Before Amelia (8 page)

On November 8, after making figure eights, maintaining a certain altitude, and landing near a designated mark, Marie passed with flying colors, and was hailed as the third woman in France and the world to receive a pilot's license, No. 281, to join that unusual breed of
femmesoiseaux.
Marie always insisted that she finished her training on the difficult Antoinette without
casser du bois
(“shattering wood”). Considering the fragility of early aeroplanes and the danger from capricious winds, that was a rare accomplishment.

Although she survived splintering a machine while learning, Marie had one notable accident as a licensed pilot. While flying her fragile Antoinette at a meeting at Saintei-Etienne, the motor stopped suddenly as the aeroplane flew over a large crowd that cheered lustily in ignoirance of the danger overhead. Just beyond the crowd, a gust of wind caught the delicate machine and tossed it downward, where, fortunately, it landed in an acacia tree in the midst of a
boule
game. As was often the case with Marie, a camera captured her surprise landing, her wide smile, and the astounded
boule
players. The picture had a good play, and the press applauded her for her adroitness in avoiding a tragic accident.

Another time, flying a Deperdussin monoplane on a cold December morning, Marie capsized to the ground, headfirst into soft earth. Her head was bleeding, her mouth was full of dirt, but she was able to brush the dirt away and call for help, warning the men not to smoke, as she was drenched in gasoline. Incidents like this earned women fliers the same press recognition for bravery as men.

Marie Marvingt crash–lands in a tree in the midst of a game of
boules
after her motor stopped over Saint–Etienne, France.
MUSÉE DE L'AIR ET DE L'ESPACE, LE BOURGET

Two weeks after winning her license, Marie was practicing earnestly for the newly established Coupe Fémina. On November 27, she made a flight of forty–two kilometers in fifty–three minutes—at that time a record for distance and duration for women, which led to false reports that she won the Coupe. The record would be short–lived, as Hélène Dutrieu bettered it in December with her flight of 60.8 kilometers. By the following year, competition would be keen among a trio of women aviators: Dutrieu, Jeanne Herveux, and Marvingt, who competed each year but failed to win the prize. Not discouraged, she took part in meets around France and Turin, Italy, winning a reputation for flying, which she attributed to the joy she found in speed, the wind, and the view from above. She was a frequent contributor, as was Raymonde de Laroche, to journals that featured her flying experiences with those of prominent male aviators.

Before the First World War began, Marie had conceived an idea that would prove very beneficial in coming years—a flying medical service.
Aviation Sanitaire
became an important part of her life. Together with the engineer Louis Bechereau, she designed an air ambulance capable of carrying an injured person, on a litter slung under the chassis, from the battle scene to the nearest hospital. The service was not an immediate hit with the military, but the course of events would prove it extremely useful. A painting by Emile Friant, a well–known artist in Nancy, showing Marie with Georges Gille, a military doctor from Nancy, and a wounded soldier, was reproduced and shown everywhere to promote the service. Marie, often referred to as “the flying Florence Nightingale,” spent forty years advancing the service, to which she was completely dedicated. In later years she was known affectionately as the “Godmother” of
Aviation Sanitaire,
which was a happy joining of her aviation skills and the medical skills she eventually developed.

With the outbreak of the First World War, Marie pursued a variety of careers. She spent several weeks in disguise as a foot soldier at the front, then wrote of her experience; she reported on the war on the Italian front; on skis, she helped carry food to troops in the Dolomites and assisted with evacuations; she trained as a nurse and assisted in surgery; and she served with the Red Cross. Reportedly, she took part in an aerial bombardment of a German base, which won her the Croix de Guerre after the war. The death of her father in 1916 slowed her briefly, but there was little time to consider her new life entirely alone in the midst of war. Felix had given her total encouragement and love; he was probably the only person who really knew her.

The years after the war were never short of causes. Marie attended conferences regularly—one estimate is an astronomical thirty-five hundred during her life—to confer nationally and internationally on her favorite topic,
Aviation Sanitaire.
In addition, she lectured on aviation matters and assisted with medical evacuations in Morroco and elsewhere in North Africa by
Aviation Sanitaire
during the French colonial wars, an experience that enabled her to learn the native languages. More than one commanding officer in the years between 1919 and 1925 owed his life to the swiftness with which he reached an operating table because of
Aviation Sanitaire.

Among her other accomplishments, Marie, using her knowledge of winter skiing, invented metal skis for desert use. In February 1923 she drove across the Sahara, beating the speed record of Mrs. André Citroën, and entered In–Salah, a Berber stronghold in the Algerian mountains, reportedly the first European woman to do so, driving a Fiat 3549 with rubber tires. She spent three long periods in North Africa, 1922–27, 1932–35, and 1950–53. She worked on two documentary movies,
Saved by the Dove,
for which she did the narration, and
The Wings That Save,
filmed in 1934, in which she acted, and visited the United States twice before World War II to promote her
Aviation Sanitaire
and speak about aviation. On one visit, she met Amelia Earhart; both were recognized famous aviators. Marie was instrumental in founding a home for wounded airmen in 1939–40, and added to her credits the invention of a device used in surgical sutures; she received the first license issued as
secouriste de l'air
(“air rescuer”).

Awards were many, a total of thirty–four medals and decorations. In 1935 she was made a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor with its red ribbon; in 1937 she was named Chevalier of l'Ordre de la Santé. On her third visit to the United States in 1948–49, at an international meeting in Los Angeles sponsored by the Women's Aeronautical Association, she received first prize for her autobiographical works
Fiancée of Danger,
a summary of her many careers, and “My Balloon Trip across the North Sea.” Her name was inscribed on a marble wall in Riverside, California, honoring pioneer aviators. The American press liked
Fiancée of Danger
and saluted Marie accordingly. No copies of that work survived, but her long life is well documented.

In 1954 at the Sorbonne she received la Victoire de Samothrace, a grand prize, presented by Henri Deutsch de la Meurthe, an oil magnate and early aviation supporter, in recognition of Marie's pioneering work for
Aviation Sanitaire
and the
services de secours
(“rescue services”). In 1957 she received a Gold Medal in recognition of her work for Physical Education and a Silver Medal from the
Service de Santé de l'Air.
Two years earlier, on her eightieth birthday, she was treated to a flight over Nancy in an F–101 at twelve hundred kilometers per hour by an American officer from the base at Toul–Rosieres—an extraordinary experience for a veteran of bamboo and fabric machines.

Hailed as “the most extraordinary woman since Joan of Arc” by the American press, Marie more than earned that tribute. Blessed with a long life, she enjoyed the recognition that came to her through the years. She collected many mementos, but they did not buy food or heating in her later years, when she was forced to live very frugally. Older inhabitants of Nancy remembered their famous octogenarian neighbor, who still rode
Zepherine,
her ancient bicycle, around the city streets, but a younger generation had to be reminded of her history on special occasions. Her famous bicycle trip to Paris from Nancy at almost eighty–six was one. Ensconced at the Ritz Hotel, she visited an air base outside Paris and climbed into a French helicopter for a flyover of Paris that made all the city newspapers. (Her pr ivate pilot's license was renewed three years before, at age eighty–three; her last pilot's physical examination was dated August 2, 1956, when she was eighty–one. For the authorities, it was a way of honoring this exceptional woman. They knew she would never fly again.)

Marie's recipe for good health stipulated four or five hours of sleep and eating half–a–dozen snacks a day, like mountaineers—no big meals. For her, a healthy diet included tender red meat and plenty of chocolate, sugar, and fruit, but no spicy food, bread (it wasn't made well anymore), boiled beef, or alcohol. It was a regimen that served her well for almost ninety years. Interviewed in Nancy on her birthday in 1958, she announced proudly with a big smile, “I'm eighty–three years old, and I have all my teeth!”

After all the headlines, decorations, and accolades, Marie died in poverty in 1963 in a nursing home run by the sisters of Sainte Charles in Nancy. Her obituaries were glowing; she would have loved them. Her funeral was dignified and well attended by representatives from the aviation and civilian ranks who knew her legendary record. As one of that special group of women aviation pioneers, her place in history is assured, not just because of the publicity surrounding her countless exploits but because of the steadfastness of character she demonstrated, her concern for those in need, her humor, and her warmth. Asked once why she did so many unusual things, tackled so many risks and challenges, her answer was that of the mountain climber attempting Everest: “Because it is there.” In doing these unusual things, she believed she learned about nature and herself. There was a prayerful side to Marie that many people never saw, but her firm religious belief certainly contributed to her supreme confidence.

Two years before she died, an interview with Gordon Ackerman for
Sports Illustrated
revealed she had lost none of her sense of humor. She told him with amusement of the city's plan to build a museum to hold her trophies. When she was ill some years before, the city fathers decided her time had come, and they visited her to tell her their plans to honor her. Said Marie: “So every few days since then somebody has come to look in and see if Marvingt is still around, and if they can start work on the museum. This has been going on for a long time. They are starting to lose interest.” Then she flashed her famous smile, radiant still in old age.

THE FRENCH SKIES continually beckoned women to discover for themselves what the excitement was all about and gain a measure of liberation doing what only men had done. Marthe Niel—even before Hélène Dutrieu and Marie Marvingt had received their brevets— became a licensed pilot, encouraged by her husband, Albert, to take to the air. She was issued No. 226 on August 29, 1910, after passing her tests on a Koechlin aeroplane. Jean Paul Koechlin was a successful builder of monoplanes and biplanes, but his name is not as well known as that of some of his contemporaries. He had flying schools at Mourmelon and Issy–les–Moulineaux, near Paris. We can't be sure at which one Marthe was trained.

She was born December 29, 1880, in Paimpont, Br ittany. Little is known about her early years, only that she was swept up in the excitement of flying and was trained at a Koechlin school in a matter of weeks. She apparently had a healthy amount of confidence and determination, for, reportedly, she once said that “flying for a woman is not a book with seven seals.”

There are few references to Marthe. Probably she was content to fly for her own satisfaction and had little interest in competitions. This was not unusual. Women proved they could meet the requirements of the official licensing body, then flew for their own pleasure.

The fourth woman to earn a pilot's license before the end of 1910 was Jeanne Herveux (sometimes spelled “Herveu”). Her first name is anglicized to “Jane” in many references. Born in Paris, December 10, 1885, she had taken up the automobile like other modern young women before progressing to the aeroplane. Her daring exploits “looping the loop” with an automobile took her to the Crystal Palace in London, where, dressed in yellow silk, she was paid twenty pounds a show and performed four times a day. After she returned to France, her family begged her to give up the “loop.” Jeanne took up a Wernert eight-horsepower motorcycle for a while as a safer course, but soon she was back in an auto and racing the courses at Deauville, Château-Thierry, Gaillon, and Laffrey. Like Dutrieu, she had boundless energy. Doing seven–hour races did not faze her.

One day, she received a message: Someone needed an auto to do some hauling. The someone was Louis Blériot, who needed to move his glider. Jeanne accepted delightedly; it was her first contact with an aviator. That chance meeting led her to turn her eyes skyward.