The Spirit of ST Louis (60 page)
Read The Spirit of ST Louis Online
Authors: Charles A. Lindbergh
Tags: #Transportation, #Transatlantic Flights, #Adventurers & Explorers, #General, #United States, #Air Pilots, #Historical, #Biography & Autobiography, #Aviation, #Spirit of St. Louis (Airplane), #Biography, #History
I point the nose just short of the floodlights, throttle half open, flattening out slightly as I approach. I see the whole outline of the hangars, now. Two or three planes are resting in the shadows. There's no time to look for more details. The lighted area is just ahead. It's barely large enough to land on. I nose down below the hangar roofs, so low that I can see the texture of the sod, and blades of grass on high spots. The ground is smooth and solid as far as the floodlights show its surface. I can tell nothing about the black mass beyond. But those several pin points in the distance look as though they mark the far border. Since Le Bourget is a major airport, the area between is probably also clear -- I'll have to take a chance on that; if I land short, I may stop rolling before I reach it.
I open the throttle and start a climbing turn. I don't dare pull the nose up steeply. I don't dare chandelle around the hangars to celebrate my arrival, as I often do coming in with the night mail at Chicago. I must handle the Spirit of St. Louis as I'd teach a student to fly.
I climb to a thousand feet. There are the lamps of Paris again, like a lake of stars. There's the dark area below, just as it was before. No one has turned on more lights. I level off for the downwind stretch. The wind sock hasn't changed—still bulged and angling across the line of hangars. The motorcars are still jammed in traffic. There's no sign of movement on the ground.
I'm a quarter-mile downwind now -- Back on throttle -- Bank around for final glide. Is my nose down far enough? Yes, the air speed's at ninety miles an hour. I'll overshoot if I keep on at this rate -- Stick back -- trim the stabilizer back another notch -- close the throttle -- I can hardly hear the engine idling -- is it too slow? -- It mustn't stop now -- The silence is like vacuum in my ears. I open the throttle for a quick burst -- But I'm going much too fast.
In spite of my speed, the Spirit of St. Louis seems about to stall. My lack of feel alarms me. I've never tried to land a plane without feel before. I want to open the throttle wider, to glide faster, to tauten the controls still more. But -- I glance at the dial -- the needle points to eighty miles an hour. The Spirit of St. Louis is lightly loaded, with most of its fuel gone. Even at this speed I'll overshoot the lighted area before my tail skid strikes the ground. No, I'll have to pull the nose higher instead of pushing it down. I'll have to depend on the needle, on judgment more than instinct. I kick rudder and push the stick to one side, just to be sure -- yes, controls are taut, there's plenty of speed. And feeling is not completely gone. I still have a little left. I can feel the skid and slip. But the edge of perception is dull, very dull. It's better to come in fast, even if I roll into that black area after I land. And it's better to come in high -- there may be poles or chimneys at the field's edge -- Never depend on obstruction lights -- especially when you don't see any.
It's only a hundred yards to the hangars now -- solid forms emerging from the night. I'm too high -- too fast. Drop wing -- left rudder – sideslip -- Careful -- mustn't get anywhere near the stall. I've never landed the Spirit of St. Louis at night before. It would be better to come in straight. But if I don't sideslip, I'll be too high over the boundary to touch my wheels in the area of light. That would mean circling again -- still too high. I push the stick over to a steeper slip, leaving the nose well down -- Below the hangar roofs now -- straighten out -- A short burst of the engine -- Over the lighted area -- Sod coming up to meet. me -- Deceptive high lights and shadows – Careful -- easy to bounce when you're tired -- Still too fast -- Tail too high -- Hold off -- Hold off -- But the lights are far behind -- The surface dims -- Texture of sod is gone -- Ahead, there's nothing but night -- Give her the gun and climb for another try? -- The wheels touch gently -- off again -- No, I'll keep contact -- Ease the stick forward -- Back on the ground – Off -- Backthe tail skid too -- Not a bad landing, but I'm beyond the light -- can't see anything ahead -- Like flying in fog -- Ground loop? -- No, still rolling too fast -- might blow a tire -- The field must be clear -- Uncomfortable though, jolting into blackness -- Wish I had a wing light -- but too heavy on the take-off -- Slower, now -- slow enough to ground loop safely -- left rudder -- reverse it -- stick over the other way -- The Spirit of St. Louis swings around and stops rolling, resting on the solidness of earth, in the center of Le Bourget.
I start to taxi back toward the floodlights and hangars -- But the entire field ahead is covered with running figures!
MY RECEPTION by the French people, in 1927, cannot be compressed into a final chapter of this book. After the warnings I had been given in America, I was completely unprepared for the welcome which awaited me on Le Bourget. I had no idea that my plane had been so accurately reported along its route between Ireland and the capital of France -- over Dingle Bay, over Plymouth, over Cherbourg. When I circled the aerodrome it did not occur to me that any connection existed between my arrival and the cars stalled in traffic on the roads. When my wheels touched earth, I had no way of knowing that tens of thousands of men and women were breaking down fences and flooding past guards.
I had barely cut the engine switch when the first people reached my cockpit. Within seconds my open windows were blocked with faces. My name was called out over and over again, in accents strange to my ears -- on this side of my plane -- on that side -- in front -- in the distance. I could feel the Spirit of St. Louis tremble with the pressure of the crowd. I heard the crack of wood behind me when someone leaned too heavily against a fairing strip. Then a second strip snapped, and a third, and there was the sound of tearing fabric. That meant souvenir hunters were going wild. It was essential to get a guard stationed around my plane before more damage was done.
"Are there any mechanics here?" I asked.
I couldn't understand a single word that came back in answer -- from a half-dozen different mouths.
"Does anyone here speak English?" I shouted.
The noise and excitement made a reply impossible. There were rips of fabric every few seconds, and I could feel my tail skid inching back and forth across the ground. I was afraid the Spirit of St. Louis might be seriously injured. The thought entered my mind that the longerons would buckle if enough men climbed on top; and I knew the elevators wouldn't stand much of any pressure without bending. I decided to get out of the cockpit and try to find some English-speaking person who would help me organize a guard to hold back the crowd.
I opened the door, and started to put my foot down onto ground. But dozens of hands took hold of me -- my legs, my arms, my body. No one heard the sentences I spoke. I found myself lying in a prostrate position, up on top of the crowd, in the center of an ocean of heads that extended as far out into the darkness as I could see. Then I started to sink down into that ocean, and was buoyed up again. Thousands of voices mingled in a roar. Men were shouting, stumbling. My head and shoulders went down, and up, and down again, and up once more. It was like drowning in a human sea. I lost sight of the Spirit of St. Louis. I heard several screams. I was afraid that I would be dropped under the feet of those milling, cheering people; and that after sitting in a cockpit-fixed position for close to thirty-four hours, my muscles would be too stiff to struggle up again.
I tried to sit up -- to slip down into the crowd -- to roll over onto my hands and knees. It was useless I was simply wasting strength that I might need for a final effort to save myself, if my head angled beneath my feet too far. It seemed wisest to relax as much as I could, and let time pass. I realized that the men under me were determined that no matter what happened to them, I would not fall.
After the lapse of minutes whose number I cannot judge, I felt my helmet jerked from my head. Firmer hands gripped on my body. I heard my name more clearly spoken. And suddenly I was standing on my feet -- on European ground at last. With arms linked solidly in mine, I began moving slowly, but unnoticed, through the crowd.
In the week I spent at Paris, between ceremonies and engagements which crammed almost every hour of each day, I pieced together the story of what happened that Saturday night at Le Bourget. Regardless of the skepticism which existed about my flight, the French authorities had prepared for my reception. Extra guards were detailed to the aerodrome; and when reports of my plane being sighted over Ireland, England, and Normandy, brought automobiles pouring out from Paris by the thousands, two companies of soldiers were sent to reinforce the civil police. It was intended that, after I landed, my plane would be guided to a position near the Administration building, where I was to be met by a reception committee of French and American officials. Press photographers and reporters were assigned to appropriate positions.
When the crowd broke down steel fences and rushed out onto the field, all these arrangements collapsed. Police and soldiers were swept away in the rush which followed. Two French aviators -- the military pilot Detroyat and the civil pilot Delage -- found themselves close to me in the jam of people. Delage grabbed Detroyat's arm and cried, "Come. They will smother him!" Detroyat, being in uniform, and tall, was able to exercise some authority over the men who had me on their shoulders. Once my feet were on the ground, it was too dark for my flying suit to be very noticeable. I soon became an inconspicuous member of the crowd. Meanwhile my helmet had somehow gotten onto the head of an American reporter. Someone had pointed to him and called out, "There is Lindbergh! There is Lindbergh!" The crowd had taken over the reporter and left me free.
I might have had difficulty walking when I first tried to step out of the cockpit after landing, but my muscles were well limbered up by the time my feet actually touched French soil. Delage rushed away to get his little Renault car, while Detroyat maneuvered me to the outskirts of the crowd. When the car arrived, I said that before leaving I wanted to be sure a guard had been placed around the Spirit of St. Louis. Communication was difficult, because my ears were still deafened from the flight. I spoke no word of French; my new friends, but little English; and in the background were the noises of the crowd. My plane was being taken care of, they told me. I should not try to go back to it. They were determined about that -- there was no mistaking their tones and gestures. They laughed and shook their heads as I protested, and kept pointing to the car.
We drove into a big hangar, and I was taken to a small room on one side. My friends motioned me to a chair and put out most of the lights -- so I would not be discovered by the crowd. Did I need food, drink, the attention of a doctor? Would I like to lie down? they asked. I had only to tell them what I wanted. France was mine, they said. It was easier for me to understand them indoors, with everyone speaking more slowly.
I didn't feel like lying down, and I had no need whatever for a doctor; but I was greatly worried about my plane, even though I received assurances that everything possible was being done to take care of it. I suggested that we drive back out onto the field to make certain, but the two French pilots pursed their lips and shook their heads again. I then asked what customs and immigration formalities I had to go through. I was a little worried about that, since I had no visa. But I received mostly smiles and laughter in reply. I decided that the best thing for me to do was just to wait and let events develop. Was there any word of Nungesser and Coli? I asked. Faces lengthened. No, no news had come.
I remained with Delage while Detroyat went to search for an officer of higher rank. At first, he could find no one. Then, in the midst of the crowd, he came upon Major Weiss of the Bombardment Group of the 34th A.F. Regiment. The Major could not believe that I was sitting in a hangar's darkened room. "It is impossible," he told Detroyat. "Lindbergh has just been carried triumphantly to the official reception committee." Probably he had seen the reporter with my helmet, who had been taken, struggling, to the American Ambassador before the mistake in identity was finally established. But Major Weiss followed Detroyat, and on seeing me insisted that I be taken to his office on the military side of Le Bourget -- about a mile away. So we climbed into the Renault again and drove across the field. Then, it was Major Weiss's turn to go out and search for higher officers.
It must have been an hour later when I heard American voices, and someone said that the Ambassador of the United States was outside. In a moment the door opened, and I was introduced to the Honorable Myron T. Herrick, to his son Parmely, and to his daughter-in-law Agnes. The room soon filled with people.
Ambassador Herrick was an extraordinary man. He had a combination of dignity, perception, and kindness, which few in public life possess. After extending a welcome and inquiring about my welfare, which he judged through his eyes more than through my answer, he said he was going to take me back with him to the Embassy. I accepted gladly; but I asked to see the Spirit of St. Louis before we left the field.
Ambassador Herrick nodded. "Of course we'll take you to your plane," he said, "if we can get there." A discussion in French followed, with several people taking part. I was assured that it was unnecessary for me to think more about the Spirit of St. Louis that night, because it had not been badly damaged, and it had been placed in a locked hangar, under a military guard. I needed to sleep, it was suggested. There would be time enough to see the plane after that.
"Well, how do you feel about it, Captain?" Ambassador Herrick asked.
I couldn't put the cracking wood and ripping fabric from my mind that easily. I was anxious to find out for myself what repairs would have to be made. I didn't know, then, that the French authorities wished to have all repairs completed before I saw my plane. I argued that I wanted to get some items from the cockpit, and to show the mechanics how to put the windows in. Inserting the windows required a special technique, I explained.
After more conversation which I could not understand, we climbed into Delage's car and drove back to the Air-Union hangar which we had left an hour earlier. In the meantime, my Spirit of St. Louis had been placed inside. It was a great shock to me to see my plane. The sides of the fuselage were full of gaping holes, and some souvenir hunter had pulled a lubrication fitting right off one of the rocker-arm housings on my engine. But in spite of surface appearances, careful inspection showed that no serious damage had been done. A few hours of, work would make my plane airworthy again.
It was then time for me to rejoin Ambassador Herrick and drive with him to Paris. But my escorts were unable to locate the Ambassador. After hunting for a quarter-hour, they decided to take me to the American Embassy themselves -- by a special route to avoid the heavy jam of traffic. So the four of us started out -- Weiss, Delage, Detroyat, and I -- all in the little Renault. Nobody looked twice at our car as we wound about through the crowd. I settled back in the seat to rest, to see what I could through the window, and to try to understand the English sentences at which my escorts laughed and struggled.
We traveled over bumpy side roads, toward the outskirts of Paris, stopping once to ask our way. We passed Dugny, Stains, Saint Denis, and entered through the Saint Ouen gate. Soon we were' driving between rows of close-packed brick and stone houses with no yards between. It was tremendously different from America. Then came the heart of the city -- "Place de l'Opera," Detroyat said. When we reached the end of a long avenue, Delage parked at the curb of a circular area in the center of which was a great stone arch. The surfaces of the arch were sculptured and softly lighted. My friends took me through the arch, and I found myself standing silently with them at the tomb of France's Unknown Soldier, with its ever-burning flame. They wanted my first stop in Paris to be at the Arc d' Tr'omph, they said.
We arrived at the American Embassy far ahead of Ambassador Herrick. He had searched for me all over Le Bourget. And then his car had become involved in the traffic jam between aerodrome and city. Neither his driver nor his escort of motorcycle police knew about the side roads the French pilots took me over. It was three o'clock when the Ambassador reached his home at No. 2 Avenue d'Iena. I was waiting for him, after eating a supper which his staff very considerately provided in spite of the early hour. By that time a small crowd -- mostly newspapermen -- had assembled in the street outside. At Herrick's suggestion they were invited in, and I spent a few minutes answering questions and telling them about my flight. Paris clocks marked 4:15 in the morning before I went to bed. It was sixty-three hours since I had slept.
I woke that afternoon, a little stiff but well rested, into a life which could hardly have been more amazing if I had landed on another planet instead of at Paris. The welcome I received at Le Bourget was only a forerunner to the welcome extended by France, by Belgium, by England -- and, through messages, by all of Europe. It was a welcome which words of appreciation are incompetent to cover. But the account of
my experiences abroad, of my homecoming to the United States, and of my gratitude to the peoples of Europe and America, belongs to a different story.
