The Spirit of ST Louis (21 page)

10

Frank Tichenor and Jessie Horsf all drive me to the field -- they're publisher and editor of Aero Digest. We arrive a little before 3:00. Clouds are low. It's hazy, and light rain is falling. There's a small crowd outside my hangar, and several Nassau County police officers are standing at the door.

"Didn't my message get through, Slim?" Lane asks.

"No. What was it?"

"We've found a way to haul your plane up over the rise to Roosevelt Field," he tells me; "you won't have to fly it. We've got a truck standing by. I said to let you sleep until just before daybreak, and we'd have everything set for you to take off. Say, the Curtiss boys have been a real help; they've been working with us all night. Well, as long as you're here, you might tell us what you think about the weather. I don't like to take your plane outside in this rain."

"Is anybody else getting ready to start?" I ask.

"It doesn't look like it," Mahoney answers. "Byrd is going to run some more tests. There have been lights in the Bellanea hangar, but not enough activity to indicate a take-off. They seem to be still tied up by that injunction."

"What are the last reports on weather?"

"Still not too good – – – but it's improving."

I slip out through the big, half-open door, and stare at the glowing mist above Garden City. That means a low ceiling and poor visibility—street lights thrown back and forth between wet earth and cloud. The ground is muddy and soft. Conditions certainly aren't what one would choose for the start of a record-breaking flight. But the message from Dr. Kimball says that fog is lifting at most reporting stations between New York and Newfoundland. A high-pressure area is moving in over the entire North Atlantic. The only storms listed are local ones, along the coast of Europe.

Clearing along the American coast, clearing over the Atlantic, only local storms in Europe. What does a low ceiling matter at New York? If clouds here leave room to slip beneath, I'll start at daybreak. If I can't get through, I can turn back. I order the Spirit of St. Louis taken to Roosevelt Field, and tanks topped off regardless of the rain.

Mechanics tie the plane's tail skid to the back of a motor truck and wrap a tarpaulin around the engine. Reporters button up their raincoats. Men look out into the night and shake their heads. The truck starter grinds. My plane lurches backward through a depression in the ground. It looks awkward and clumsy. It appears completely incapable of flight -- shrouded, lashed, and dripping. Escorted by motorcycle police, pressmen, aviators, and a handful of onlookers, the slow, wet trip begins.

It's more like a funeral procession than the beginning of a flight to Paris.

Part II

New York to Paris

May 20-21, 1927

THIRTY REVOLUTIONS Low! The engine's vibrating roar throbs back through the fuselage and drums heavily on taut fabric skin. I close the throttle and look out at tense faces beside my plane. Life and death lies mirrored in them—rigid, silent, waiting for my word.

Thirty revolutions low—a soft runway, a tail wind, an overload. I glance down at the wheels. They press deeply, tires bulging, into the wet, sandy clay.

The wind changed at daybreak, changed after the Spirit of St. Louis was in take-off position on the west side of the field, changed after all those barrels of gasoline were filtered into the tanks, changed from head to tail—five miles an hour tail!

A stronger wind would force me to the other end of the runway. But this is only a breath; barely enough to lift a handkerchief held in the hand. It's blowing no faster than a man can walk. And if we move the plane, it may shift again as quickly as it did before. Taking off from west to east with a tail wind is dangerous enough—there are only telephone wires and a road at the far end of the field—but to go from east to west would mean flying right over the hangars and blocks of houses beyond -- not .a chance to live if anything went wrong. A missing cylinder and -- "Hit a house. Crashed. Burned." -- I can hear the pilots saying it -- the end of another transatlantic flight.

And there's no time. There's no time to move the plane -- so small, so delicate, so heavy -- two and a half tons on those little tires, with all the fuel in. It would have to be towed, and towed slowly, five thousand feet over the muddy runway. We'd have to send for a tractor; I couldn't taxi -- the engine's too light -- it would overheat -- the fuel tanks would need topping off again -- hours lost -- night would fall on the Irish coast. I'm already late -- it's long past dawn -- and the weather reports say clearing.

My cockpit quivers with the engine's tenseness. Sharp explosions from the exhaust stacks speak with confidence and precision. But the Spirit of St. Louis isn't vibrant with power as it's always been before. I'm conscious of the great weight pressing tires into ground, of the fragility of wings, of the fullness of oversize tanks of fuel. There is in my plane this morning, more of earth and less of air than I've ever felt before.

Plane ready; engine ready; earth-inductor compass set on course. The long, narrow runway stretches out ahead. Over the telephone wires at its end lies the Atlantic Ocean; and beyond that, mythical as the rainbow's pot of gold, Europe and Paris. This is the moment I've planned for, day and night, all these months past. The decision is mine. No other man can take that responsibility. The mechanics, the engineers, the blue-uniformed police officers standing there behind the wing, everyone has done his part. Now, it's up to me.

Their eyes are intently on mine. They've seen planes crash before. They know what a wrong decision means. If I shake my head, there'll be no complaint, no criticism; I'll be welcomed back into their midst, back to earth and life; for we are separated by something more than the few yards that lie between us. It seems almost the difference between the future and the past, to be decided by a movement of my head. A shake, and we'll be laughing and joking together, laying new plans, plodding over the wet grass toward hot coffee and a warm breakfast -- all men of the earth. A nod, and we'll be separated -- perhaps forever.

Thirty revolutions low! "It's the weather," the mechanic said when I climbed into the cockpit. "They never rev up on a day like this." But his encouraging words failed to hide the apprehension in his voice and eyes. Now, the expression on his face, out there behind my silver wing, shows more clearly than any words what is passing through his mind. He's gone over the engine piece by piece, helped tear it down and put it back together. He feels sure that every part is perfect, and firmly in its place. He's squirmed into the tail of the fuselage to inspect structure and controls. He knows that wheel bearings are freshly oiled; that air pressure is up; that tires are rubbed with grease to keep the mud from sticking. He's double-checked the thousand preliminary details to a flight. His work is done, done with faithfulness and skill. Now he stands there helplessly, intent, with tightened jaw, waiting for my signal. He feels responsible for the engine, for the plane, for me, even for the weather that holds the revolutions low.

I lean against the side of the cockpit and look ahead, through the idling blades of the propeller, over the runway's wet and glistening surface. I study the telephone wires at its end, the shallow pools of water through which my wheels must pass, and the top-heavy black column of smoke, rising from some source outside the field, leaning indifferently in the direction of my flight. A curtain of mist shuts off all trace of the horizon.

Wind, weather, power, load -- how many times have I balanced these elements in my mind, barnstorming from some farmer's cow pasture in the Middle West! In barnstorming a pilot learns to judge a field so accurately that he can tell from the size of his passenger, and a tuft of grass tossed to the wind, just where his wheels will leave the ground, just how many feet will separate them from the boundary fence and trees beyond. But here, it's different. There are no well-established standards from which to judge. No plane ever took off so heavily loaded; and my propeller is set for cruising, not for take-off. Of course our test flights at San Diego indicate that it will take off—theoretically at least. But since we didn't dare try a full load from Camp Keamey's stony ground, the wings now have to lift a thousand pounds more than they ever carried before—five thousand pounds to be lifted by nothing more tangible than air.

Those carefully laid performance curves of ours have no place for mist, or a tail wind, or a soft runway. And what of the thirty revolutions lost, and the effect of moisture on the skin? No, I can turn to no formula, the limits of logic are passed. Now, the intangible elements of flight—experience, instinct, intuition—must make the final judgment, place their weight upon the scales. In the last analysis, when the margin is close, when all the known factors have been considered, after equations have produced their final lifeless numbers, one measures a field with an eye, and checks the answer beyond the conscious mind.

If the Spirit of St. Louis gathers speed too slowly; if the wheels hug the ground too tightly; if the controls feel too loose and logy, I can pull back the throttle and stop -- that is, I can stop if I don't wait too long. If I wait too long—a few seconds will decide—well, another transatlantic plane crashed and burned at the end of this same runway. Only a few yards away, two of Fonck's crew met their death in flames.

And there's the added difficulty of holding the wheels on the runway while sitting in a cockpit from which I can't see straight ahead. A degree or two change in heading could easily cause a crash. The runway is narrow enough under the best of conditions; now -- with the mud -- and the tail wind -- and the engine not turning up --

I lean back in the wicker seat, running my eyes once more over the instruments. Nothing wrong there. They all tell the proper story. Even the tachometer needle is in place, with the engine idling. Engine revolutions are like sheep. You can't notice that a few are missing until the entire flock is counted. A faint trace of gasoline mixes with the smell of newly dried dope -- probably a few drops spilled out when the tanks were filled. I turn again to the problem of take-off. It will be slow at best. Can the engine stand such a long ground run at wide-open throttle, or will it overheat and start to miss?

Suppose I
can
hold the runway, suppose I do get off the ground -- will fog close in and force me back? Suppose the ceiling drops to zero -- I can't fly blind with this overload of fuel; but the wheels have doubtful safety factors for a landing. Shall I cut the switch and wait another day for confirmation of good weather? But if I leave now, I'll have a head start on both the Fokker and the Bellanca. Once in the air, I can nurse my engine all the way to Paris -- there'll be no need to push it in a race. And the moon's past full -- it will be three weeks to the next one; conditions then may be still worse.

Wind, weather, power, load -- gradually these elements stop churning in my mind. It's less a decision of logic than of feeling, the kind of feeling that comes when you

gauge the distance to be jumped between two stones across a brook. Something within you disengages itself from your body and travels ahead with your vision to make the test. You can feel it try the jump as you stand looking. Then uncertainty gives way to the conviction that it can or can't be done. Sitting in the cockpit, in seconds, minutes long, the conviction surges through me that the wheels will leave the ground, that the wings will rise above the wires, that it is time to start the flight.

I buckle my safety belt, pull goggles down over my eyes, turn to the men at the blocks, and nod. Frozen figures leap to action. A yank on the ropes -- the wheels are free. I brace myself against the left side of the cockpit, sight along the edge of the runway, and ease the throttle wide open. Now, in seconds, we'll have the answer. Action brings confidence and relief.

But, except for noise and vibration, what little effect the throttle has! The plane creeps heavily forward. Several men are pushing on wing struts to help it start—pushing so hard I'm afraid the struts will buckle. How can I possibly gain flying speed? Why did I ever think that air could carry such a weight? Why have I placed such reliance on a sheet of paper's curves? What possible connection is there between the intersection of a pencil's lines in San Diego and the ability of this airplane, here, now, to fly?

The Spirit of St. Louis feels more like an overloaded truck than an airplane. The tires rut through mud as though they really were on truck wheels. Even the breath of wind is pressing me down. A take-off seems hopeless; but I may as well go on for another hundred feet before giving up. Now that I've started, it's better to make a real attempt. Besides -- it's just possible --

Gradually, the speed increases, Maybe the runway's not too soft. Is it long enough? The engine's snarl sounds inadequate and weak, carrying its own note of mechanical frustration. There's none of the spring forward that always before preceded the take-off into air—no lightness of wing, no excess power. The stick wobbles loosely from side to side, and slipstream puts hardly any pressure against rudder. Nothing about my plane has the magic quality of flight. But men begin stumbling off from the wing struts. We're going faster.

A hundred yards of runway passes. The last man drops off the struts. The stick's wobbling changes to lurching motion as ailerons protest unevenness of surface. How long can the landing gear stand such strain? Five thousand pounds crushing down upon it! I keep my eyes fixed on the runway's edge. I must hold the plane straight. One wheel off and the Spirit of St. Louis would ground-loop and splinter in the mud. Controls begin to tighten against the pressure of my hand and feet. There's a living quiver in the stick. I have to push hard to hold it forward. Slight movement of the rudder keeps the nose on course. Good signs, but more than a thousand feet have passed. Is there still time, still space?

Pace quickens -- turf becomes a blur -- the tail skid lifts off ground -- I feel the load shifting from wheels to wings. But the runway's slipping by quickly. The halfway mark is just ahead, and I have nothing like flying speed -- The engine's turning faster --smoothing out -- the propeller's taking better hold -- I can tell by the sound. What r.p.m.? But I can't look at instruments -- I must hold the runway, not take my eyes from its edge for an instant. An inch off on stick or rudder, and my flight will end.

The halfway mark streaks past -- seconds now to decide -- close the throttle, or will I get off? The wrong decision means a crash -- probably in flames -- I pull the stick back firmly, and --
The wheels leave the ground.
Then I'll get off! The wheels touch again. I ease the stick forward -- almost flying speed, and nearly 2000 feet of field ahead. A shallow pool on the runway -- water spews up from the tires -- A wing drops -- lifts as I shove aileron against it -- the entire plane trembles from the shock -- Off again -- right wing low -- pull it up -- Ease back onto the runway -- left rudder -- hold to center -- must keep straight -- Another pool -- water drumming on the fabric -- The next hop's longer -- I could probably stay in air; but I let the wheels touch once more -- lightly, a last bow to earth, a gesture of humility before it -- Best to have plenty of control with such a load, and control requires speed.

The Spirit of St. Louis takes herself off the next time -- full flying speed -- the controls taut, alive, straining -- and still a thousand feet to the web of telephone wires. Now, I have to make it -- there's no alternative. It'll be close, but the margin has shifted to my side. I keep the nose down, climbing slowly, each second gaining speed. If the engine can hold out for one more minute -- five feet -- twenty -- forty -- wires flash by underneath --
twenty feet to spare!