for altitude, four hundred meters

•  official record for duration, thirty–five to forty minutes

•  official record for distance, forty–five kilometers

Following this performance, the Aero Club of Belgium awarded her her pilot's brevet, No. 27. Hélène was hailed the next day by the international press for her extraordinary flight carrying Beau, who, she always said, gave her the courage to accomplish it.

Feeling more secure with each flight, Hélène made appearances at several meets in England, probably arranged for her by Henry Farman, whose machines were appearing throughout Europe. At Folkestone, Burton–on–Trent, and Doncaster, she made successful flights, sometimes with a passenger, when the weather permitted. At Burton she carried a passenger over the town to the delight and cheers of fourteen thousand people assembled in Bass's meadows, a performance hailed by the English press as the “first woman's flight with passenger.” The press loved articles hailing “firsts.”
Le Petit Journal
had it right when it observed: “Les aéroplanes montent et les records tombent.” (“The aeroplanes go up and the records fall.”) Back on the continent, Hélène appeared in Holland and Belgium, flying at Liége, Anvers, Braisne–le–Comte, and Menin with one or two passengers.

In England, Hélène's flights over towns raised concern in aviation circles. A notice in the
Daily Mail
stated that the Aero Club of England would penalize its members, or certified pilots, for flights over towns or populated areas because of the “present state of the science of aviation.” The club reasoned that such flights did not contribute to the development of aviation and could be hazardous to the public.

Finally, in November, the Aero Club of France, recognizing Hélène's proven ability, issued her a pilot's license. The administrative debate was resolved; on November 25 she received license No. 27, the number given to her earlier by the Belgian Aero Club. Marthe Niel had won a license August 29, the second French woman to do so; Marie Marvingt was brevetted on November 8; and Jeanne Herveux would follow Hélène with a license on December 7. They were competent fliers and very competitive.

In December, the newly brevetted pilot resolved to try for the recently established Coupe Fémina. On the 22nd, taking off from Étampes in midafternoon after last–minute advice from Farman, Hélène circled the airfield in a steady wind, showing remarkable skill in handling her aeroplane. The distance tabulated by Aero Club representatives was 60.8 kilometers flown in one hour and nine minutes. (The reporting on early fliers in the press was far from accurate. Distance and time often differed from the official records, and a “new record” was a familiar claim when flights lengthened almost daily.) Marie Marvingt was second to Hélène, with a distance of forty–two kilometers, flown in fifty–three minutes. Because her flight was made first, Marvingt mistakenly claimed she won the Coupe. Not so.

In 1911, Hélène did not rest on her records. Most of the year was spent in competitions and appearances, and the press began to refer to her as
la femme épervier,
“the female sparrow hawk.” In May she competed at Florence in the speed race for the King of Italy Cup against fourteen men, including Emile Védrines, Maurice Tabuteau, Eugène Renaux, and Romulo Manissero, and won. Other meets found her in Spain, Belgium, and France.

Flying at Le Mans in August, Hélène had a rare mishap. The day had gone well for all attending the meet, until near the end, when Charles Weymann's machine, after winning a speed race, suddenly fell to the ground. Shortly after, Hélène took off in her Farman biplane with Léon Bollée, president of the Aero Club of the Sarthe. Newspaper accounts reported that as the aeroplane flew in front of the grandstand, one wing struck a post, and in the next instant, the machine toppled over, shattering into pieces among some of the spectators. Fortunately, both pilot and passenger jumped free without injury, but three spectators hit by flying debris were taken by ambulance to the hospital. Never mind the injured spectators, and the near miss for the pilot and her passenger—the gossip papers seized on the fact that Hélène was not wearing a corset when she crashed. She explained that a corset is confining, and she needed freedom of movement when flying. Among the old biddies all the talk was of “the scandal,” another shocking display by the day's young women. Hélène was not making a feminist statement; her concern was comfort.