Before Amelia (13 page)

Just two years before, Orville Wright, flying with Paul Engelhard at Tempelhof Field, had reached a world altitude record of 172 meters. The year after Melli's flight, Lyubov Golanchikova, a Russian pilot flying in Russia and Germany in the early years, would topple Melli's record, reaching twenty–two hundred meters. Almost three times Melli's record, this 1912 flight indicated how rapidly motors and aeroplanes were improving. Lyubov's machine was a Fokker; unlike Melli, she flew alone, without the weight of a passenger.

Captain Paul Engelhard, chief pilot of the Wright Company, one of the bright stars of German flying and a witness of the Wright 1909 record, drove onto the field in his automobile to offer Melli his congratulations. For a year and a half, he had insisted that women lacked the ability to fly—the very idea was unthinkable. Now, here he was, with something like a smile, congratulating a woman. His gesture, which did not go unnoticed by the field crowd, was the ultimate accolade, far better than a medal from the kaiser.

The Berlin press reported on Melli's records: She was the “Sensation of the Week”; “a little woman has accomplished what her professional men colleagues would be proud to achieve.” In the Rumpler hangar, male vanity was seriously wounded; Germany's first woman pilot was in striking range for first place.

September 28 was poor for flying. Gusts of wind and rain swept the field. The sky was dull gray. Hellmuth Hirth, smarting at the possibility that his student might win first place, had just the opportunity he needed. He announced to the pilots that Melli would not fly; as chief pilot for Rumpler, he could not be responsible for the machine she had on loan. Hirth insisted he had received orders; it was not his fault. Melli saw the ban for what it was, an obvious effort to keep her out of first place.

Hirth, perhaps conscience stricken, offered to carry her as a passenger and credit her with the time, but strong winds limited flying time for even the seasoned pilots. According to the
Berliner Tageblatt,
Melli went up as Hirth's passenger, but the flight lasted a bare ten minutes before valve trouble brought the aeroplane down. At the day's end, Melli, with a total record of eight hours, fifty–three minutes, was in third place behind Pietschker (ten hours, fourteen minutes) and Suvelak (nine hours, forty–one minutes).

The day's showing had not been impressive. The Wright biplane seemed to do better in the wind than the monoplanes. The next day the press needled Melli, referring to her as a “sunshine pilot,” and angering even the chauvinists who had joked about her ability. They made it a point to say something encouraging to her, saving their ire for the journalists who wrote such ignorant stuff.

Charles Boutard, one of the flying comrades, sensing Melli's disappointment and anger at the turn of events, tried to distract her with thoughts about the future. In the warm comfort of the café, they discussed plans for a flying school, for building aeroplanes, goals that meant more to Melli than competing for money. She had proved she could compete with the best of the men; now, she should do what her heart wanted, urged Boutard. His concern was comforting.

The next day was again gray and windswept, but Paul Engelhard, nicknamed the “Captain” from his naval days, known as a fearless flier in bad weather, would test the sky. His performance up to this point in the meet had been disappointing. Forty–five minutes later, while making a turn in the distance, his new “Baby” Wright disappeared behind a small wooded hill, followed by the sounds of shattering wood, and then all was still. Ground crews and spectators rushed to the scene and found a splintered aeroplane, a dying pilot, and an unconscious passenger. Engel hard died almost immediately; his passenger, Gerhard Sedlmayr, a student, was injured, but not fatally.

Writing later of the accident, Sedlmayr raged at the chaotic conditions resulting from the behavior of the spectators after the crash. A valuable tiepin belonging to Engelhard was taken from his body; Sedlmayr had his cap and glasses stolen; any souvenir was fair game as defenseless pilots lay on the ground, behavior that was most evident in Germany and America. Sedlmayr, speaking for the pilots, resented being entertainment for a thrill–seeking public. Even Tschudi lost his temper when excited spectators, women among them, climbed over the guard rail and surged onto the airfield, oblivious of the danger to themselves, to get closer to the action. After one meet, a more sophisticated spectator complained to him: “Today was boring; there were many flights, but no accident.” This mentality was typical among many spectators.

Across the Atlantic, the
New York Times
noted Engelhard's death, his association with the Wright Brothers—Orville had taught him to fly— and his reputation as Germany's foremost aviation authority. At Johannisthal, the pilots were devastated. They knew death was possible for anyone anytime, but not the “Captain.” Anthony Fokker noted years afterward: “Every flying field I have known is soaked with the blood of my friends and brother pilots. . . . My memory is one long obituary list.”

The pilots in the meet wanted to cancel activity the next day in Engelhard's honor, but management said it was not possible to notify the public in time. The weather, as if in mourning, continued to be poor for flying. To show respect for their fallen hero, aeroplane wings were draped with black bands, flags were lowered to half–mast, and a cannon salute marked his passing. The pilots sat in their hangars, depressed and cold as the starting hour came and went. Finally, a Taube was pushed to the starting place, and Melli, red–faced from the wind and cold, tried repeatedly to start the motor, but failed. She was willing, but the motor was not. One reporter commented the next day that the idea of a woman showing the men up was intolerable. Vanity forced the male pilots to roll out their machines, especially with Prince Joachim of Prussia present. Suvelak charmed the anxious crowds, half anticipating another fatality, with a splendid performance in his Taube. For once, the critical reporter found himself lost in the beauty of the graceful aeroplane's maneuvers.

The final results of the Fly Week were not sensational. Pietschker led the total flying record (thirteen hours, fifty–six minutes, to win 3,716.71 marks), with Melli in fifth place (nine hours, twenty–two minutes to win 2,498.56 marks). Pietschker won the aeroplane competition for altitude, which paid 5,390.07 marks; Suvelak was second, winning 4,609.03 marks. The altitude and duration records with one or more passengers were acceptable in Germany, but elsewhere pilots were achieving better records.
Le Matin,
the French newspaper, rated the results “zero,” pointing out that lengthening flights from Paris to Madrid, or Rome, and back to Paris demonstrated a steady progress in aviation not present in the week just ended. By the end of the year, records for altitude, speed, distance, and duration were all held by the French, a situation that did not sit well with the German government, nor did the expressed French determination to maintain their advantage in the air. The German military establishment got the message.

The following year, with the support of Crown Prince Heinrich of Prussia, the German government called for establishment of a National Flying Donation to raise money by contributions for the improvement of German aviation, aware at last that an aeroplane was a useful weapon. The country was seized with patriotic fervor, its goal to make Germany number one in the air. The defense aspect of the fund for protection against unnamed enemies was played down. Within six months, 7,647,950 marks and 48 pfennigs were raised from contributions nationwide. Many, like Melli and Boutard, contributed for the national good. In addition, taxes were levied on aeroplane production, and the bailiff became a familiar sight at Johannisthal, checking to see that each machine bore a stamp showing it had paid its share. For the smaller builders, the contributions, or taxes, were barely affordable, which meant that the individual designers and builders would end up squeezed out of business by the Flying Donation's demands. The old days of experimental aeroplane construction with parts collected from wherever were gone. Aviation was becoming a commercial enterprise; the idealists and dreamers were disappearing, their place taken by a production line capable of turning out large numbers of the same model.

With two colleagues, Melli took part in two exhibition flights in Hanover and Detmold, but her experience there cured her of making appearances. Male students resented her appearance and played tricks, resulting in an emergency landing on one occasion. At Detmold, excited crowds broke though fences and flooded the field, making it impossible to take off. For Melli this was the last straw.

In the weeks following the meet, Melli planned to establish a flying school of her own. Even before her experience during the Fly Week, she had spent hours discussing ideas with her friends at the field. Alfred Pietschker, Werner von Siemen's grandson—comparable to being a Rockefeller—was especially helpful. Reportedly, he proposed a romantic and technical merger between them, but, for Melli, he remained just a good friend. Her life would have been very different in years to come if she had accepted his proposal, but Charles Boutard's blue eyes had charmed her. She valued Pietschker's friendship, enjoyed talking about God, life, and flying, as young people do, and his death testing a new monoplane of his own design in November, barely a month after his Fly Week victory, was a tragic loss. Melli and Ludwig had pleaded with him for more work on the machine, but Pietschker wouldn't listen. One source hints that Melli's refusal of marriage led him to fly his machine devil may care, without first checking its readiness.

In January of the new year, the Melli Beese Flying School opened with Charles Boutard and Hermann Reichelt, from Dresden, as partners. Melli's mother and Karl A. Lingner, an important Dresden businessman, were financial backers. Boutard and Reichelt each brought a monoplane of their own construction, and Melli bought a used Rumpler Taube from another flier—these three were the school machines. Adolf Ludwig, whom Melli met her first day at Johannisthal, agreed to be the mechanic at the salary of two hundred marks a month, plus 1 percent for each student. Two hangars on the old starting place housed the school. Boutard practiced for his test, earned his license on April 4, and helped teach.

Melli had definite ideas about a school, based on her experiences at three. She was determined that students learn the theoretical and technical side of aeroplanes when not actually flying rather than the all–too–familiar aimless wait of days or weeks for an available machine or teacher, or appropriate weather. Training would proceed on a regular routine; students would be limited to a manageable number. She proposed to have three teachers and three machines available. When students failed to materialize in sufficient numbers, reluctantly, she let Reichelt go. She and Boutard would teach and begin building a machine of their own design. Money was short, but Melli believed a new machine would improve the school's financial situation. She also believed the government's Flying Donation would encourage technical development among smaller builders.

There were never many students; the school hardly paid its way, but its record was enviable: no deaths; not one serious accident; no severe breaks, only four minor ones. (Tora Sjöborg, a young Swedish student, was responsible for these. More interested in the pilots than their machines, she later married Bruno Hanuschke and gave up flying.) The school fell behind when the Flying Donation began to pay for training military pilots. Army officers could not come to Melli for training because her partner, Boutard, was French. Moreover, her civilian students were forbidden to compete in national meets. The old international spirit at Johannisthal was disappearing. Although the flying school had established quality in flying training, the changed national scene in aviation led Melli and Boutard to place their hope for the future in construction.

In early 1913 the first Melli Beese machine, the Melli Beese–Taube, was rolled out onto the field by Boutard, who collaborated on its construction. It was an amalgam of the Rumpler monoplane with French improvements and with original parts designed by Melli, which improved on the original design. Igo Etrich, the Austrian designer of the first Taube, visited frequently while the machine was being built and approved the work in progress—it was clean, technical work. The light machine, named for Melli's deceased friend Georg Schendel, performed perfectly at its debut at Johannisthal, showing speed and maneuverability. Its stronger motor allowed it to carry three passengers as easily as one; only one part of the chassis was original. The machine was used for training students when—despite a patent for an original part and its lower price (twelve thousand marks compared with the Rumpler Taube's twenty thousand marks)—there were no buyers. The military came and looked, agreed the machine was clean work, first–class material, didn't say no and didn't say yes. Undeterred, Melli and Boutard continued with plans for more building, confident that part of the national aviation moneys would be given to small builders like themselves who were improving German aviation.