The Spirit of ST Louis (6 page)

The truck pulls in through the gate.

"Well, it isn't often you do us the favor of stopping at Springfield for the night."

I know that voice—it's Mr. Conkling, the postmaster. I jump down off the fuselage, and we shake hands. He's a big man, getting on in years.

"Tie your plane down and come in for supper with us," he says.

"I'd like to," I tell him, "but I can't leave it that long. The engine would freeze up."

I hand the mail sacks over to the driver as we talk. "Well, can't we send you something to eat?"

"No, thanks. I'm not hungry."

I'm used to going without meals, and I don't want to bother him to make another trip from town. Postmaster Conkling climbs back into the truck. He's one of the few people who understand an air-mail pilot's life. He accepts my statement, offers what help he can, and doesn't argue about problems of the storm and night.

"Good-by and good luck," he calls. "We notified both St. Louis and Chicago that you got down all right. Let us know if you need anything."

The truck grinds off, and the car of visitors follows. I'm alone on the field, in the night. The time is quarter past seven.

I'd better start the engine before it gets too cold—if I can start it. You're never sure with a Liberty; it's really a stunt for one man, and a very dangerous stunt if he doesn't watch himself. The trick of handling a propeller is to make your muscles always pull away from it. If you lean against a blade, on contact, you're asking for some broken bones. I put a lantern on the ground next to my cockpit, and line the other three up in front and a little to the left of the propeller. I hang my pistol and belt around a strut, chock the wheels, tie the stick back with my safety belt, check switches, give the engine three primer shots, retard spark, close throttle, run back to the propeller, catch one blade with my left hand, scrape over frozen ground with my moccasins as I pull the cylinder through compression. It takes all the strength I've got—the oil's beginning to thicken. How fast an engine cools in winter!

One –– two –– three –– four blades through. Leave the fifth sixty degrees below horizontal. Back to the cockpit. Throttle one-half inch open. Switches on. Back to the propeller — ten feet to the right side. Got to watch this; I should have two men pulling on my arm, and a mechanic in the cockpit. Run – – – grip the blade – – –throw my weight against it – – – angle forward to clear its bone-shattering strength – – – let go – – –latch balance – – – back for another try. There's a "ping" this time – – – the blade moves forward – – – stops as I trip away – – – No action on the third blade. On the fourth she hits—one cylinder—two – – – the engine catches. I stumble as the blade jumps from my hand — break the fall with my arm and shoulder. I scramble up and around the wing to my cockpit — Ease on throttle — A roar from the engine — she's safe now. I unsnap the belt from the stick, and climb into the pilot's seat.

I'll idle at 800 r.p.na: for five minutes; then switch her off for twenty. Might as well turn on the exhaust heater—that will keep my feet warm, even in an open cockpit. Now if I had a Bellanca, with its closed cabin, it would be easy to spend the night on a field. I could go to sleep between engine starts—sleep twenty minutes—idle the engine five minutes—sleep again. I could carry an alarm clock for such emergencies.

But how about flying the mail in a closed cabin on a foggy night? You can't see well through glass; it merges with haze, and reflects every light on the ground. In rain you can hardly see through it at all. And suppose you got into a little sleet, what then? No. you just couldn't fly through bad weather in a closed cabin. And if you should crack up in a Bellanca, the engine would be right in your lap. There's hardly any structure between it and the cockpit to protect you; you wouldn't have a chance in a bad crash. It would be still worse with a fuel tank in the fuselage, for the New York-to-Paris flight. You'd be like the filling in a sandwich—your knees against the fire wall, your back against the gasoline. Suppose the landing gear failed. Suppose a tire blew. Suppose a cylinder started missing as you took the air – – –

It's 7:35. I have nine hours to pass before dawn.

The time is half past three. The fuel truck should soon be here. It's too cold to stay in my cockpit with the engine off. I climb out and walk back and forth in front of the wings. A glow still spreads over the clouds above Springfield, but there's not a farmhouse light to be seen; the last one went out hours ago. – – – How long will the grease last on a Wright Whirlwind's rocker arms? Suppose a valve should stick, out over the Atlantic Ocean? – – – I'd have to be in the air for nearly forty hours between New York and Paris. How long can an engine run without attention? How long can a pilot stay awake? It seems ages since I got out of bed yesterday morning; actually it's less than twenty hours.

13

"If you want a really good suit, you'd better have it tailormade."

Captain Littlefield and I stand at the side of a National Guard Jenny. It's Sunday morning, and our training maneuvers are getting under way. I've selected the most neatly dressed officer in the squadron for advice on clothing.

"A tailored suit looks better, and it lasts longer," he goes on. "It's worth the extra cost. I know a good tailor in the city. He won't charge too much, and he can make up a suit for you in a week. I'll give you his address after we come down."

We climb into our cockpits. There'll be a half hour's formation flying; then the squadron is scheduled to break up for individual acrobatics. We taxi out into the field and take off. My two wingmen follow close – Captain Young with Sergeant Wecker, Lieutenant Hutchinson with Sergeant Gerding. We set course for St. Louis. People will look up and tell each other that the National Guard is overhead. It's good advertising, and helps bring us new recruits.

There's Forest Park below, winding roads among its trees - that's where the flying field used to be. Now we're up to three thousand feet, above the center of the city. I bank ward open country to the north. There's the Missouri-Mississippi junction--perfect landmark for a pilot lost in haze. You can't miss the earth's great landmarks, if you can see the earth at all. Rivers, mountains, coastlines, point your ay. It's by them I'll have to find France, and Paris, if I can finally get a plane to make the flight.

Now formation training is over. I wobble my wings to signal a breakup. Wingmen peel off to either side. Stick back, right, full rudder, throttle open--our Jenny snaps over, upside down --- a half loop--- a roll right --- a roll left --- a vertical reversement. We're too low for more: bank toward Lambert Field and climb. We'll do one spin before our landing. A flying wire starts to vibrate in the inner bay. It's amazing what those thin steel cables stand in acrobatics—tons of strain on their metal threads. When wings and wires hold their shape through loops, spins, and barrel rolls, they can surely carry the fuel load I'll need for a flight to Paris.

14

1 overcoat, blue

1 hat, gray felt

1 pair gloves, fur lined

1 scarf, silk

2 pair sox, wool

1 necktie, silk

1 suitcase, leather

I read, upside down, the items on the clerk's sales slip. He hasn't filled in the prices yet. Good Lord, that's going to run close to a hundred dollars, and there's still my suit to pay for. Shoes and shirts are about the only things I can economize on. The ones I wear with my uniform will do.

I don't like to spend money on such intangible assets as clothes. But if I'm really going to fly to Paris, I must be willing to put everything I’ve got into the project – time,

energy, money, even my position as chief pilot on the airmail line. I'll hold back only enough to pay for room and board until I can get a new start flying if I fail. It bothers me to think that I'm buying these clothes just to make an impression on the Wright Corporation—they won't add a penny's worth to my ability as a flyer. I'm actually spending money on an overcoat just to wear it through the front door! I'll probably take it off before I even sit down. And the silk scarf and the felt hat—I haven't the slightest use for them. I hate to do things just to make an impression. But right now that may be as essential to my Paris flight as a plane itself will become later.

I've decided to get my traveling outfit all in order before telephone the Wright Corporation. Once I start, I must keep pushing my project constantly. It would be bad tactics to let a week or ten days pass between my phone call and arrival.

15

It's been a warm afternoon for November. Three of us stroll down the road to Bridgeton--Love, Mendenhall, and I. Mendenhall is a newcomer to the field.

"Slim, the doctor says I can start flying again next Monday," Love announces suddenly. He's not given to talking very much, and he has a habit of heaving an important statement into conversation like a rock.

"That will help a lot, Phil," I say. "Are you sure it's all right?"

"Would have been all right a week ago," he answers. "These surgeons are just cautious."

Love crashed last year in Georgia, on a cotton-dusting job--passed out in the cockpit of a Huff-Daland—left a perfect imprint of his teeth on a tubular steel crossbar of the fuselage. (He now carries a four-inch length of that crossbar in his pocket to prove it.) They thought he was dead at first, then dying. But the surgeons straightened out his face bones, put a silver plate beneath his flesh, and he pulled through. His face began bothering him again this fall and, after X rays, another operation was advised. While he's been recovering from it, Nelson and I have taken all the mail flights.

"Phil" I ask, when your face is really all right again, do you suppose you and Nellie could handle the mail route for three or four days? I've got to make a trip to New York."

"Sure, Slim. Any time. I'll be all right next week, I tell you."

We reach the crossroad, and stop at the corner barbecue stand.

"Hello, there!"

It's the auto mechanic from Bridgeton. Small of stature, in oversize, grease-smeared clothes, he extends his hand, smiling. He makes a living working by himself in his red-painted board garage a block or two away. He keeps so busy that we don't see much of him—only a wave of the arm or a shout of greeting as we drive past his junk-cluttered yard. Occasionally he comes over to Lambert Field to repair or tow off a stalled car.

Mendenhall steps over to the counter and asks the salesgirl for some candy and a package of cigarettes. Tires scrubbing along the roadside draw my eyes. A stocky, flashily dressed man jumps out of a sport-model car and walks hurriedly to the counter. He shoulders past Mendenhall rudely, and demands immediate attention.

"Say, how about taking your turn?"

The stranger mutters a reply I can't understand, but its meaning mirrors in his round, surly face. Mendenhall, larger of build, shoves him aside. At this, three more stocky men spring out of the car—tough-looking fellows.

"Hey, none of that!" Love moves forward to intercept them.

"Phil!" I call. But it's no use. If there's going to be a fight, red-headed Phil Love will be in it. He's forgotten his face, forgotten everything but the one-sided melee that's forming. "Watch that face," the surgeon told him. "One blow will make it pulp." Now he's heading into a scrap where he's almost sure to get that blow. And I guess I'm committed too.

But the stranger doesn't wait for his cohorts. His hand goes down, brushes back his coat; there's the shine of a nickel-plated gun.

"Put it back!"

It happened so fast I didn't see the draw. The little auto mechanic is standing in front of me, a horse pistol in his hand, pointing straight into the stranger's belly.

"That kind of thing doesn't go here," he says quietly, but with a tenseness that's in keeping with his finger on the trigger.

Everyone has stopped moving. The nickel-plated gun slips back into the pocket which its muzzle never left. Now I notice that the mechanic's left hand is holding his jacket open to show, pinned carelessly to his vest, a deputy sheriff's badge. None of us knew he had it.

"Let's get going!" he says.

The four men climb back into their car. Tires claw angrily on gravel. They speed out of sight around a bend in the road to St. Charles.

Pistol and badge have disappeared. The little mechanic smiles and shrugs his shoulders.

"Probably some gangsters from St. Louis," he remarks calmly. As far as he's concerned, the incident is over.

The salesgirl, rather shakily, gives Mendenhall change from his dollar. We say good-by and start back toward the hangars.

"Phil, damn it, you can't afford to get into a fight. You haven't got a chance with that face of yours."

"I know it, Slim," he says. "But that was going to be four to one. It made me so mad I forgot all about my face."

16

"I want to put in a call for the Wright Aeronautical Corporation at Paterson, New Jersey – – – Yes, anybody who answers." I've never talked that far over the phone before. I hope the connection's good.

"Hold the line, please."

I wish the operator didn't say it so casually—almost as though I were making a local call. I hear clickings, buzzings, snatches of words and numbers. I've got my new suit and suitcase, and everything ready to pack.

"Here's your party."

Within a minute—that's fast work. Another girl's voice comes on.

"Wright Aeronautical."

"I'd like to speak to one of your officers, please," I tell her, trying to hide all trace of excitement in my voice.

"What officer do you want?" she asks.