The Spirit of ST Louis (20 page)

MacCracken smiled "Well, you probably won't encounter much night traffic up where you're going," he said. "I think we can give you a special dispensation, just this once."

7

With every day that passes here in New York, I realize more fully that, aside from a plane with performance enough to make the flight, my greatest asset lies in the character of my partners in St. Louis. Byrd has been delayed by elaborate organization, and by Wanamaker's cautious insistence on a "scientific" test program for the America. Bitter dissension has broken out in the Bellanca camp; there still are arguments about who is to go, the route to be followed, and whether or not to carry a radio along. According to the papers, Levine has notified Bertaud that he is "not wanted as navigator" on the transatlantic flight, and Bertaud has obtained a court injunction to restrain the plane from taking off without him Of course the press is playing all this up in headlines. But my partners haven't interfered with my plans In any way. They've stuck to Bixby's original proposition that they'll take care of the finances, and leave the technical end of the flight to me. "Let us know when we can help you," is all they've said; and they sent one of my fellow Guardsmen, Lieutenant Stumpf, through to New York to act us an aide.

Earlier this week I phoned Harry Knight and told him that if I'm going to be first to Paris I'll probably have to start before I'm eligible for the $25,000 Raymond Orteig prize. The sixty days specified in the contest rules haven't yet passed since my entry was accepted. Knight didn't even stop for a moment to consider. "To hell with the money," he replied. "When you're ready to take off, go ahead."

8

This is Thursday afternoon, the 19th of May, exactly one week since I landed in New York. The sky is overcast. A light rain is falling. Dense fog shrouds the coasts of Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, and a storm area is developing west of France. It may be days, it may be -- I feel depressed at the thought -- another week or two before I can take off. I wouldn't be so concerned about weather if the moon weren't already past full. Soon it won't be any use to me.

I've been ready to take off since daybreak Monday, watching every report and sign of weather, listening to every rumor about my competitors' plans. The newspapers have kept us on edge about it all, and it's difficult to pull out any plums of fact from the hot cake of fiction that they print. Byrd's test flights seem to have been going well, but he has several more to run. On the one hand, he has stated repeatedly that he is going to complete all his scheduled tests, and that he won't be rushed into taking off for Paris. On the other, one of the morning papers says that "Commander Richard Byrd and his aides yesterday stowed aboard their ship, the America, enough food to last the three flyers for a month and announced themselves ready to hop off at a moment's notice." That sounds more like a reporter than like Byrd; but one is never certain.

The status of the Bellanca varies with the day's editions. In one paper the headlines say: "BERTAUD BARS BELLANCA TRIP BY INJUNCTIONS"; in another they announce "BERTAUD TO REMAIN IN BELLANCA CREW." The first paper says that controversial developments indicate "there is very little prospect the Columbia will take off when the others do, if at all," while the second tells its readers that "Bertaud announced early this morning that he would withdraw the injunction today."

As for me, one of the morning's subheadlines reads: "Flyin' Fool Adopts Mystery Air, Indicating Quick Take-off --" Actually, nothing could be further from the fact. Weather reports were so discouraging that I left the Spirit of St. Louis under guard and drove off with my friends Lane, Blythe, Stumpf, and Mahoney. Mahoney has just arrived, by train, from San Diego. We visited the Wright factory at Paterson, and then Guy Vaughan's home -- he's vice president and general manager. Tonight we'll go to a theater in New York to see "Rio Rita," back stage -- Dick Blyth arranged for that. It ought to be great fun.

"Shall we call Doc Kimball for another report?" Lane asks, as we drive east on 42nd Street.

"Yes," I say, "I think we'd better."

With the forecasts we've had, pavements shiny wet, and the tops of skyscrapers lost in haze, it's probably a waste time to call for a final check on weather; still, I'm not going to miss any chance. We park our car at the curb, and wail while Blythe goes into an office building to phone the Bureau. When he comes out I know by his face and gait that he has news for me.

"Weather over the ocean is clearing," he announces. "It's a sudden change." Unmindful of the rain, he stoops to outline the situation to us through the car window. The low-pressure area over Newfoundland is receding, and a big high is pushing in behind it. "Of course conditions aren't good all along your route," Blythe continues. "They say it may take another day or two for that."

But there's a chance I'll be able to take off at daybreak.

Thoughts of theater and stage vanish. The time has come, at last, for action.

We start immediately for the flying field. Will the America and Columbia crews be there, getting ready too? They probably had this weather report some time ago. I can't fly over to Roosevelt Field tonight—the haze is too thick, and the ceiling too low. We'll put about a hundred gallons of gasoline in the tanks before taking the Spirit of St. Louis out of its hangar. But most of the fueling will have to be done after daybreak, when my plane is in take-off position at the runway's end. That gives Byrd a big advantage. His Fokker can he taxied from its hangar to the take-off position, regardless of haze or fog. Of course if he starts tomorrow he'll have to cancel his christening ceremonies; they're scheduled for Saturday. But if the weather's right, and if his plane is ready, I don't think he'll let a christening hold him back. If I'd only had a little warning, I could have flown over to Roosevelt this afternoon. Now it's much too late. How many hours can I sleep and still be in my cockpit with the shades of dawn?

At Queensboro Plaza we stop for a quick dinner and to lay plans for the night. Lane offers to take charge of fueling and putting my plane through a final inspection; Boedecker, Mulligan, Umlauf, and other friends will help. And there's the recording barograph to be fastened inside my fuselage by Carl Schory; he represents the National Aeronautic Association. Somehow we'll have to locate him before morning. The barograph marks time and altitude on a slowly revolving cylinder of paper. Without it, the record of my flight won't be officially accepted.

"You'd better prepare yourself for some unpleasantness in France," one of my friends tells me while we sit eating. "I was talking to a fellow who just came back from Europe last week. He says the feeling over there isn't very friendly toward Americans. He thinks our embassy in Paris is right -- that no American ought to make the flight so soon after Nungesser and Coil have been lost. It won't be like Curtiss Field when you land; but I don't think you'll have any serious trouble."

On reaching the air field, I'm surprised to find no sign of preparation in the Byrd of Chamberlin camps. It seems, as I inquire further, that everyone else is waiting for confirmation of the reports of improving weather; after all, they're only indications of a clearing sky. Odds are against a daybreak start for Paris. The Weather Bureau's message is bracketed with reservations.

But isn't this the opportunity I've been wishing for? Isn't it a chance to prove my philosophy of flying the mail? Often a pilot can get through when weather reports are bad. Sometimes he's forced down when they're favorable. He can always turn back and try again. We've completed many a flight with the St. Louis mail when we'd never have taken off if we'd waited for more than "indications" of clearing weather; and that was over a route of less than three hundred miles.

If I wait for confirmation of good weather all the way to Europe, I may be the last rather than the first to leave. Dr. Kimball will be extremely cautious about saying the time is opportune, knowing that life and death are involved in his decision. My competitors can wait for him to give the word to go, if they want to. I'll take that responsibility on my own shoulders, where it belongs. I'll be ready at daybreak, and decide then whether or not to start.

9

With plans made and work quietly under way, I leave for my hotel to get whatever sleep the night still holds for me. But rumors of activity in my hangar have already spread, and reporters are waiting in the lobby. Several people come up and demand autographs while I'm answering questions. One man asks me to sign a motion-picture contract -- he talks about guaranteeing $250,000. Another wants me to make a series of appearances on the stage -- he speaks of $50,000. I've never thought in figures of that size; and now I've got to keep my mind free for the problems of my flight. I say that I can't make any plans for the future until after I reach Paris.

The time is close to midnight when I finally reach my room and lie down. There are only two and a half hours to sleep—if I'm to have everything ready for a dawn take-off -- but that's enough to help a lot. Even an hour's sleep can separate the 19th from the 20th of May. I've learned, flying the mail, that any sleep at all has value -- that minutes or even seconds add to wakened strength.

I let my head sink into the pillow and my mind relax. All my work is done, all arrangements made. Competent men have charge of the final servicing of the Spirit of St. Louis. I need think of nothing more until I awake. One of my friends is outside in the hall, guarding the door. He's going to keep everyone away, and get me out of bed at 2:15.

Now I must sleep. I ought to have been in bed three hours ago -- that was a serious slip in plans; a pilot should be fresh for the start of a record-breaking transoceanic flight. Your mind doesn't work as well when it's short of sleep. I've let myself be caught off guard at a critical moment. But how could I have foreseen the sudden change in weather? This morning it looked as though I'd have to wait days before the fogs broke up. Dr. Kimball must have had new reports from ships and points along the coast. After all, my route's not organized for flying forecasts; what meteorological stations there are were set up to serve sailors and farmers, not pilots of the air. Their interest in weather is connected with the surface of the earth rather than with the sky itself.

Well, this is one of the emergencies that fill a flying life. You try to avoid slips like this, but you know they come now and then, and you keep reserves to meet them. I can get by without sleep. I've done it on the mail run -- But how much better it is to start a day fully rested -- how much keener you are -- how much more you enjoy the art of flying -- and I want to enjoy my trip to Paris -- to be fresh for the overloaded take-off -- to appreciate the lands and seas I pass --

If only the weather is good in the morning. If only there's a little wind along the runway, not across it. I can't take off with a strong cross wind, heavily loaded. How much cross wind should I attempt to take off with -- what angle -- what velocity? If only the runway were a little wider and the field a little longer -- If only there's a west. wind -- wish I could get a good sleep before starting -- or that I could put it off for one more day. But a pilot should never turn down a break in weather -- weather's too fickle -- especially over the North Atlantic -- if I let a day of good weather pass, someone else will probably start ahead of me -- Chamberlin with the Columbia -- or Byrd with the America -- Now I've drawn even with them at last -- no, I'm ahead of them -- I won't give up that advantage -- I won't lose it for the sake of a little sleep -- there's still time for some rest – over two hours -- it's a long time -- they'll call me at 2:15 .

There are loud knocks on the door. It opens. A man steps inside -- the one I posted in the hall to see that my rest was undisturbed. Has something gone wrong? Weather changed again? Trouble at the field? Is someone else starting ahead of me? Drowsiness leaves; I rise up on my elbow; he comes over and sits on the edge of the bed.

"Slim, what am I going to do when you're gone?" he asks.

Good Lord! Is that why he came in at such a time? -- to ask that question? "I don't know," I say. "There are plenty of other problems to solve before we have to think about that one." After all, I'll be in Paris tomorrow if everything goes well -- yes, it's after midnight -- and if everything doesn't, time will make it obvious enough what to do. I tell him I've got to get some sleep, and he goes away. But all desire to sleep has left. I'm wide awake. When I have only two and a half hours to lie here before flying over the ocean—no, it's two hours now -- why can't I be left alone?

Two more hours and I'll start the day of my flight to Paris -- unless weather turns bad again. I wish it would turn bad; then no one could leave. Then I'd get a full night's rest before my take-off. I'm not eligible for the Orteig prize yet anyhow, and I won't be for another week. Why couldn't my entry have been accepted sooner? It's a shame to miss getting that money because competition makes me leave a week too soon. A few more days of bad weather would be worth $25,000 plus a good night's sleep. I could stand another week of crowds and newspapers for that. Besides, I'm getting on toward the end of the $15,000 I asked my partners to raise. There's only $1,500 left—only ten percent of what I started with. But everything is paid for -- plane, equipment, personal expenses. Now I must sleep. Time is passing -- good Lord, it's half past twelve.

Why did that fellow have to ask such a fool question, just as I was dozing off? Maybe I won't sleep at all. That's a bad start for flying over the ocean -- a full day without sleep before the take-off.

But would I have slept anyway, even if my friend hadn't come in? I'm not sure. Usually when I lie down tired I fall unconscious in an instant. After a day's work in open air I need only to shut my eyes and all problems leave my mind. The days in New York have been tiring -- there's no question about that -- but tiring in an unhealthy sort of way. If I had been working on the plane, pouring fuel in the tanks, and walking over the field to watch its surface, I'd not be asleep. That's what I would have been doing except for the newspapers, and the crowds they've brought. But I wanted publicity on this flight. That was part of my program. Newspapers are important. I wanted their help. I wanted headlines. And I knew that headlines bring crowds. Then why should I complain? The excesses are what bother me -- the silly stories, the constant photographing, the composite pictures, the cheap values that such things bring. Why can't newspapers accept facts as they are? Why smother the flavor of life in a spice of fiction?

Well, I'll be away from it all in the morning -- this same morning, if the weather breaks. It will all be gone once I'm in the air, left behind. Somehow I must stop my mind from rambling. It's already 1:15. There's only an hour left. But did I make a mistake in telling Lane to fill all the gasoline tanks? I'll have to get 450 gallons into the air. It's more than Hall designed the plane for -- the tanks came out 25 gallons oversize. I'll gain 160 miles' more range; but at a cost of 150 pounds of extra load -- as though I weren't asking enough of wing and engine anyway. I'm saving a few pounds on oil -- that will help. When we found how little oil the Whirlwind used between San Diego and New York, Lane and I decided we could cut from 25 gallons down to 20 for the flight to Paris. That takes 35 pounds off the extra 150.

No reserve in flying is more valuable than a reserve of fuel; but how much weight can an airplane lift? When does it just refuse to climb? Suppose the Spirit of St. Louis can't climb with its load -- that's what happened to the American Legion. And Fonck couldn't get off the ground at all with his Sikorsky. The papers quote some engineer who declares that all three New York-to-Paris flights are doomed; and they say that the president of the American Society for the Promotion of Aviation agrees with him. But Chamberlin and Acosta got the Bellanca off with a full load for their endurance flight, and Nungesser got the White Bird into air at Le Bourget.

One-forty on my watch—almost time to dress. No, I won't get any sleep tonight, but I'll lie and rest a few minutes more. The night is past; the new day has begun; and with it, revived hope, interest, life. I feel fresher, ready for the start, anxious to get away. Will there be a wind at daybreak? What changes have these two hours brought to sky?