Before Amelia (4 page)

The Seconde Grande Semaine at Rheims, in July 1910, brought the flying world together again in hopes of repeating the success of the 1909 meeting. Raymonde, the only representative of her sex, would fly along with Hubert Latham; Jan Lindpaintner; Etienne Buneau-Varilla; Charles Weymann, the American; and other established pilots. On opening day the press wondered if these professionals of the infant aviation world would prevent the emergence of new stars in the short time since the previous year's first international meet.

Raymonde flew for short periods each day, to applause from the grandstand. The number of aeroplanes flying at one time was sometimes as many as thirty, a large number for the small area of the field. On July 4 an unusual series of mishaps occurred. Two aviators collided, followed almost immediately by the collapse of three or four machines, as if, according to the London
Times,
“they had been poisoned.” While the wounded machines lay on the ground in disarray, fresh machines flew over them on their way up. Despite the sharp–eyed vigilance of the Aero Club officials, congestion was a critical factor. Penalties were assigned for infractions of the rules, and the press called for a limit to the number of machines that could safely fly at one time. Raymonde was fined twenty francs for not observing the rule of the road; Jan Olieslagers, one hundred francs for passing too near another flier. Flying over the heads of spectators was forbidden.

On the sixth day of the meet, dressed in her distinctive white sweater, white hood, and gray divided skirt, Raymonde took to the air for the five thousand–franc ladies' prize, for which she was the lone competitor. Passing in front of the grandstand, where the convivial crowds cheered her loudly, her machine was pitching uneasily in a seven-to eleven–milean–hour wind. On the second lap she rose high and wide as she rounded the pylon at the far end of the field, some nine hundred yards from the grandstand, leading a field that included Lindpaintner, Bartolomeo Cattaneo, and Latham. What happened next depends on the viewer reporting.

Suddenly, Raymonde's machine was seen to dip earthward and hit the ground with terrific force. According to one account, she was rattled when another aeroplane cut across her in the turn; the Voisin shuddered and swerved, side–slipped, and hit the ground. Another version blamed the draft from a machine that passed over her, causing her to turn off her ignition. Her machine glided briefly, then fell “like a meteorite” two hundred feet to the ground, shattering on impact. Another reporter wrote that two aeroplanes swung out to pass her, one on each side, without realizing the effect on the Voisin's pilot. Startled, she either pulled the wrong lever or let go of both levers, causing the elevation planes to tilt downward and the machine to plunge to earth out of control. The correspondent for the London
Times
observed the scene through strong glasses and reported that following Raymonde's exceptionally wide turn more than one machine was taking the turn closer than she had. She apparently started to come down from two hundred feet in a gentle slope that changed suddenly “to a sharp dive, and she shot down the last 150 feet at an angle of 60 degrees.” The crowds shrieked in terror, women fainted, and scores of men rushed to the wreckage, where the bloodied pilot lay beside her machine. Lindpaintner, who had flown his Sommer biplane near her, was nearly lynched by angry Voisin men on landing, but an investigation by a committee of judges cleared him of wrongdoing.

On regaining consciousness, the severely injured baroness blamed the backwash from an aeroplane that cut in front of her for bringing her machine down. In her woozy state, she was more incensed that the aviator had not been punished for flying close to her than worried about her own condition. First reports indicated she had multiple fractures of the arms and legs and possible internal injuries. One Paris newspaper had her fatally injured, but most of the press focused on the terrible wreck and their wishes for her recovery. Her fall in January was retold with hints that bad luck was pursuing her, that she had lost her coolheadedness. More measured accounts pointed out the danger of crowding at air meets, especially “inconsiderate driving,” which was blamed for other recent accidents by a competitor's backdraft.

The shock of the accident led
Le Monde
to contact Raymonde's parents and reveal that she had a son, André, a boy of seven, who lived with his grandparents. Raymonde's mother, who was stricken by the news, said the boy was the spitting image of his mother, whom he worshiped. In fact, the child had gone to Rheims with his godmother to watch the meet. This one mention of a son is the only one in all the articles about his mother, showing that it was still possible in 1910 for famous people to have a private life shielded from public scrutiny.

The crash triggered critical comments from aviation writers, who pointed to it as proof that in an emergency women were not suited to fly. Their training usually kept them circling a course free of other machines without permitting them to gain the kind of experience that competition flying demanded. Exhibition flying was a different matter; there was no competitive hustle in the air. It was polite and ladylike, not in the same category as competition.

André Beaumont, who flew as Lieutenant Jean Conneau, described in his 1912 memoir the qualities needed in an aviator: a grown man (too young or too old was not desirable), alertness, strength, sturdiness, good health, and, above all, endurance. He then went on to say: “Such qualities are not often to be found in women, and it is a pity, for the few bold ‘aviatresses' who are regular visitors to the aerodromes bring with them a charm and brightness not to be despised; and we men are always ready to applaud their womanly bravery, for though we may be man–birds we remain none the less men.” His comments, meant to be supportive, had a patronizing tone that the ladies did not miss.

In the aftermath of the crash, long months of recuperation followed surgery, but Raymonde's tenacity and the caring support of Charles Voisin helped her recover. She had lost none of her love for flying. By 1912 she was in the air again, showing more confidence and better judgment. Her white sweater and pulled–down cap were a common sight on the airfield at Châlons as she prepared to compete for the Coupe Fémina, established for women in 1910. Thanks to Pierre Lafitte, owner of the magazine of the same name, a prize of two thousand francs, designed to encourage women in aviation, would be awarded to the woman who flew the longest distance alone, without a stop, before sunset of December 31 of that year. Raymonde, showing her old vitality, would give it a try.

In the meantime, she went to court in April to obtain redress from a company, Office d'Aviation, for breach of contract, contending that the company was to furnish her an aeroplane and book engagements for her, none of which happened. The Commercial Tribunal found for the company, declaring the contract did not specify an aeroplane for her use, nor could the company be held responsible for not securing engagements. Furthermore, Raymonde had gone to two meets, in Tours and St. Petersburg, without the company's authorization. She was ordered to pay eight thousand francs in damages. On Raymonde's appeal of the judgment, the Fourth Chamber found in her favor and ordered the Office d'Aviation to pay her ten thousand francs. No doubt, Raymonde needed money; she had earned nothing in 1911.

On September 25, tragedy struck again. Charles and Raymonde were driving near Belleville–sur–Saone, not far from Lyons, on the way to visit his parents, when their automobile collided with another vehicle at a crossroads. Charles was killed instantly, and Raymonde was “desperately injured.” The aviation world mourned the loss of one of France's foremost aeroplane builders and pilots; the irony of his death on the ground was not lost on the public, nor on his brother, Gabriel, who lost the courageous half of their partnership.

Raymonde was devastated. Once again she faced weeks of recuperation, but her indomitable spirit, though saddened, wouldn't quit. A letter written November 19 to her friend Jacques Mortane revealed that she was learning to fly a Sommer biplane at Mourmelon, outside of Paris and if all went well she would try for the Coupe Fémina. She admitted to sadness, but, happily, aviation helped her forget the pain, the feeling of being alone, that was especially bad at night.

By the end of November, the aviation journals reported that she was making good progress on the Sommer aeroplane. The move from the Voisin camp was probably due to Gabriel's refusal to extend the company's courtesy to her after Charles's death. It meant learning the idiosyncracies of another machine, also a biplane, almost as if it were the first. Observers reported that she was flying the machine with complete assurance in flights of fifteen to twenty minutes, but not competitive for the Coupe. Still, the
femme–oiseau
was spreading her wings again.

By the next spring, Raymonde had changed aeroplanes again. This time she was learning to fly a Farman biplane at the school near Buc. This machine was more compatible; it was dependable and stable. By the end of May she was making flights of over an hour in the country around Buc. In June she was slightly injured in another car crash when an automobile driven by M. Vial collided with a van. It didn't slow her down. She took a joyride as a passenger in a Farman military machine, and with Vial gave an exhibition at Granville using a Farman hydroaeroplane. Her confidence showed in her handling of the machine and her ability to bring it down perfectly in limited space on the beach.

By late October, la Baronne was flying at Mourmelon preparing for the Coupe Fémina competition on an eighty–horsepower Farman. The duration of her flights was lengthening to one and a half hours. On November 29, she took the lead for the Coupe with a flight of 323.5 kilometers in four hours. She stopped then only because of a gas–line problem. At the year's end, none of the competing women fliers had bettered her record. The Coupe Fémina was hers. Like the phoenix, Raymonde had risen again, despite grief and physical problems.

The First World War put an end to civilian flying in 1914. Raymonde, like other women pilots, offered her services to her country but was refused. She could drive an automobile, taking officers of rank from the rear zones to the front, exposed to artillery and shells, yet government officials considered this safer than piloting an aeroplane.

When the war ended after four terrible years, France's first woman pilot took to the air again, intrigued by the developments in aeroplanes.

Sleeker machines were powered by engines capable of speeding through the skies at 120 to 150 miles per hour. There was new interest in aviation; an anticipated increase in aeroplane production would require more test pilots. Raymonde envisioned a new career for herself.

On June 7 at Issy–les–Moulineaux, flying a new Caudron G3, she broke the women's altitude record at 3,900 meters. Three days later, the American flier Ruth Law captured the record with a height of 4,270 meters. On June 12, her competitive spirit in high gear, Raymonde soared to 4,800 meters and another record. The French press hailed her as “la femme la plus haute du monde.” For the moment, she was.

Shortly after, she visited Le Crotoy airport to look over some of the new models. M. Barrault, a test pilot, recognized her and invited her to come along while he tried a machine with new features. Raymonde was strapped into the rear cockpit, the pilot was up front, and very quickly the powerful machine was in the air. It climbed quickly, its operation vastly different from the prewar models she knew, and the ground below was reduced to miniature size. The pilot turned and headed back toward the field, the aeroplane moving gracefully. As it lowered for a landing, it was seen to swerve to one side, lose speed, and go into a spinning dive before crashing heavily. The first people to reach the wreckage found la Baronne dead; the pilot died on the way to the hospital.

The ground crew shook their heads. She died doing what she loved, but it was a tragic waste. Raymonde, who believed that “what will be, will be,” whose life was a pattern of success and tragedy at a time when records came and went daily, knew one title was securely hers for all time—world's first woman aeroplane pilot.

Belgian–born Hélène Dutrieu should have been France's second licensed woman pilot, but a dispute about her tests and more than a little national chauvinism interfered. She belonged to that extraordinary group of talented women who were flying in France before the end of 1910.

Born in Tournai, Belgium, July 10, 1877, to Florent Dutrieu and his wife, Clothilde van Thieghem, her early years were comfortable as the daughter of a former artillery officer in the Belgian army. The good fairy in attendance at her birth had smiled on the baby and predicted she would do great things. By the time Dutrieu was approaching young womanhood, that prediction seemed to have gone off course as the family's finances took a turn for the worse. Hélène would have to earn a living to contribute to the family purse.

At that time the customary work for Belgian women was lace making and embroidery, but neither skill interested her. Instead, she took a cycle course and was soon riding alone or in tandem with her brother through the countryside near Tournai. A diminutive, compact figure, almost elfin, her movements were well coordinated and capable of strength and speed not apparent in such a small figure. The hours spent cycling in these early years were good training for a career that would bring her fame.

In 1895 and again in 1897, Hélène won the Belgian cycling hour record (distance covered in one hour on a bicycle); she won the world speed record for women in 1897 and 1898 at Ostende, capped off by the Grand Prix d'Europe, riding from Paris to London in twelve days. That same year, Léopold of Belgium recognized her achievements with the Cross of St. André with diamonds. With these successes, Paris—the hub of entertainment, excitement, and fame—beckoned.

Hélène was soon established as a comedian in the theater, where her spectacular feats on a bicycle and motorcycle were a sensation. Her looping the loop attracted hundreds of viewers. Billed as “the human arrow,” an act that proved electrifying, she defied catastrophe. Riding a motorcycle at full speed, Hélène launched herself from an inclined plane through the air. When this lost public interest, she took up the automobile, performing the same act in an automobile to enthusiastic crowds in many of the larger towns in Europe. Accidents and explosions were routine as her fearlessness led her to perform ever more sensational acts.