The Spirit of ST Louis (4 page)

' It would show people what airplanes can do. It would advance aviation, and it would advertise St. Louis."

I go on to explain that I want to get a group of businessmen behind me to finance the project and give me the prestige I'll need in dealing with aircraft manufacturers.

"I can furnish $2000 myself," I say. "But the right kind of plane will probably cost at least ten thousand."

Mr. Thompson's face becomes serious. "What kind of plane would you get for that flight, Captain?" he asks.

"I think the Wright-Bellanca could probably make it," I tell him.

"But the Wright-Bellanca is a land plane—and it has only one engine, hasn't it?" His voice is as disturbed as his question. "You aren't thinking of flying over the ocean in a single-engined airplane, are you? I think it's a very interesting idea, but I'd want you to have a flying boat, or a plane with enough engines so you wouldn't have to land in the water if one of them stopped. Have you considered using a three-engined Fokker, like Commander Byrd's?"

I was afraid of that. Businessmen are always conservative. But at least he's taking my idea seriously.

"Well," I argue, "a flying boat can't take off with enough fuel, and a trimotored Fokker would cost a huge amount of money. I don't know what they sell for; but I'm afraid it would be at least $30,000 and it might be considerably more. Besides, I'm not sure three engines would really add much to safety on a flight like that. You see the plane would be overloaded with fuel anyway. There'd be three times the chance of engine failure; and if one of them stopped over the ocean, you probably couldn't get back to land with the other two. A multi-engined plane is awfully big and heavy. [This is my trump card.] You know Fonck had three engines, but that didn't help him any when his landing gear gave way. A single-engined plane might even be safer, everything considered."

"Well, you know a lot more about airplanes than I do," Mr. Thompson says. "But I don't like the idea of a single engine out over the ocean. If you really want to make that flight, I think you ought to consider getting a trimotored plane, like a Fokker."

We spend the entire evening talking about aircraft and the New York-to-Paris flight. Mr. Thompson is definitely interested. He's encouraging, but cautious and greatly concerned about the risks involved. After all, his business is insurance. He has to be conservative.

6

"There's a Fokker man here. He's up with Major Robertson, talking about a St. Louis agency."

I'm eating late breakfast at Louie De Hatre's lunch stand, after bringing in the Chicago mail. At the counter one learns immediately about everything new that has happened on the field—new arrivals, new accidents, new business. The possibility of a Fokker agency is real news. Just think of having one of those big trimotored monoplanes on the line. They have seats for ten passengers, besides the crew. Who would be chosen for the pilot? What kind of flying would it do? There are rumors that a St. Louis company is ready to place an order.

For me, this news has special meaning. Here's a chance to jot some accurate information about performances and Oasts. I've got to be careful, though. I haven't yet mentioned my plans to anyone on the field. I watch the white door to Major Robertson's little office until he emerges with the stranger—a fair complexioned, stocky man in city clothes. They stroll down to the lunch stand, talking; and here we are introduced. Pilots, mechanics, and students gather, sit on benches, lean against walls, listening to stories of Tony Fokker's genius, the safety of multiengines, the efficiency of thick airfoils. The Fokker salesman's "line" is good.

A phone call comes for Major Robertson. The Fokker man and I walk over toward the hangar.

"When you have time, I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes about a project we're considering here in St. Louis," I tell him.

"How about right now?"

His attitude makes it clear that he's not losing any opportunity to size up the aviation situation at Lambert Field. Business radiates from posture, tone, and dress.

"I'm going to ask you to hold what I talk about in confidence until we get further along with our plans," I start out.

"Certainly." He nods assent.

"A group of men here in St. Louis are thinking of buying a plane for the New York-to-Paris flight," I say. "We've been considering a Fokker. We'd like to have any information you can give us."

"What kind of information do you want?"

He's looking at me intently now. I mustn't show the slightest uncertainty.

"Well, we'd like to know whether you can build a plane that can carry enough fuel to make that flight. We'd like to know how much it would cost, and how soon it could be delivered."

"I can answer all of those questions," the salesman tells me, in a tone which implies courtesy without enthusiasm. "The Fokker Company happens to have made a study of a flight from New York to Paris. Mr. Fokker can design a plane with enough range to reach Paris with a good reserve of fuel. The company can, deliver it by next spring, if the order is placed now. It would cost about $90,000."

I try to keep my face as expressionless as his, but my mind whirls. Ninety thousand dollars! That's hopeless. I can never raise such an amount. I haven't even thought in such figures.

"Of course," he goes on, fastening his eyes on mine again, "the Fokker Company would have to be satisfied with the competency of operating personnel before they would be willing to sell a plane for such a flight."

I pass over the last statement, as though it didn't apply to me.

"That's much more than we planned on," I say. "I didn't know Fokkers cost that much. The figure I heard quoted was ---"

The salesman doesn't wait for me to finish, "Oh, our standard trimotors are much less. A plane for long range would have to be specially built, you see. It would need a larger wing, and extra tanks in the fuselage. The landing gear would have to be beefed up. It would be a different airplane entirely." He speaks with even voice and measured words. He knows he has something to sell, and he's not going to strike an easy bargain. "The Fokker Company's reputation would be at stake," he adds. "You should plan on over $100,000 for such a project. In fact, you should have almost unlimited financial backing."

I pause for a moment. He's probably sounding me out, trying to bracket the figures he can work with. Maybe if I do a little sparring – – – "We've also considered using a single-engined plane," I tell him "How much would it cost to build a single-engined Fokker with enough range for – – –"

The salesman breaks in again. "Our Company would not be interested in selling a single-engined plane for a flight across the ocean," he says definitely.

I feel embarrassed, as though I were an adolescent boy broaching an ill-considered venture to a tolerant but disapproving parent. But I think he's wrong about multiengines in this case. Anyway, I'm not going to give up yet.

"We thought a single-engined plane might be just as safe as one with three engines when it's heavily overloaded. [What am I talking about—"we"? I'm the only one who believes that.] If one engine stopped on a Fokker, how far could you go on the other two?"

"There would be dump valves on the fuel tanks, of course," he answers. "If an engine stopped, you would simply dump enough fuel to keep flying on the other two. That's why Mr. Fokker believes in three engines."

"But if an engine failed on take-off, or several hundred miles out over the ocean, could – – –"

"Mr. Fokker wouldn't consider selling a single-engined plane for a flight over the Atlantic Ocean."

The salesman's voice is sharpening. He's still courteous; but I can see that he had formed his estimate, and rejected me as an important prospect. I slip away as soon as I can, and walk out through the little town of Anglum, along the narrow dirt road, to farm lands beyond. I need time, alone, to think.

I don't want a trimotored plane. Besides costing more, a big plane isn't as efficient, and it would need a crew. I'd rather go alone. I inquired about it more at Thompson's

insistence than because of my own interest. But the blunt statement that the Fokker Company won't sell a single-engined plane for my project wasn't what I expected from their sales representative. I've never known a salesman before this to question what a plane was going to be used for, if you had enough money to buy it. If you cracked up and killed yourself, that was your responsibility. It didn't mean there was anything wrong with the plane.

Well, the two men I've talked to about a New York-toParis flight are both prejudiced. One of them looks on the risk from the standpoint of an insurance executive. The other wants to sell and promote multiengined airplanes. But Earl Thompson is interested in the flight—that's the important thing; and there are other companies besides Fokker.

Flying to Chicago on the mail route in the evening, I decide to build up my backing in St. Louis, and then try to purchase the Wright-Bellanca. The Wright Corporation will certainly have confidence in its own engine; and since they don't make a multiengined plane, they should be in sympathy with my arguments against one.

Next week I have an appointment to talk to Major Lambert.

7

Major Lambert sits at his desk, alert, serious, looking at me through thick eyeglasses. His gray hair is thinning where he parts it in the center. He's immaculately dressed.

"That's quite a flight, Slim Do you really think it can be done?" he asks.

"Yes sir, I believe it can; but I'm going to be sure of my facts before I go much farther in laying plans. That's where I need help. I want to tell the manufacturers that responsible people are behind me. If they know my backing is sound, they'll give me all the information I want about costs and performances. Otherwise, they may think it's not worth while spending the time. I want to be in a good position to trade on prices, too. If I can say you're one of the men who's interested in this project, it will be a tremendous help – – – I won't make any commitments without getting your approval."

I lay my cards, face up, on the table, and explain the difficulties I'm confronted with.

Major Lambert, good old-timer that he is, doesn't raise any question about flying boats or multiengines. He has lived through too many years of aviation to be fooled by popular ideas of safety. He knows there's danger involved in all flying.

"If you think it's a practical venture, and if you can get the right fellows together, I'll take part, Slim," he says. "You can count on me for $1,000.

A thousand dollars! That's the first real money I've gotten. I'll put in $2,000 of my own; that's a total of $3,000. And Mr. Thompson is with me, even though he hasn't promised any definite amount. I hadn't planned on asking for money yet. Major Lambert just volunteered that thousand dollars. How like him—no halfway measures. He's either with you or isn't, and it doesn't take him long to decide.

Whom shall I go to next? Driving back to the field in my halfowned, secondhand Ford coupe, I feel that my New York-to-Paris flight is emerging from the stage of dreams: I have an organization under way. Now it's time to talk to Bill Robertson. I haven't said anything to him yet about my plans. I want to bring him something more tangible than an idea. He has enough on his hands keeping the mail route going without trying to finance a New York-to-Paris flight. A lot of people think he'll go broke flying the mail. They'll call him a wild man if he talks about flying the ocean too.

8

"Wheeuuu-u-u-u---." Major Bill Robertson whistles as he turns toward me on his swivel chair. "That's some flight, Slim. Do you really think it can be done? How many miles is it from New York to Paris?"

"It's about thirty-five hundred," I answer. "I know it's a long way, but I think the Bellanca can do it, and I'm going to find out."

"It doesn't seem possible to put that much gasoline in an airplane. Say, a plane like that could sure carry a lot of mail, couldn't it? How much does a Bellanca cost?"

"I don't know, Bill; but my guess is about ten thousand dollars."

"Wheeuuu-u-u-u; that's a lot of money. Where are you going to raise it, Slim?"

"That's what I'm working on now," I tell him. "Major Lambert says he'll put in a thousand dollars. Earl Thompson is interested, and I can put in two thousand myself. I haven't asked anybody else."

"Say, you're lucky to get Major Lambert interested. That'll help a lot. Did he really say he'd put up a thousand dollars?"

"He said he would if I could get enough of the right kind of men together."

Bill hesitates, and then goes on.

"We'll help as much as we can, Slim, but you know we aren't in a position to put up much money. We're losing dollars every day right now. I've got to go down to the bank and try to raise some more."

"I know, Bill. I didn't come to you for money. You can help in two other ways. I want to be able to say that the Robertson Aircraft Corporation is in the group that's behind me; and I need your permission to arrange the mail schedule so I can get away for two or three days at a time when it's necessary."

"You can say we're behind you if that will help any," he says. "But I don't know about the schedule. You know the Post Office won't take excuses. The mail's just got to go through. Can Phil and Nellie handle it alone? Suppose one of them goes down. We wouldn't have a reserve pilot. You three are the only ones who know the route." -

"I think we can keep the route running all right, Bill. The biggest danger is weather. But you can telegraph me if a plane goes down and I'll take the first train back. If I have to be away too much, we'll train another pilot."

"Well, be awfully careful, Slim. We mustn't get into trouble with the Post Office. Be sure and fix it up with Phil and Nellie. And keep me posted where you are. Say, that flight ought to be worth a lot for advertising. Have you thought about getting some company to back it? Say, why don't you talk to the Post-Dispatch? They might be willing to put up enough money to cover the whole thing. You could paint the paper's name on the fuselage. Say, it would be great advertising for them. I know one of the editors. Why don't we go down and talk to him?"

Bill is bubbling over with enthusiasm. You can see how he managed to finance the mail route. Once he gets behind an idea, he makes you believe anything is possible.

I'm not too happy about the Post-Dispatch suggestion. There's something wrong about flying a billboard to Paris; it's too much like blocking out a mountain vista with an advertisement for beer. Still, if I want to make the flight, I've got to look into all possibilities. One must establish alternatives before he can choose. And Bill's had a lot of experience raising money. He knows that if you set your sights too high the bullets fall short.

"You make the appointment," I tell him.

"Fine, Slim, fine. I'll try to make it this week. Say, that's some flight, isn't it?"

I start out the door, and pause.

"How's the boy, Bill?" I ask.