The Spirit of ST Louis (22 page)

Green grass and bunkers below -- a golf links -- people looking up. A low, tree-covered hill ahead -- I shallow-bank right to avoid it, still grasping the stick tightly as though to steady the plane with my own strength, hardly daring to drop a wing for the turn, hardly daring to push the rudder. The Spirit of St. Louis seems balanced on a pin point, as though the slightest movement of controls would cause it to topple over and fall. Five thousand pounds suspended from those little wings -- 5000 pounds balanced on a blast of air.

The ground's farther underneath; the plane's climbing faster -- I'm above the trees on the hilltop! Plenty of height, plenty of power -- a reserve of it! Two hundred feet above the ground. Now, if the motor starts missing, there are places I might land -- level fields between the hills and highways. The landing gear would give way, the fuel tanks would burst; but if I cut the switch, at least there's a chance that the fuselage would skid along and not catch fire.

Now I'm high enough to steal glances at the instrument board. The tachometer needle shows 1825 r.p.m. -- no sign of engine overheating. I move the throttle back slowly -- a glance at the terrain ahead -- a glance at the tachometer in my cockpit – 1800 -- 1775 r.p.m. Pull the stabilizer back a notch. The air speed's still over 100 miles an hour.

I throttle down to 1750 -- the tail stays up -- the controls are taut! Then the curves are right. If the Spirit of St. Louis can cruise at 1750 r.p.m. with this load, I have more than enough fuel to reach Paris.

On the instrument board in front of me, the earth-inductor compass needle leans steeply to the right. I bank cautiously northward until it rises to the center line -- 65 degrees -- the compass heading for the first 100-mile segment of my great-circle route to France and Paris. It's 7:54 Eastern daylight time.

The curtain of mist moves along with me. I can see three miles ahead—no more. Even at that distance details merge with haze. What lies beyond the curtain? Will it lift to show a clear horizon when I reach Long Island Sound, or will it turn into a solid bank of fog? The last report said weather along the coast was clearing; but a number of stations still reported fog. Suppose I've taken off an hour too soon, before the rising sun has warmed the mists away; suppose ---

I pull the map of New York State from its cloth pocket at my side. The worse the weather, the more necessary accurate navigation will be. I must get a check on the compasses, watch for landmarks, make sure that the places I fly over on the earth's surface correspond to the symbols crossed by the black-inked line on my map.

The great landscaped estates of Long Island pass rapidly below: mansion, hedgerow, and horse-jump giving way to farms and woodlands farther east. I hold my plane just high enough to clear treetops and buildings on the hills. By flying close to the ground, I can see farther through the haze. That finger of water on my left is part of the bay-broken shore line of the Sound -- it must be at least five miles away. Then visibility to the north is improving. The clouds look a little higher, too.

I'm in the air with full tanks and a following wind. The engine has withstood its test of power. It's throttled down, turning smoothly and easily. The Spirit of St. Louis is no longer an unruly mechanical device, as it was during the take-off; it's no longer balanced on a pin point, as it was over the golf course; rather, it seems to form an extension of my own body, ready to follow my wish as the hand follows the mind's desire -- instinctively, without commanding.

I settle back in the cockpit, running my eyes carefully over the instruments, between glances at the ground -- letting each one transmit the full significance of its message: oil pressure 56 pounds; oil temperature 34°; fuel pressure 31/2
pounds -- A little close to the treetops -- ease back on the stick -- Tachometer 1750 r.p.m.; air speed 105 m.p.h. -- Off heading a bit-3 degrees left rudder. Altitude 200 feet; time 8:07 a.m. Fifteen minutes out and all readings normal. I shift from center wing-tank to nose tank. Fifteen minutes flying on each of the five fuel tanks should leave enough air space to stop overflow, and every drop of gasoline must be saved.

There's Smithtown Bay, under my left wing. I'm a mile or two southeast of course -- partly due to turning right, around that bill by the golf links. I won't correct my heading until I reach Connecticut's shore. That will give me a better check on the compasses.

As I look out, a newspaper plane banks steeply and heads back -- probably trying to get a scoop on the others. I hadn't noticed them during the first few minutes after takeoff. Then, as they drew in closer, cameras sticking out of cockpits and cabin windows, I was startled to find that I was not alone in the air. It never occurred to me that newspaper companies would hire planes to follow the Spirit of St. Louis on its way to Paris. At another time their presence wouldn't bother me so much, but now I wish they'd all go away. They seem out of place, not part of this flight. I can visualize their reporters and photographers at the end of the runway, back on Roosevelt Field, gathered around a flaming mass of wreckage. But I've left all that behind, with the mud and the telephone wires. Now the air, the clouds, the sky -- these elements are mine.

The Spirit of St. Louis rocks slightly -- turbulent air! I glance up at the heavily loaded wings. Bumps are light, but the tips flex up and down too far for comfort. I'm passing over Port Jefferson and its harbor full of boats. Air's usually rough where land and water meet -- but suppose it gets really turbulent! My muscles tense as though my own arms were stretched out in the wings, helping to hold up the load. Can structure stand a sharper blow? I feel in my shoulders -- in my body -- in my mind -- that the reserve of strength is low.

I fly through uneasy seconds until Long Island's coast is behind. Then, within 1000 yards of the shore line, air smooths out like glass. And at almost the same moment, the pilot of the last escorting plane, a Curtiss Oriole, gives his wing a farewell dip, and turns back toward land.

I'm alone at last, over the first short stretch of sea on the route to France. The surface is calm. There's hardly a sign of movement beneath the oil-smooth sheen of its skin. It's only 35 miles to the Connecticut shore, but I've never flown across that much water before. The Sound comes as an advance messenger, welcoming and at the same time warning me of the empire that lies ahead -- of the trackless wastes, the great solitude, the desertlike beauty of the ocean.

Haze thickens behind me until the coast line becomes lost. There's not a boat in sight. Only a few spiraling gulls and dark bits of refuse on the water show that land is near. I'm the center point in a circle of haze moving along with me over the glassy water -- gray haze over gray water, the one mirrored in the other until I can't tell where sea ends and sky begins.

I relax in my cockpit -- this little box with fabric walls, in which I'm to ride across the ocean. Now, if all goes well, I won't move from it for a day and a half, until I step out on French sod at the airport of Le Bourget. It's a compact place to live, designed to fit around me so snugly that no ounce of weight or resistance is wasted. I can press both sides of the fuselage with partly outstretched elbows. The instrument board is an easy reach forward for my hand, and a thin rib on the roof is hollowed slightly to leave clearance for my helmet. There's room enough, no more, no less; my cockpit has been tailored to me like a suit of clothes.

A pilot doesn't feel at home in a plane until he's flown it for thousands of miles. At first it's like moving into a new house. The key doesn't slip in the door smoothly; the knobs and light switches aren't where you put your hand; the stairs don't have proper spacing, and the windows bind as you raise them. Later, after you've used the key a hundred times, it fits at once, turns easily in the lock. Knobs and switches leap to meet your fingers on the darkest night. The steps touch your feet in perfect timing; and windows slide open with an easy push. My test flights in California, the long hours of night above deserts and mountains of the Southwest, the swift trip over the Alleghenies to New York, have removed the feel of newness from the Spirit of St. Louis. Each dial and lever is in proper place for glance or touch; and the slightest pressure on controls brings response. My ears have become accustomed to the radial engine’s tempo. It blends with the instrument readings and the clearing mist to instill a feeling of confidence and hope.

I'm glad this flight to Paris hasn't become a race. Now I can set my throttle for range instead of speed, hoarding gallons of gasoline for that worried hour when extra fuel means the saving of a flight. I never wanted to race across the ocean. There are hazards enough without adding human competition.

What advantages there are in flying alone! I know now what my father meant when he warned me, years ago, of depending too heavily on others. He used to quote a saying of old settlers in Minnesota: "One boy's a boy. Two boys are half a boy. Three boys are no boy at all." That had to do with hunting, trapping, and scouting in days when Indians were hostile. But how well it applies to modern life, and to this flight I'm making. By flying alone I've gained in range, in time, in flexibility; and above all, I've gained in freedom. I haven't had to keep a crew member acquainted with my plans. My movements weren't restricted by someone else's temperament, health, or knowledge. My decisions aren't weighted by responsibility for another's life. When I learned last night that the weather was improving, I had no one to consult; I needed only to order the Spirit of St. Louis readied for daybreak. When I was sitting in my cockpit, on the muddy runway, in the tail wind, there was no one to warp my judgment with a "Hell, let's try it!" or, "It looks pretty bad to me." I've not been enmeshed in petty quarreling and heavy organizational problems. Now, I can go on or turn back according to the unhampered dictates of my mind and senses. According to that saying of my father's, I'm a full boy -- independent -- alone.

My eyes run over the instruments again. At 1750 r.p.m. the engine should stand a little leaning out, even at the low altitude of 150 feet. I open the mixture control cautiously, ready to jam it shut at the slightest sign of roughness.

New England's tree-covered hills harden from the northern haze -- a different shade of gray, then blue, then green, then filled with depth and texture. Scattered ships and launches ply back and forth offshore. I fold up the map of New York on my knees, and pull out one of Connecticut. The first state is passed; the first salt water crossed. It gives me a feeling of speed and accomplishment far out of proportion to the actual miles I've covered.

As I approach shore, near the Connecticut River's mouth, wing tips tremble again. For some reason it bothers me less than before. Possibly the air isn't quite as rough. Possibly I feel that the structure passed its crucial test over Long Island. It may be my knowledge that the plane is already a few pounds lighter; or simply optimism springing from a successful start. At any rate, the bumps no longer cause an ache in my armpits.

Inland, there's not much room between green hills and clouds. I climb slowly to 500 feet, and push out the periscope. It's a home-made device, built by one of the workmen in the factory at San Diego—just two flat mirrors, set at the proper angle, in a tube that can be extended from the left side of the fuselage. The field of vision isn't large, but it shows the country directly ahead well enough to warn of a higher summit, and to assure me that no factory chimneys or radio towers lie on my line of flight. I don't have to lean over to one side for a better view. I can take off my goggles and sit quietly in the center of the cockpit. On such a long flight it's important to avoid fatigue.

Hills are rising. To the north, they penetrate the clouds. Will the next ridge close off my route? Shall I turn south along a valley, and try to follow the coast line eastward? That would take extra fuel, but it would be cheaper than doubling back if I push on too far. If the ceiling drops another hundred feet, I'll have to turn back. But there's no certainty that I can get through along the coast. The cloud level there may be still lower. And such detouring would complicate navigation. It would keep me from getting an accurate check on my compasses before I reach the ocean. No, I'll hold straight on course as long as I see a layer of open air ahead, no matter how thin it is.

After all, I mustn't be too disappointed if I have to turn back. I've never counted on reaching Paris on the first try. I planned on starting several times if need be. Suppose fog blankets the entire area ahead? Well, I’ll throttle down and try for the world's endurance record; I'll pick out a course from Roosevelt Field around New York. And if clouds hang thick and low at night, I'll circle the lights of Garden City.

I cross the Thames River between Norwich and New London. Over the valley, the ceiling is higher. Ahead, the haze is clearing, and the cloud base is lifting rapidly. I angle five degrees northward to pick up my great-circle route.

THE SECOND HOUR
Over New England

TIME - 8:52 A.M.

Wind Velocity 0 m.p.h Visibility 5 miles

Wind Direction --- Altitude 600 feet

True Course 51° Air Speed 102 m.p.h.

Variation 13° W Tachometer 1750 r.p.m.

Magnetic Course 64° Oil Temp. 38°C

Deviation 1°E Oil Pressure 59 lbs.

Compass Course 63° Fuel pressure 3.5 lbs.

Drift Angle 0° Mixture 1

Compass heading 63° Fuel tank Fuselage

Ceiling 2000 feet