The Spirit of ST Louis (13 page)

I have divided my reserves for the flight into two categories. The first I class as reserves for success; the second, as reserves for failure. I depend on my reserves for success to land me on the aerodrome at Le Bourget. I depend on my reserves for failure to let me live if I can't get through to and, if possible, to save my plane. They will be kept in the background.

Extra fuel is my greatest reserve for success. With it, I can ride through night and detour storms. Prevailing westerly winds form a reserve which costs me nothing. And the long coast line of Europe—I can be hundreds of miles off course I strike it, and still reach Paris.

The ability to turn back is my greatest reserve for failure. For more than a thousand miles after I leave New York I'll be within easy reach of land. If weather becomes too thick, if I encounter head winds, or if some fluctuating gauge or engine roughness indicates danger, I can turn back and start the fight again. Here, too, the amount of fuel I carry may be of top importance.

But suppose my engine fails over the Atlantic, what emergency equipment shall I take with me? Is it wise to carry any equipment for a forced landing on the ocean; or would that simply be a self-deceiving gesture -- actually a detriment to safety? Under such conditions, could anything I carry save my life? It's a problem to which I can find no clear-cut answer. Safety at the start of my flight means holding down weight for the take-off. Safety during my flight requires plenty of emergency equipment. Safety at the end of my flight demands an ample reserve of fuel. It's impossible to increase safety at one point without detracting from it at another. I must weigh all these elements in my mind, and attempt to strike some balance. In each instance, I'll try to buoy life with hope, no matter how faint that hope may be.

I decide to buy a small, black-rubber raft that's displayed in the window of a sporting-goods store downtown, which stripped of its oars, weighs only ten pounds. Should I carry a rubberized sheet to keep out wind and spray when I'm in the raft? No, I can use fabric from the wing for that.

I'll need a knife for cutting. I mark it down on my list. A big knife with a fixed blade would be best in emergency, held by a cold or injured hand. Of course if I land in the ocean I'll get soaked, and it's doubtful that I'll ever get dry again. I must dress to stay as warm as possible in wet clothing. That means wool material, no cotton or leather --except my shoes.

Even if a ship did pass nearby, it could hardly see a lit raft floating in the waves. Suppose it passed at night – I ought to take some flares. At best, it's not likely that I'd found quickly, so I'll have to carry some water and so food. Water weighs an awful lot—eight pounds a gallon plus container. I've heard that a man named Armbrust has invented a device that condenses moisture from the breath which can be drunk again—possibly I can buy one.

14

A stamp collector has offered me a thousand dollars carry one pound of mail to Paris in the Spirit of St. Louis! I reread his letter: yes, a single pound. He has seen newspaper notices about my project. I don't understand it; I don't s why anybody is willing to pay so much money for a few souvenir envelopes and stamps. A thousand dollars would help our financing quite a lot; and maybe there are other ways of earning money that I haven't thought about. But the principle involved - I've determined to hold down every ounce of excess weight. If I once start compromising, I won’t know where to stop. Still -- one pound -- a thousand dollars -- I'll write to my partners about it.

LEGION BACKS DAVIS NEW
YORK-PARIS FLIGHT

PLANE TO HAVE 4,600
MILE RANGE

MARCH 14.—Lieut. Commander Noel Davis plans to take off from Mitchell Field, Long Island. in June for a non-stop flight to Paris. He will fly a Keystone

San Diego

Pathfinder biplane with additional fuel tanks in the fuselage which will give a flying radius of fifty-four hours. The big ship will be powered with three Wright Whirlylnd engines.

The plane to be flown by Commander Davis will be christened "The American Legion." Members of the Legion will contribute to the cost of the flight, which will be about $100,000.

Commander Davis, who is one of the most experienced aviators and aerial navigators in the United States, will not leave anything to chance. He will use a sextant of his own invention - - -

15

The Huff-Daland Company must have changed its name to Keystone. I wonder if Davis's American Legion is the stripped-down bomber that General Patrick authorized the company to sell -- redesigned for an extra engine in the nose. Every few days a new article about the progress of New York-to-Paris projects appears in the paper. I'm clearly in a race against time, with odds against me.

The construction of the Spirit of St. Louis moves along as fast as Hall can produce drawings from his board. Bowlus starts work on less important items without waiting for drawings. Everyone is taking personal interest in my flight; hours of overtime labor have become normal and voluntary. Hall often goes to the factory at five o'clock in the morning to inspect the previous day's progress before the men arrive. Work on other planes has almost stopped. It's less than three weeks since I arrived in San Diego, yet skeletons of the fuselage and wing have taken form.

I've completed my general plans of navigation. My study brings out four critical points on the flight: First, my take-off with full tanks of fuel. Second, my check-out on the coast of Newfoundland. Third, my landfall on European shores. Fourth, my landing at Le Bourget. I can only be sure of covering two of these points in daylight. The most important is the take-off—I must be able to see for that. The next is to locate my position accurately before starting over the ocean.

I'll take off from New York at daybreak. That will give me sunlight for my overloaded hours, and put me over Newfoundland before dusk. It should let me strike Ireland before nightfall of the second day. I'll have to find Paris and land on Le Bourget after dark. Of course, I'll be a little tired by that time; but I'll have a lightly loaded plane. And there’s the moon—if weather and competition don't interfere too much with my take-off date, I can arrive above Europe when it's close to full. I think I could even locate my position at night if I make a landfall in clear weather, under a full moon. The third week in June would be an ideal time to start—the longest days of the year, and brilliant moonlight.

Hall is busy computing more accurate performance curves. He now estimates the theoretical range of the Spirit of St. Louis to be 4100 miles, at the most economical cruising speeds. Even with no help from wind, that would put me over Paris with 500 miles of fuel in my tanks -- a reserve in ease the mind of any pilot.

To get maximum range, of course, throttle and mixture controls must be correctly set. It would help a lot if I had an instrument in the cockpit which would show my exact consumption of gasoline with each different adjustment of the engine. I've tried to get such an instrument both through the Army and through commercial companies, without success. Apparently there is no satisfactory fuel-flow meter for aircraft. So I'm designing one myself. It's light and simple, and maybe it will work.

16

NUNGESSER TO FLY ATLANTIC

FRENCH ACE ANNOUNCES
PARIS TO NEW YORK FLIGHT
THIS SUMMER

PARIS, March 28.—Captain Charles Nungesser, one of the top aces of the World War, said today that he would pilot a French-built plane across the Atlantic this summer. He will be accompanied by Lieut. Coll, the famous one-eyed airman, as copilot and navigator. M. Coll has been working on plans for a transatlantic flight for the last two years. The machine they expect to use will have a single 450-horsepower engine, and carry 800 gallons of gasoline.

I lay the evening paper down on the restaurant counter. That makes the fourth New York-Paris project besides my own, to be definitely announced -- Byrd, Fonck, Davis, Nun-poser. And Chamberlin is almost certainly getting the Bellanca ready. He's in the best position to be first to start. I wonder if he'll try to break the world's endurance record before taking off for Paris. I pay the waitress for my supper, and start on a walk along the waterfront.

17

WESTERN
UNION

ST. LOUIS, MO. MAR. 28, 27

CHARLES A. LINDBERGH

CARE RYAN AIRLINES INC.

SAN DIEGO, CALIF.

CHANGES IN WING AREA AND LOADING APPROVED STOP COMMITTEE ADVISES THAT THEY HAVE A RUMOR THAT YOU INTEND TO DROP LANDING GEAR WHICH THEY DO NOT APPROVE PLEASE ADVISE

HARRY H. KNIGHT

That means our formal entry has just been accepted by the Contest Committee of the National Aeronautic Association—they administer the rules for the Orteig prize. I mailed our application a month ago, but the committee wanted more definite information than I could furnish then about the plane I was going to fly, and my intended point of take-off from New York. Sixty days must elapse between a pilot's entry and his flight, according to the regulations. That means I won't be eligible until the end of May. If I start before that, and get to Paris, we'll lose twenty-five thousand dollars!

I send a return wire, saying that I do not intend to drop the landing gear, and that the Spirit of St. Louis will be ready for its test flights sometime in April.

18

When the Whirlwind engine arrives from Paterson, we gather around the wooden crate as though some statue were to be unveiled. It's like a huge jewel, lying there set in its wrappings. We marvel at the quality of cosmoline-painted parts. Here is the ultimate in lightness of weight and power -- two hundred and twenty-three horses compressed into nine delicate, fin-covered cylinders of aluminum and steel. On this intricate perfection I'm to trust my life across the Atlantic Ocean.

The inner organs of this engine -- its connecting rods, cams, gears, and bearings--will be turning over many hundred times each minute -- sparks jumping, teeth meshing, pistons stopping and reversing at incomprehensible speeds. And I'm demanding that this procedure continue for forty hours if need be, for all the 3610 miles between New York and Paris! It seems beyond the ability of any mechanism to withstand such a strain, yet -- I force myself back to reality -- Whirlwinds are flying on the mail lines for thousands of hours between failures. And this engine, the Wright Corporation says, has had a special inspection.

19

It's early April. Word has gotten around San Diego about the plane we're building for a flight across the Atlantic Ocean. Two or three reporters have come to talk to me about it. Short articles have appeared in the city's papers. Each week brings more visitors to our factory. This afternoon several naval aviation officers from North Island stop by. Since I have my preparations well in hand, I take time off to show them various parts of the Spirit of St. Louis, and tell them about the flight I'm planning. As they leave, they invite me to give an address at the Naval Air Station some evening, on the subject of long-distance aerial navigation. Imagine! The very men to whom I'd have gone for advice, had I not feared making a display of my ignorance, asking me to give them a lecture on navigation! Do I have enough knowledge and ability now to do this? As far as the use of dead reckoning on the flights between San Diego and Paris is concerned, I've studied it intensively, and laid out my charts with detailed care. If I confine myself to these items, I'll be on solid ground. And these men from North Island can give me much assistance in the future. There's little to lose and much to gain by accepting.

20

The lecture turns out to be less difficult than I expected. The naval officers are as fine a group of men as I've ever met -- courteous, genial, intelligent. They are greatly interested in my plans; and since none of them has studied such a long flight before, I find myself in the enviable position of a speaker who knows his subject better than anyone else present.

"Why did you select a monoplane for the trip?" one of the officers asks.

"It's more efficient than a biplane, there's more room in the wing for gasoline, and it can carry more ice," I tell him.

"What kind of charts do you intend to use?" a lieutenant commander queries.

"The same as you carry on ships at sea, after I leave the coast line," I answer.

"Suppose you strike a wind change in the night, and it drifts you far off course?"

"A navigating error wouldn't be too serious; this flight isn't like shooting for an island. I can't very well miss the entire European coast."

They all laugh at that.

"When do you plan on starting?"

"I hope to leave San Diego sometime in April," I reply.

"Ideally, I'd like to take off from New York in June, when the moon is full. That would give me a minimum of darkness."

As I outline the reserves I'm establishing and the high performance we expect to obtain from the Spirit of St. Louis, even the skeptics apparently begin to feel that the flight may be within realms of possibility—not a purely suicidal venture.