The Spirit of ST Louis (10 page)

"Grand. We'll be out to meet you – – – Good luck!"

20

"We will sell our plane, but of course we reserve the right to select the crew that flies it."

I stand, dumfounded, in the Columbia Aircraft Corporation office. The fifteen-thousand-dollar cashier's check lies alone and conspicuous on Mr. Levine's polished desk top.

"You understand we cannot let just anybody pilot our airplane across the ocean," he continues.

I feel more chagrined than angry. Here's a point there can be no trading over.

"I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding," I say. "We wouldn't be interested in such an arrangement. This is a St. Louis project. We'd naturally want to work with you very closely in running tests and planning for the flight; but if we buy a plane, we're going to control it, and, we'll pick our own crew."

"The Columbia Aircraft Corporation cannot afford to take such a chance with our airplane," Levine replies. "We would select a good crew. Your organization in St. Louis would have all the credit for the flight, all the publicity."

"As far as I can see, we'd be paying $15,000 for the privilege of painting the name of St. Louis on the fuselage," I tell him. "If you'd stated these terms when I was here before, it would have saved me a two-thousand-mile train trip. Is the Bellanca for sale or isn't it? If it is, we can close the deal. If it's not, I want to look for another plane. There's no use wasting any more time."

"Yes, yes, it is for sale," he insists, "but why will not you let us select the crew? We know better than anybody else how to fly the Bellanca, how to take care of it. It would be wise for you to let us manage the flight to Paris. You should think it over. What I tell you is best."

"There's no use thinking it over," I state definitely. "We'll co-operate with you in every way we can, but we either buy the plane outright or we don't buy it. Will you accept this payment, or must I find another plane?"

I pick the check up from the desk top. Levine's eyes follow it.

"You are making a mistake," he argues. "You are making a mistake. The Bellanca is the only airplane built that is capable of flying between New York and Paris."

"I'm sorry," I reply; "but if you won't sell outright, the sooner I start looking for another plane the better." I start out the door.

"Wait – – – call me up tomorrow."

"There's no use waiting," I tell him, "unless you'll reconsider your terms."

Levine hesitates. Then, "Call me up tomorrow—at eleven o'clock," he says

I walk aimlessly through Manhattan streets, looking up at skyscrapers, staring into goods-filled windows. After supper I go to a motion picture theater to pass time – – – But I can't lose myself in the story. Shootings and love affairs from a Hollywood stage don't replace my vision of the Bellanca. Behind trivial and fantastic escapades on the screen, I see wings, and engines turning.

21

It's eleven o'clock. I close the phone booth door and call my number. The reply comes at once.

"Good morning," Levine says. "Well, have you changed your mind?"

I hang up the phone too angry to reply, step outside, and stride up Madison Avenue. It's overcast, cold, and windy. Crevices in the sidewalk hold filthy chunks of ice. Taxis surge at the traffic lights. Crowds of people, with problems of their own, flow by, filter through traffic, seep in and out of stores. Brisk walking, and the cold February air, gradually clear my mind.

Fokker, Wright, Travel Air, Columbia—one company after another has turned me down. If I go out to San Diego, will the Ryan offer collapse too? With money in hand to buy a plane, I thought my major difficulty past. But now it seems a greater problem is to find one. This is the third week of February. Even if Ryan can build a plane in two months, it would be late April before I could be back in New York, ready to take off for Paris. The Bellanca is here, now. It can start on any date its pilot chooses. Levine may already have decided to let Chamberlin make the New York-to-Paris flight. Instead of being ahead, I'm behind all my competitors—so far behind, in fact, that they don't even consider me in the running. Most of them don't know I exist.

It is reported that Lieutenant Commander Davis is well along with his plans for a New York-to-Paris flight, and that Major General Patrick, Chief of the Army Air Corps, has authorized the Huff-Daland Company to sell him a stripped-down, three-engined bomber—which is probably already built. It has been announced that Commander Byrd is going to try for the Orteig prize in a new trimotored Fokker—so he must have found financial backing of close to $100,000. There are rumors that Sikorsky is building another multiengined biplane for Captain Rene Fonck. Several transatlantic planes may be undergoing final tests in Europe—the French have been pretty secretive about their projects. All I can offer my partners is the possibility that some as yet unknown manufacturer of aircraft, maybe Ryan, will build a plane in which, during late spring or summer, I could try the New York-to-Paris flight. I never did have a business proposition. Now it can hardly be called even a sporting venture. Someone is almost certain to take off before my plane is built. Of course taking off doesn't necessarily mean reaching Paris. And there's always the Pacific Ocean. I don't think anybody is preparing for a transpacific flight.

22

"Let's stick to the Paris flight, Slim," Harry Knight is saying. "That's the idea we started out with."

I'm back at 401 Olive Street, after the dreary train trip from New York.

I have just suggested that it might be wise to give up plans for flying the Atlantic and concentrate on a transpacific flight. "No one is working on a Pacific flight," I say. "We'd have plenty of time to prepare—to build a plane—to run our tests. We might be able to work up another prize like Orteig's. It would be a longer flight, an even greater demonstration of aviation's capabilities."

But Knight and Bixby have no thought of quitting. Until this moment I didn't realize how firmly they stand behind me. I went to them hoping only for financial aid, and here I've found real partners in the venture.

"We’ll put the money back in the bank," Bixby says, "and it will be ready when you need it. You may decide that Ryan can do a pretty good job. Let's stay with this Paris flight. We're not whipped yet."

III

SAN DIEGO

FEBRUARY, 1927

THE RYAN AIRLINES factory is an old, dilapidated building near the waterfront. I feel conspicuous driving up to it in a taxicab. A couple of loafers stare at me as I pay my fare.
There's no flying field, no hangar, no sound of engines warming up; and the unmistakable smell of dead fish from a near-by cannery mixes with the banana odor of dope from

drying wings. What a change in weather! It was sleeting when I left St. Louis. Here, on the 23rd of February, palm leaves flutter in warm wind and sun.

I open the door to a small, dusty, paper-strewn office. A slender young man advances to meet me—clear, piercing eyes, intent face. He introduces himself as Donald Hall, chief engineer for Ryan Airlines, Incorporated. Another young man moves up beside him. He is Walter Locke, in charge of the purchasing department. Within a few minutes, A. J. Edwards, sales manager, arrives—genial, stockily built.

B. F. Mahoney, president of the company, is broad-shouldered, smiling, young—in his late twenties, I judge.

"Before we get down to talking business," Mahoney says after shaking hands, "we'd like you to see what we're doing in the factory."

He opens a door at the back of the office and we step down onto the factory floor. One of the workmen is welding a steel tube in place on a fuselage skeleton in front of us. A half-dozen men are scattered about, splicing cables, drilling holes, installing instruments and levers, attending to the infinite details of aircraft construction.

"Here's Hawley Bowlus, our factory manager." A lanky fellow with curly, brown hair extends his hand. Workmen glance up from their jobs--sizing me up, no doubt, as a prospective customer. Another plane sold? A few more weeks of pay secure? A small aviation company like this must live from hand to mouth.

"This is Bert Tindale, shop superintendent. Mr. McNeal, here, has charge of final assembly. Mr. Anderson does our welding. Mr. Morrow is our fitting expect, and Mr. Rohr takes care of tanks and cowlings." We shake hands as the introductions are made.

"Our fuselages are all tubular steel," Mahoney explains. "We use wood wing-spars and ribs."

We climb upstairs, past a gold-pigmented fuselage, to a big loft of a room on the second, and top, floor. Two men are fitting ribs to spars of straight-grained spruce. Another is brushing into a cotton-clothed aileron its second coat of dope.

"Captain Lindbergh, this is Mr. Fred Ayers. We depend on him for all our covering and finishing." Mahoney thumps his fingers on a rudder's fabric while we exchange greetings. "Look at that construction," he continues, pointing to the framework. "It's strong and it's simple. You can hardly believe how much that wing will lift -- Well, you've seen about all of our establishment. Shall we go back to the office and talk things over?"

We start downstairs. I count the fuselages under construction--two in framework stage, one about ready for its wing--not much business to keep a factory going.

"Mr. Mahoney has just bought full ownership of Ryan Airlines," the sales manager confides to me. "We'll probably change the name to the 'B. F. Mahoney Aircraft Corporation.' "

"Where do you test your planes?" I ask.

"Our flying field is at Dutch Flats," Edwards answers. "It's out on the edge of the city. We put the wing on a truck and tow the fuselage behind."

"The field isn't very big," Mahoney adds, "but it gets by, and it's convenient. We'll take you out there later on. You'll want to meet Harrigan and Kelly; they're our pilots."

"Have a chair." We sit down on desks and tables. There's a moment of silence.

"Well, we'd like to build your plane," Mahoney says. "What, do you think of our proposition?"

"Your telegram quoted a price of $6000, without engine," I reply. "How much would that make the cost, complete?"

"We quoted the price that way because we didn't know what you'd want in the way of engine and equipment," Mahoney tells me. "It includes standard instruments and oversize fuel tanks. If we put in a J-4 Whirlwind and use our regular instruments, the completed price would run between nine and ten thousand dollars. If you want one of the Wright Corporation's new J-5 engines, it would run $10,000 or better. We can't give an exact figure until we know what you want us to put in."

"I'd much rather fly a J-5," I say. "They develop a little more power, and their rocker-arms are enclosed. I want a metal propeller, and I've got to have a turn and bank indicator. Maybe a fuel-flow meter would pay for its weight. And I'd like to carry an earth-inductor compass; I understand it's easier to hold a course with one of them. I'll need good instruments—the best we can get."

"That's just it," Mahoney answers. "There's no way for us to make an estimate. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll give you the engine and all the extra equipment we buy for just what it costs us. We're interested in this flight too. We won't take any commission on the extras."

"That's fair enough. How about performance? Are you sure you can build a plane that will take off with enough fuel for the flight?"

"We've spent quite a bit of time studying the problem since you wired us you were coming out here," he replies. "We know it's a tough job, but we believe we can do it. We'd put a big tank in the mail compartment, and add a few feet to the wing span. But you'd better talk to Donald Hall about that. He made the calculations."

"If we place our order with your company, will you guarantee to give us a plane with range enough to fly from New York to Paris?" Mahoney shifts his weight uncomfortably on the table.

"I don't see how we can do that," he says. "The risks are too high. It isn't as though we were a big company with a lot of money in the bank. We aren't going to make any profit on this plane anyway, and we can't afford to take a loss… the price doesn't leave us any margin for a guarantee. We'll put everything we've got into it. We'll do the best we can. But at $6000 we can't go overboard on guarantees."

"How soon could you start building the plane?" I ask.

"We'd put some of our workmen on it as soon as you place the order," Mahoney replies.

"Do you feel sure we could depend on delivery in two months?"

"We think we can build it in less time, but I wouldn't want to promise."

It's increasingly obvious that the answer to my problem lies in Donald Hall, the engineer. My decision as to whether the Ryan company is capable of building a plane with the performance I need must depend primarily on my estimate of him.

"I think the next step is for me to talk to your engineer about some of the details of construction."

"All right," Mahoney agrees. "You probably won't want us around. Why don't you and Hall go off somewhere together?"

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