20 hrs. 40 min. our flight in the Friendship (2024)

THE AMERICAN GIRL, FIRST ACROSS THE
ATLANTIC BY AIR, TELLS HER STORY

BY

AMELIA EARHART

WITH 61 ILLUSTRATIONS

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
NEW YORK—LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1928

20 HRS. 40 MIN.

Copyright, 1928
by
G.P. Putnam’s Sons

This is a copy of the first edition

‡[The
Knickerbocker
Press
New York]

Made in the United States of America

IN re-reading the manuscript of this book I find I didn’t allow myselfto be born. May I apologize for this unconventional oversight as wellas for other more serious ones—and some not so serious?

I myself am disappointed not to have been able to write a “work”—(youknow, Dickens’ Works, Thackeray’s Works), but my dignity wouldn’t standthe strain. I can only hope, therefore, that some of the fun of flyingthe Atlantic has sifted into my pages and that some of the charm andromance of old ships may be seen to cling similarly to the ships of theair.

A. E.

Miss Perkins is Head Worker at Denison House, Boston’s second oldestsettlement, with which Amelia Earhart has been identified for twoyears.

A TALL, slender, boyish-looking young woman walked into my office inthe early fall of 1926. She wanted a job and a part-time one would do,for she was giving courses in English under the university extension.Most of her classes were in factories in Lynn and other industrialtowns near Boston. She had had no real experience in social work butshe wanted to try it, and before I knew it I had engaged her forhalf-time work at Denison House. She had poise and charm. I liked her[12]quiet sense of humor, the frank direct look in her grey eyes.

It was some time before any of us at Denison House knew that AmeliaEarhart had flown. After driving with her in the “Yellow Peril,” herown Kissel roadster, I knew that she was an expert driver, handlingher car with ease, yes more than that, with an artistic touch. She hasalways seemed to me an unusual mixture of the artist and the practicalperson.

Her first year at Denison House she had general direction of theevening school for foreign-born men and women. She did little teachingherself, but did follow-up work in the homes, so necessary to thesuccess of such an undertaking. In her report of her year’s work afterwe had planned her next year’s program, which did not include theevening school, she wrote: “I shall try to keep my contact with thewomen who have come to class; Mrs. S. and her drunken husband, Mrs.F.’s struggle to get her [13]husband here, Mrs. Z.’s to get her papersin the face of odds, all are problems that are hard to relinquish aftera year’s friendship.”

In the spring of 1927, Denison House was giving a country carnival forthe benefit of the house. For such a good cause, Amelia consented tofly over Boston and drop publicity dodgers. She first said that shewould do this if her name could be kept out of the papers! We had touse some persuasion to keep her from flying incognito. The first dayof the carnival, the Boston police up and down Boylston and TremontStreets were perhaps too amazed to try to arrest a man and woman,apparently Italian peasants just landed, who drove back and forth in aqueer yellow car, stopping now and then to grind a tune on a batteredhand-organ and to distribute handbills.

The organ grinder was Amelia Earhart.

Youth, keeping a heart, a soul and a body that are wide open to all therich opportunities [14]of life—that is part of Amelia’s creed. How manytimes I have heard her say that, to her, one of the biggest jobs ofthe social worker in a settlement is just that—to give boys and girlsthe experiences that will keep them young and that will develop a zestfor life. Last fall, she came to Denison House as a resident and as afull-time staff worker. She has directed the work of girls from fiveto fourteen years and has had general charge of the pre-kindergarten.Jokingly we have sometimes called Amelia the “official secretary,” forshe is the secretary of the staff, of the Board of Directors (to whichshe was elected this year) and to the House Committee of the board. Shehas an unusual flair, in a meeting, for the gist of the thought andexpresses herself in writing with accuracy and originality. Last yearand this, Amelia has been a member of an inter-settlement committeeworking on child-study records.

She herself made studies of children that show [15]her keen insightinto child life. Here are sentences taken from her record of aseven-year-old boy. “Ferris is fond of making experiments of variouskinds. How far can the pencil be moved before it falls? How high canthe chairs be piled before spilling? He conceived the idea on a coldday of ‘warming’ his little sister’s beads on his father’s stove. Thatthe beads were hot enough to burn the child when she put them on wasnot part of the experiment.”

“Where is Miss Earhart now?” “Is she still flying?” “Gee, I hope shebeats that other woman.” These and hundreds of other questions greetedus on Tyler Street. “Is she coming back soon?” “I couldn’t sleep lastnight thinking about her flying.”

The day she told me of the trans-Atlantic project, and swore meto secrecy, she said, “And I’ll be back for summer school. I haveweighed the values and I want to stay in social work.” Her simplicity,her honesty, her complete lack [16]of any quality that makes forsensationalism—this is Amelia Earhart. A few days after the flightproject was under way, a dinner guest at Denison House, who waslearning to fly at the East Boston Airport, told of the big Fokkermonoplane that Byrd was “to fly to the Antarctic”; just a quiet twinkleacross the room to me from Amelia’s eyes, and afterwards an infectiouschuckle as we enjoyed the incident together.

One day last year, after a discussion of L. P. Jacks’ lectures on TheChallenge of Life, she handed me some verses. Here they are, moreappropriate at this time than any words I can write:

[27]20 HRS. 40 MIN.

THERE are two kinds of stones, as everyone knows, one of which rolls.Because I selected a father who was a railroad man it has been myfortune to roll.

Of course rolling has left its mark on me. What happened to myeducation is typical. Until the eighth grade I stayed the schoolyear with my grandmother in Atchison, Kansas, and attended a collegepreparatory school. With the exception of two grades skipped, onespent trying a public school and one conducted at home under agoverness-friend, my course was fairly [30]regular—not including timeout for travelling. However, it took six high-schools to see me throughthe customary four year course. Would it be surprising, consideringthis record, if I should come out with a right round “ain’t” or “hedone it” now and then?

Despite such risks there are advantages in a changing environment.Meeting new people and new situations becomes an interesting adventure,and one learns to value fresh experiences as much as old associations.

When the war broke out for the United States I was at Ogontz School,near Philadelphia. My sister was at St. Margaret’s College in Torontoand I went to visit her there for the Christmas holidays.

In every life there are places at which the individual, looking back,can see he was forced to choose one of several paths. These turningpoints may be marked by a trivial circ*mstance or by one of great joyor sorrow.

[31]In 1918 Canada had been in the war four weary years—years theUnited States will never appreciate. Four men on crutches, walkingtogether on King Street in Toronto that winter, was a sight whichchanged the course of existence for me. The realization that war wasn’tknitting sweaters and selling Liberty Bonds, nor dancing with handsomeuniforms was suddenly evident. Returning to school was impossible, ifthere was war work that I could do.

I started training under the Canadian Red Cross and as soon as possiblecompleted the first-aid work necessary to qualify as a V.A.D. ornurse’s aide. Those four men on crutches!

My first assignment was to Spadina Military Hospital, a rather smallinstitution occupying an old college building converted for war use.Day began at seven and ended at seven, with two hours off in theafternoon. There were many beds to be made and trays and “nurishment”to [32]be carried, and backs to be rubbed—some lovely ones!

Most of the men had been through a physical and emotional crisis. Manywere not sick enough to be in bed and not well enough to find realoccupation. Even when jobs were offered many lacked the mental staminato take them—or make good at them, if taken. Spiritually they weretired out. Generally speaking they were a far harder group to care forthan the really sick. For with the latter the improvements noted by thepatient from day to day are cheerful mile posts, while these poor ladshad lost even that means of happiness.

The first day I was in the hospital there was a fire. It was notserious enough for attendants to do anything but slam windows shut andstand by to carry out patients. Nearly everyone enjoyed the excitementexcept a few of the autumnal nurses and the poor fellows in theshell-shock ward. They suffered greatly for a few days from [33]theeffects of the unexpected disturbance which was to most of the othermen a welcome break in their colorless existence.

Of course one of the jobs of a V.A.D. was to be a merry sunshine,not difficult for me whose I.Q. is low enough to insure naturalcheerfulness. Despite our best efforts time often dragged. I wonder ifwe might not have accomplished more if we had all been good-looking andespecially, perhaps, if we’d all worn brilliant colors instead of ourgrey and white uniforms. It’s a pet theory of mine that color in a drabworld can go a long way in stimulating morale. There’s a suggestion,here, perhaps, for the management of the next war.

The monotony of the hospital prevailed with its food also. Even afterten years I am unable to look a jelly-roll in the eye. They were thediurnal diet in the officers’ mess, just as rice puddings prevailedin the wards. I have a depressing memory of passing out little ricepuddings [34]in endless procession from the diet kitchen to thepatients. Sometimes they came back untouched but bearing crossesand the inscription R.I.P. However, those who rated rice puddingwere entitled to ice cream—if they could get it. We K.P.’s often didthe getting for the patients most in need of cheer. Our funds wereimmorally collected, the winnings of matching pennies in the kitchen.

The war was the greatest shock that some lives have had to survive.It so completely changed the direction of my own footsteps that thedetails of those days remain indelible in my memory, trivial as theyappear when recorded.

Days of routine slipped by quickly enough into months of nursing. Ihope what we did was helpful. Somebody had to do it. There is so muchthat must be done in a civilized barbarism like war.

War followed one everywhere. Even entertainments weren’t always merelyfun. Often [37]they meant having tea with a group of women who werecarrying their war work into their homes. I remember, for instance,hours spent with a power sewing machine making pajamas.

The aviation I touched, too, while approached as an entertainment wasof course steeped with war. Sometimes I was invited to a flying field,Armour Heights, on the edge of the city. I think there were many planesthere; I know there were many young pilots being trained—some veryyoung. (As a matter of fact I wasn’t exactly grey with age—twenty,then.)

But the planes were mature. They were full-sized birds that slid on thehard-packed snow and rose into the air with an extra roar that echoedfrom the evergreens that banked the edge of the field. They were a partof war, just as much as the drives, the bandages and the soldiers. Iremember well that when the snow blown back by the propellers stungmy face I felt a first urge to fly. I tried to get permission to goup, but [38]the rules forbade; not even a general’s wife could doso—apparently the only thing she couldn’t do. I did the next best thingand came to know some of the men fortunate enough to fly. Among themwere Canadians, Scotch, Irish and even Americans who could not pass ourrigorous tests but were accepted in Canada at that time.

They were terribly young, those air men—young and eager. Aviationwas the romantic branch of the service and inevitably attracted theromanticists. The dark side did not impress the enlisted men or me. Tous there was humor in the big padded helmets, despite their purpose,which was to prevent scalp wounds in the crashes that were frequentin those days. The boys smeared their faces with grease, to preventfreezing, and that seemed funny, too. The training planes were oftenunder-powered, but no matter how well that was understood, the pilotsjoked about possible unpleasantness.

I have even forgotten the names of the men I [39]knew then. Butthe memory of the planes remains clearly, and the sense of theinevitability of flying. It always seemed to me one of the fewworth-while things that emerged from the misery of war.

I lived through the Armistice. Toronto was forty riots rolled intoone that memorable day. Whistles awakened us. They blew continuously.Electric cars were stalled in the streets which were deep with trash.Insane old ladies crawled on top and hooked men’s hats with theirumbrellas. Fresh lads grabbed girls and powdered their faces withflour. Bands marched without knowing where they were going. Therewere speeches that were not heard and food that went untasted. Flagsappeared everywhere, with confetti and streamers.

Those months in Toronto roused my interest in flying, although Idid not realize it at the time. Perhaps it was the glamour of theenvironment, the times, or my youth. Aviation had come close to me.

AT the end of my brief hospital career I became a patient myself. Itwas a case of too much nursing, perhaps with too long hours, in thepneumonia ward. I picked up an infection and there followed severalminor operations and a rather long period of convalescence.

At Toronto I had been put into the dispensary because I knew a littlechemistry and because it appeared I was one of the few people whowouldn’t drink the medical supply of whiskey. My brief experiencesaroused my interest in medicine, and after the armistice I went to NewYork with the idea that I might become a [44]physician. At ColumbiaI took up a very heavy course which included pre-medical work.Scholastically I think I could have qualified, but after a year ofstudy I convinced myself that some of my abilities did not measure upto the requirements which I felt a physician should have.

My mother and father wanted me to come to Los Angeles. Regretfully Ileft New York and moved west.

Southern California is a country of out-door sports. I was fond ofautomobiles, tennis, horseback riding, and almost anything else thatis active and carried on in the open. It was a short step from suchinterests to aviation and just then, as now, Southern California wasparticularly active in air matters.

I remember the first air meet I attended. It was near Long Beach, atDaugherty Field, the ocean side of the broad Los Angeles valley. Thesky was blue and flying conditions were [45]perfect, as I remember.As this was the summer of 1920 commercial flying was in its infancy.Even to go to see planes then was considered really sporting by thepopulace. There were mechanical imperfections of many kinds, butprogress is made always through experimentation.

Certainly a great many of the people gathered that day had never beforeseen an aeroplane. The planes mostly were old war material, Jennys andCanucks. The Army and Navy were represented with the planes availableat that time—Standards, D. H.’s, Douglasses, Martins, etc. None ofthe ships stand out distinctly in my mind as types. I imagine therewere some bombing planes and pursuit jobs, but they all seemed to myuntrained eye more or less routine two-seaters. Of course at that timeI knew somewhat less than I do now.

However, one thing I did know that day. I wanted to fly. I was therewith my father, who, [46]I fear, wasn’t having a very good time. As thedust blew in his eyes, and his collar wilted, I think his enthusiasmfor aviation, such as it was, waned. He was slightly non-plussed,therefore, when I said:

“Dad, you know, I think I’d like to fly.”

Heretofore we had been milling about behind the ropes which lined thefield. At my suggestion we invited ourselves into the arena and lookedabout. I saw a man tagged “official” and asked my father to talk withhim about instruction. I felt suddenly shy about making inquiriesmyself, lest the idea of a woman’s being interested in trying to fly betoo hilarious a thought for the official.

My father was game; he even went so far as to make an appointment forme to have a trial hop at what was then Rogers Airport. I am sure hethought one ride would be enough for me, and he might as well act tocure me promptly.

Next day was characteristically fair and we [47]arrived early on thefield. There was no crowd, but several planes stood ready to go.

A pilot came forward and shook hands.

“A good day to go up,” he said, pleasantly.

My father raised an inexperienced eye to the sky and agreed. Agreeingverbally is as far as he went, or has ever gone, for he has not yetfound a day good enough for a first flight.

The pilot nodded to another flyer. “He’ll go up with us.”

“Why?” I asked.

The pair exchanged grins. Then I understood. I was a girl—a “nervouslady.” I might jump out. There had to be somebody on hand to grab myankle as I went over. It was no use to explain I had seen aeroplanesbefore and wasn’t excitable. I was not to be permitted to go alone inthe front co*ckpit.

The familiar “contact” was spoken and the motor came to life. I supposethere must be emotion with all new experiences, but I can’t remember[48]any but a feeling of interest on this occasion. The noise of themotor seemed very loud—I think it seems so to most people on theirfirst flight.

The plane rose quickly over some nearby oil derricks which are part ofthe flora in Southern California. I was surprised to be able to see thesea after a few moments of climbing. At 2,000 feet the pilot idled themotor and called out the altitude for me. The sensation of speed isof course absent, and I had no idea of the duration of the hop. Whendescent was made I know the field looked totally unfamiliar. I couldnot have picked it out from among the hundreds of little squares intowhich populated areas are divided. One of the senses which must bedeveloped in flying is an acuteness in recognizing characteristics ofthe terrain, a sense seldom possessed by a novice.

Lessons in flying cost twice as much in 1920 as they do now. Fivehundred dollars was the [49]price for ten or twelve hours instruction,and that was just half what had been charged a few years before.

When I came down I was ready to sign up at any price to have a try atthe air myself. Two things deterred me at that moment. One was thetuition fee to be wrung from my father, and the other the determinationto look up a woman flyer who, I had heard, had just come to anotherfield. I felt I should be less self-conscious taking lessons withher, than with the men who overwhelmed me with their capabilities.Neta Snook, the first woman to be graduated from the Curtiss Schoolof Aviation, had a Canuck—an easier plane to fly than a Jenny, whoseCanadian sister it was. Neta was good enough to take payments for timein the air, when I could make them, so in a few days I began hoppingabout on credit with her. I had failed to convince my father of thenecessity of my flying, so [50]my economic status itself remained a bitin the air.

I had opportunity to get a fair amount of information about detailsof flying despite my erratic finances. In Northampton, where I hadstayed a while after the war, I had taken a course in automobile repairwith a group of girls from Smith College. To me the motor was asinteresting as flying itself, and I welcomed a chance to help in thefrequent pulling down and putting together which it required.

New students were instructed in planes with dual controls; therudder and stick in the front co*ckpit are connected with those inthe rear so that any false move the student makes can be correctedby the instructor. Every move is duplicated and can be felt byboth flyers. One lands, takes off, turns, all with an experiencedcompanion in command. When passengers are carried these controls areremoved for safety’s sake with little trouble. If there is telephone[53]connection, communication and explanation are much easier than byany methods of signs or shouting. This telephone equipment, by the way,seems to be more usual in England than here.

I am glad I didn’t start flying in the days of the “grass cutters,”which exemplified an earlier method of flying instruction. One of theamusing sights of the war training period was that of the noviceshopping about the countryside in these penguin planes. They could flyonly a few feet from the ground and had to be forced off to do that.The theory had been that such activity offered maximum practice intaking off and landing. In addition it was a sort of Roman holiday forthe instructors—they had nothing much to do but, so to speak, wind uptheir play-things and start them off. And nothing very serious couldhappen one way or the other.

It was really necessary for a woman to wear breeks and leather coatsin these old days of [54]aviation. The fields were dirty and planeshard to enter. People dressed the part in a semi-military khaki outfit,and in order to be as inconspicuous as possible I fell into the samestyles. A leather coat I had then, I wore across the Atlantic, eightyears later.

Neta sold her plane and I bought one and changed instructors aftera few hours’ work. John Montijo, an ex-army instructor, took chargeof me and soloed me after some strenuous times together. I refusedto fly alone until I knew some stunting. It seemed foolhardy to tryto go up alone without the ability to recognize and recover quicklyfrom any position the plane might assume, a reaction only possiblewith practice. In short, to become thoroughly at home in the air,stunting is as necessary as, and comparable to, the ability to drive anautomobile in traffic. I was then introduced to aerobatics and felt nota bit afraid when sent “upstairs” alone for the first time.

[55]Usually a student takes off nonchalantly enough but doesn’t dareland until his gas supply fails. Any field is familiar with the sightof beginners circling about overhead, staying up solely becausethey can’t bear to come down. The thought of landing without theirinstructors to help them, if need be, becomes torture, which is onlyterminated by the force of gravity.

In soloing—as in other activities—it is far easier to start somethingthan it is to finish it. Almost every beginner hops off with a whoop ofjoy, though he is likely to end his flight with something akin to D.T.’s.

I reversed the process. In taking off for the first time alone, one ofthe shock absorbers broke, causing the left wing to sag just as I wasleaving the ground. I didn’t know just what had happened, but I didknow something was wrong and wondered what I had done. The mental agonyof starting the plane had just been gone through and I was suddenlyfaced with the [56]agony of stopping it. It was all in a matter ofseconds, of course, and somehow I contrived to do the proper thing.My brief “penguin” flight came to a prompt conclusion without furthermishap.

When the damage had been repaired, I took courage to try again, thistime climbing about 5,000 feet, playing around a little, and returningto make a thoroughly rotten landing. At once I had my picture taken bya gentleman from Iowa who happened to be touring California and wanteda few rare sights for the album back home.

IN the war some students were soloed with as little as four hours’training. That meant they were considered competent to go up in theirplanes alone after this amount of instruction. Obviously these wereexceptional students. In civilian flying, ten or twelve hours, Iimagine, would be about the minimum training. But these hours usuallymean simply routine instruction in straight flying, comparable tothe novice driving his automobile along the level uncrowded countryhighway. For the automobilist beginner the problem comes when he firstmeets traffic, and a big truck, say, suddenly cuts in ahead of him. Canhe handle the emergency, or will he crash? And what will the beginnerdo [60]when his car, or the other fellow’s, skids on the wet pavementfor the first time? The answer is that good driving results fromexperience and the requisite of having met many varied situations.

And so with planes. Straight flying is, of course, the necessary basis;but it is the ability to meet crises, large and small, which counts.And the only way to train for that is, as I have said, to have actualinstruction in stunting and in meeting emergencies. To gain experienceafter the beginner has soloed, and while he is at home in a plane heknows intimately and upon a field familiar to him, he should playaround in the air for four or five hours alone, practising landings,take-offs, turns and all the rest of it where he is perfectly safe andcan come down easily any time.

Then he should have three or four more hours’ instruction in emergencysituations. This feature is too often overlooked. As I visualize it,[61]the beginner should go up with an instructor with dual controlsagain and should get himself into—and out of—one scrape after another,including forced landings. After he has done so repeatedly, he willhave confidence and a real feeling of what must be done, and doneinstantly, under any given set of circ*mstances. More of this sortof follow-through training and there would probably be fewer of theaccidents which too often are beginners’ bad luck.

I had rolled up the tremendous total of two and one-half hours’instruction when I decided that life was incomplete unless I owned myown plane. Those were the days of rather heavy, under-powered shipswhich lifted themselves from the ground with a lumbering effort.The small sport planes were just beginning to appear, most of themin experimental stages. The field where I flew was owned by W. G.Kinner of the Kinner Aeroplane and Motor Corporation, who was [62]thendeveloping one of the first sport planes made.

I watched that plane at work in those days when I was cutting myaviation eye teeth. Little by little I became able to distinguish thedifferent makes of planes, and the finer points of their performance.I realized that the small plane took off more quickly, climbed moresteeply, was faster and easier to handle than its bigger brothers withtheir greater horse power and wing spread.

After two and one-half hours I really felt myself a competent judgeof planes! A few hundred solo hours since then have modified greatlythat initial self-confidence! The fact that wise pilots with a thousandhours or so warned me against this little fellow, influenced me not. Iwanted that sport plane that hopped off like a sandpiper and actuallyseemed to like it. And I set about buying it. My pilot friends came tome quietly. “Look out for the motor,” they said.

[63]Power was the thing, they assured me, and the paltry 60 horse powerof the little Lawrence air-cooled motor simply didn’t measure up tocommonsense requirements. It is interesting to realize that the planein which Lady Heath made her famous solo flight from Croydon to SouthAfrica and back, the lovely little Avian which I bought from her,actually has little more horse power than this first love of mine.

The small air-cooled motor I speak of was the first in this country.The man who had built it was not well known then. He was one of anumber of able experimenters who were working out their own privateideas, often in the face of all sorts of sacrifices. The name of thebuilder of this original air-cooled engine is Charles L. Lawrence,famous today as the creator of the Wright Whirlwind which carriedLindbergh, Byrd, Chamberlin, Maitland and others on their famousflights, and with which our own Friendship was equipped.

[66]The idea of an air-cooled engine appealed to me. The elimination ofthe water cooling system meant simplification and a notable decreasein weight. Thanks largely to the lightness of the engine and resultinglight plane, it was possible for me to pick it up by the tail and moveit around the field easily, whereas with the Canucks and the others ittook at least a man, or a dolly, and great effort. I was won by themotor, despite some weaknesses, and I have never regretted that firstenthusiasm. So I said “no” to my pessimistic pilots, and “yes” to Mr.Kinner.

The price was $2000. After talking it over with my father he agreedthat I needed the plane and that I should have it, and promised tohelp out in paying for it. But I am afraid my salesmanship was faultyfor he did not stay “sold.” I signed the sales contract and plunkeddown all my available capital to seal the bargain before I knew of hisindecision. Consequently, there wasn’t any backing out even if [67]Ihad wanted to—which I emphatically did not.

To pay for that plane I got the first job I ever had, the telephonecompany taking me on as unskilled labor. I was associated with theoffice boys at the back of the office, an association which I was toldwas one of the worst in the organization. We did things to the mail,opened it, sorted it, distributed it. I also filed letters and thentried to find them again. I liked the job and the boys, who were veryfunny and not the criminals they were pictured.

Perhaps this move on my part doesn’t seem very convincing, forobviously my salary as playmate of office boys would have to run onfor a long time before it would wipe out the balance of the $2000. Butit did help my credit immensely! I think it made my flying companionsbelieve I was in earnest.

It also affected mother to the extent that she finally wiped out myindebtedness, on condition I resign and stay home a little. By the way,[68]she has remained sold, and it was her regret she wasn’t with meon the trans-Atlantic flight, if I would go.

There was a partnership of interest, and of near poverty, between manyof us in those days. Aviation demanded much from its devotees—and therewas plenty of opportunity for sacrifice. Many of the pioneers sanktheir teeth into aviation’s problems at the very beginning—or was itthe other way about?—and simply wouldn’t let go.

So I owned my own plane. Immediately I found that my whole feelingtoward flying had changed. An added confidence and satisfaction came.If I crashed, it was my own responsibility and it was my own propertythat was being injured. It is the same sort of feeling that obtains,I think, in driving. There is a freedom in ownership which is notpossible with a borrowed car.

Of course I had shouldered a new responsibility. [69]I had anexpensive, inanimate object on my hands. I wanted it to look all righton the outside and be all right on the inside. Few words are moreexpressive than “care and upkeep.” Fortunately in their obligationsI was remarkably lucky. The plane was an experiment for Kinner,a model for production. Obviously he wanted to have demonstratedexactly what it could do. When I was around, I was informally a sortof demonstrator—we agreed that he could use it for demonstration inreturn for free hangar space, and I was given much mechanical help, andother assistance in addition to hangar space. It was this situation, Isuppose, which really made it possible for a “telephone girl” to carryon. At any rate, to me the important fact is, that I secured many freehours in the air and much kindly help.

Demonstrating has other advantages; it means an effort to sell someonesomething. And selling involves debating the virtues of the thing[70]to be sold, the prospective purchaser usually being on the silentend of the debate. So I found myself studying the virtues of my plane,and in so doing, those of others.

The first thing most people want to do when they get a new car is totake someone out driving in it; a desire which seems to apply equallyto a plane. Somehow I have always felt a little differently. Itisn’t that I am not proud of my possession, but that I always have asuspicion that my pride may run away with my prudence. If it be car orplane, my inclination is to be absolutely sure of myself before I whiskanybody else’s body around in it. Consequently my air passengers werefew.

As a matter of fact, I have never asked any men to take a ride. I thinkI have always feared that some sense of gallantry would make themaccept, even though they did not trust me. So my male passengers havealways had to do the asking.

[71]There were plenty of potential joy riders around the fields inthose days. Many of them had drifted into aviation after the war—orrather had not drifted out. They wanted to be near planes, and acceptedany opportunity to take a ride no matter who the pilot or what themachine. From this gang have graduated many of the men who are todaythe real working human backbone of the industry.

From them were recruited the gypsy flyers who barnstormed their wayaround the country and whose activities actually figured largely inthe development of American aviation. It was they who kept alivepublic interest. Mostly they flew wrecks, old war crates tied togetherwith baling wire. Anything that would get off the ground—most of thetime—was good enough for them. Many of them, of course, paid a heavyprice for their devotion.

I didn’t like public flying. It didn’t coincide with my ideas of whatI wished to do with my [72]plane. It was hard enough to keep out ofthe papers anyway in those days if one flew. The slightest mishap wascalled a crash and disasters were played up lugubriously.

For me flying was a sport and not a circus—I used to sneak away toa secluded field and practise, with no one to bother. I appeared inpublic only on special occasions. For instance once I was invited totake part in a meet held by the Aero Club of Southern California atPasadena. It was purely a public demonstration, a sort of circus, yetit was for a purpose—to raise money for the Club and to arouse localinterest in flying.

I was asked to do a little stunting, the usual thing on occasions ofthis kind. The little plane looked well in the air, so I accepted. Theminute I flew up to the field I began to feel like a clown, althoughhappily there were two of us female freaks to divide the honors and theodium.

There was plenty of chatter about two [75]“aviatrixes,” but thechatterers never knew that they came near having something actuallyto talk about. For, as I reached the field, after flying from my ownhangar, a spark plug blew out. Luckily I was over the field just thenas otherwise I might have made my landing in a treetop. One cylinderdead in eight is not so serious a matter as one in three. I had onlythree and wished for eight just then.

It happened that my own engine was on the repair bench and the boys atthe field, determined to get me to the meet, had worked all nightswitching the motor from the Goodyear pony blimp over to my plane. Inthe blimp the motor had been run at a low speed and as a result when Iturned it up to my requirements one of the spark plugs could not standthe strain. After a new extra long plug was inserted I started outagain.

It was a beautiful day with splashes of clouds which sailed up over themountains from the [76]desert westward. They made a perfect backgroundfor the audience below and a perfect playground for anyone in the sky.Speaking seriously, the most effective stunting, from an artisticpoint of view, should be staged against just such a sky. Alternatewhite and blue with irregular outline brings out the full grace of themaneuvering plane.

A good deal of air racing was going on then all over the country. Butmy feeling toward it was similar to my feeling toward any other publicflying. It was not for me. I wasn’t good enough. I remember one funnyoffer. A group of people, wanted to stage a race and seemed to thinkthat I was timid about entering. So they suggested that I let their ownpilot fly most of the race, then come down and let me get aboard, outof sight of the audience, and finish up as the “lady flyer” who hadpiloted the plane to victory.

Another proposal I remember.

[77]“How would you like to make some easy money?” I was asked.

“How?”

“Bringing some stuff across the border.”

Stuff—liquor, aliens or dope?

“Liquor?” I guessed.

My philanthropic friend shrugged his shoulders. “A woman can get bywhere a man can’t. No one would ever suspect you. There’s not a thingto be afraid of. You could do it easy.”

It was a pretty compliment, but I declined.

One day I went up with my plane to establish its ceiling—that is, tosee how high it would go.

There is a point in altitude beyond which, of course, a given planecannot climb, just as with automobiles, there is a limit to the gradethat can be negotiated and a speed that can be attained. In flying,an added factor is entailed, in the rarification of atmosphere withheight, which affects plane, motor and personnel.

To make the record official I asked the representative [78]of the AeroClub of Southern California to seal my barograph. This instrumentrecords altitude in ink on a revolving drum. When sealed it isimpossible for the flyer to alter it.

It was a good day and I climbed easily for about 13,000 feet.Thereafter I began to have trouble. My spark control lever becamedisconnected and I could not regulate the spark in my engine. As aresult a terrific vibration and knocking started. I thought the enginewould jump out of its frame. There wasn’t anything to do but come down,although I was still climbing fifty feet a minute.

As soon as the official read my barograph there was great rejoicing,for apparently I had established a woman’s altitude record. The newsgot in the papers. One clipping read:

Although my figure of 14,000 feet was not extraordinary, theperformance of my engine was interesting. With the little Lawrencepower plant of less than 60 h.p. I had gone up much farther than someof the higher powered planes which should have been more efficient.

A little while later I made another attempt. The weather was prettygood at the start. At 10,000 feet I ran into clouds. At 11,000 feetsleet, and at about 12,000 feet dense fog. This was an entirely newexperience, and very disquieting. For the first time in my life, I had[80]that strange feeling experienced by the flyer in fog.

Under such circ*mstances it is impossible to tell what the planeis doing. It may be upside down or turning giant circles. Withoutinstruments the pilot simply does not know his position in space—thereare no outside landmarks with which to check. Of course, if one isreally upside down for any length of time one’s feet drop back from therudder and the safety belt tightens; or if in a skid a side blast ofwind gives a belated warning, etc.

It was extraordinarily confusing and, realizing I could not go farther,I kicked the ship into a tail spin and came down to 3000 feet where Iemerged from the fog and landed.

I remembered one of the old-timers came up and looked at my barographrecord. His eyes fixed on a vertical line just before the record ended.“What does that mean,” he asked. “Did you go to sleep along in there?”

[81]I told him about getting out of the fog by way of a tail spin.

He certainly wasn’t impressed favorably. “Suppose the fog had lastedall the way to the ground?” he asked.

I bring this experience up because of its important bearing both onthe training of pilots and on flying in general; especially scheduleflying. It is immensely important for a pilot to learn to fly byinstruments, as distinct from flying “by horizon.” The night flyeror the avigator in fog must depend upon his instruments to keep hiscourse, equilibrium and altitude. It did not require the flight of theFriendship through long hours of fog and cloud to teach me the profoundnecessity of this.

CRASHES were frequent enough in these earlier days. I had one myself,during my instruction period. Owing to carelessness in not refuelling,the motor cut out on the take-off, when the plane was about 40 or50 feet in the air. Neta Snook was with me, but she couldn’t helpdepositing us in a cabbage patch nearby. The propeller and landing gearsuffered and I bit my tongue.

The crash was an interesting experience. In such a crisis the passageof time is very slow. I remember it seemed minutes while we wereapproaching the inevitable cabbages, although of course it was only afew seconds. I had leisure [85]to reach over and turn off the switchbefore we hit.

More than once I have nosed over. Whenever a plane is compelled tostop suddenly there is danger of so doing. I have come down in a muddyfield where the wheels stuck. On one occasion I landed in a mattress ofdried weeds five or six feet high which stopped me so suddenly that theplane went over on its back with enough force to break my safety beltand throw me out. These are the flat tires of flying and are only asincidental. But real trouble did come to my plane eventually.

I had decided to leave Los Angeles and to sell it, much as I dislikedthe parting. A young man who had done some flying during the war likedthe little sandpiper and eventually purchased it.

After the new owner took possession the first thing he did was toask a friend to go up with him. At a few hundred feet he began some[86]figure eights, banking vertically and working between a gas stationand telegraph pole. All on the field stood rooted to the spot. Theyknew what chances he was taking. As I remember it, Kinner sent for anambulance. Suddenly, on one vertical bank the plane slipped. That wasthe end of it. Both men were killed. It was a sickening sort of thingbecause it was so unnecessary.

I lingered on in California, another sunkist victim of inertia—or wasit the siren song of the realtors? I bought a new plane. Or rather Icollected it, because I found I could not buy it all together. At thistime there were few who believed that an air cooled motor for planeswould become practical. Human nature normally condemns anything new.The complaint of many pilots was that a multiple cylinder radial motorwould be too clumsy to sit on the nose of a plane and would cause toomuch “head resistance.” So why bother with one or two [87]cylindermotors which developed little power comparatively? Kinner had a dream.He built one of his own. It had been bought by the man who financed oneof the first planes built, in the west, by Donald Douglas, designer ofthe Round the World Cruisers. Mr. Davis and Mr. Douglas at the timewere planning a trans-continental non-stop hop, using a big Libertyengine. But the P.2 flown by Macready and Kelly to San Diego, in thefirst coast to coast flight, got across first. I bought the Kinnerengine from Davis, who was not ready to use it just then. It was thefirst engine that Kinner turned out.

Of course it was full of “bugs”—no degree of mechanical perfectionis ever attained without successive stages of development. Eachimprovement is a result of many practical working tests. Humanintelligence seems to grasp ideas in steps and must work throughcomplicated details to efficient simplicity. The first automobiles hadwhip holders on the dash, remember. [88]The planes and motors which wesee today are the results of evolution. There was a preliminary designof the now famous Wright Whirlwind motor as early as 1917 and it, inturn, had grown from models of air-cooled radials begun by Mr. Lawrencein 1914.

The greatest pleasure I found in my experience with Kinner’s motor wasthat of perhaps having a small part in its development. Its many littleailments had to be diagnosed and cured later. It smoked and spatteredoil. Adjustment of a proper propeller was difficult. One of itseccentricities was an excessive vibration which tickled the soles ofthe feet when they rested on the rudder bar, putting a new meaning intojoy ride. Such was the hilarious beginning of one of a group of motorswhich are being developed in the United States.

The idea of returning to the east, and doing it by air, had beensimmering in my mind. Maps and data were all pretty well prepared. Then[89]the old infection, incurred in the Toronto Hospital work, returned,and I was forced to abandon the hop, to the satisfaction of my parents.

My health was so precarious that, disappointed in my intention to fly,I exchanged my plane for a car and drove across the continent. Motherwent with me to remind me I was too ill to fly, and together we coveredmore than 7000 miles before we reached Boston.

I enjoyed three days in Boston before entering Massachusetts GeneralHospital for a short stay. After convalescing a while I set off for NewYork, to re-enter Columbia. The next summer was spent at Harvard andthe following autumn I began to look about for a job. My sister wasteaching, so I indulged in it too. Teaching and settlement work filledthe following years—filled them very full, for both occupations requiremuch of one’s life. All these other activities allowed little or notime for aviation.

[90]Inevitably certain contacts had persisted from the California daysso it was no surprise to hear from Mr. Kinner. He asked me whether Iknew anyone in Boston who would take the agency for his planes andmotors. I dropped in on the Chamber of Commerce for information. It wasevident from the facts gathered from Bernard Wiesman, secretary of thecommittee on aviation, that the town could struggle along for a whilewithout the additional luxury of a new plane. The air-mail industryseemed to be as strong a dose of aviation as Boston could stand at thetime, and Sumner Sewall was having to hold her nose while he spoonedthat in.

I joined the Boston chapter of the National Aeronautic Association asa reawakening of my active interest in aviation. Ultimately I was madeVice-President (perhaps to get rid of me) serving under Mr. Sewall.Subsequently his activities took him to New York and when I returnedfrom the trans-Atlantic flight I found [91]myself the first womanPresident of a body of the N. A. A.

Several months later Mr. Kinner wrote again and said he himself hadfound an agent, who would communicate with me. The hand of Allah hadthrown Harold T. Dennison, a young architect of Quincy, in Mr. Kinner’sway in California. Mr. Dennison came home determined to build anairport. He owned enough land for an emergency field on the marshesfrom which Beachey flew to Boston Light in 1910 to win $10,000.

I gathered a few dollars together and became one of five incorporatorsof a commercial aeronautical concern. Today Dennison AircraftCorporation is working to create a commercial airport adjoining thenaval air base at Squantum.

There is so much to be done in aviation and so much fun to be gotfrom it, that I had become increasingly involved before the flight ofthe [92]Friendship. I was busy, too, with Miss Ruth Nichols of Ryein trying to work out some means of gathering more women into thefold. The National Playground Association had asked me to be on theirBoston committee and judge in the model airplane tournament they weresponsoring in September, 1928. The tournament combined my two greatestinterests, aviation and social work, in an unusual way, and I was veryglad to serve. Unfortunately the social worker became submerged in theaerial joy-rider and the latter has been too much occupied since herreturn to be of any use whatsoever.

WHEN it was all over I read in the papers that I had been planning atrans-Atlantic flight for a year. I read much else that was equallyimaginative. In fact, the press introduced me to an entirely newperson. It appeared that I was a demi-orphan; my father, I learned,had been dead four years—I saved that clipping for him. One day I readthat I was wealthy, the next that the sole purpose of my flight was tolift the mortgage from the old homestead—which there isn’t any—I meanhomestead.

The truth about the chance to fly was as amusing as the journalisticscenarios. The opportunity came as casually as an invitation to amatinee, and it came by telephone. As a matter [96]of fact, the threeof us who made the Atlantic crossing together all were similarlycollected by telephone.

Commander Byrd telephoned Stultz, suggesting the possibility. Stultzthen communicated, by telephone again, with those organizing theflight. Tentative arrangements were made as regarded himself. Theyasked him to choose his flying mechanic. On April 7, via long distancetelephone, he reached Slim Gordon, then at Monroe, La., with the “Voiceof the Sky” Corporation. “Meet me at the Cadillac Hotel in Detroit onthe 9th, if you want to fly the Atlantic.” “Sure,” said Gordon.

So next morning Slim serviced his ship; told the boys he wasn’t takingoff with them that day and left to keep his appointment.

It was settled in no time at all—certainly within the limits of theconventional three minute telephone conversation.

As for me, I was working as usual around [97]Denison House. Theneighborhood was just piling in for games and classes and I was as busyas could be. I remember when called to the phone I replied I couldn’tanswer unless the message was more important than entertaining manylittle Chinese and Syrian children. The word came assuring me it was.

I excused myself and went to listen to a man’s voice ask me whether Iwas interested in doing something aeronautic which might be hazardous.At first I thought the conversation was a joke, and told the gentlemanso. At least twice before I had been approached by bootleggers whopromised rich reward and no danger—“absolutely no danger to you, Leddy.”

The frank admission of risk piqued my curiosity and I enquired how andwhy I had been called.

I demanded references and got them. They were good references, too.After checking up, I made an appointment for late the same day.

[98]“Should you like to fly the Atlantic?”

Such was the greeting when I met Hilton H. Railey who had done thetelephoning.

He told me, without mentioning specific names, that CommanderByrd’s tri-motored Fokker had been purchased and was destined fortrans-Atlantic flight. He asked me if I would make the flight ifopportunity offered. Then he told me that a woman owned the plane, andhad intended flying it herself. Circ*mstances had just arisen whichmade it impossible for her to go but there was a chance that anotherwoman might be selected in her place; and Mr. Railey had been asked byGeorge Palmer Putnam, New York publisher, to help find such a person.

Then followed the first period of waiting. I did not know whether ornot I was going. I didn’t know whether the flight really would comeoff. I didn’t know whether I should be selected if it did. And in themeanwhile I was asked [99]to clear the decks so I could get off if theopportunity actually arose.

At Denison House we were just working out our summer plans, with mein charge of the summer school. If I actually was to leave, MarionPerkins, our head worker, must get someone for my place. So the chaosof uncertainties spread in ripples out from me as a center.

I think what troubled me most just then was the difficulty of myrelations, under the circ*mstances, with all these people whose planswere so much dependent upon my own. Yet I was pledged to secrecy andcould not say a word to them. And of course, it is rather disconcertingto carry on a job at a desk, or with settlement children, with theprobability of a trans-Atlantic flight pending.

In ten days or so I was asked to go to New York. There I met David T.Layman, Jr., who, with Mr. John S. Phipps, talked things over with me.I realized, of course, that I was [100]being weighed. It should havebeen slightly embarrassing, for if I were found wanting on too manycounts I should be deprived of a trip. On the other hand, if I werejust too fascinating the gallant gentlemen might be loath to drown me.Anyone can see the meeting was a crisis.

I learned that the Fokker had been bought from Commander Byrd by theHonorable Mrs. Frederick Guest, of London, whose husband had been inthe Air Ministry of Lloyd George and is prominently associated withaviation in Great Britain. Mrs. Guest, formerly Miss Amy Phipps ofPittsburgh, financed the expedition from first to last, and it was dueentirely to her generosity and sportsmanship that opportunity to go wasgiven me.

The transfer of ownership of the plane from Commander Byrd to Mrs.Guest had been kept secret. It had been her desire to hop off for theAtlantic crossing without attracting any advance [101]attention. Whensubsequently, for personal reasons, Mrs. Guest herself abandoned theflight she was still eager to have the plans consummated, if possible,with an American woman on board.

A few days later I was told the flight actually would be made andthat I could go—if I wished. Under the circ*mstances there was onlyone answer. I couldn’t say no. For here was fate holding out the bestin the way of flying ability in the person of Wilmer Stultz, pilot,aided by Lou Gordon as flight mechanic; and a beautiful ship admirablyequipped for the test before it.

When I first saw Friendship she was jacked-up in the shadows of ahangar at East Boston. Mechanics and welders worked nearby on thestruts for the pontoons that were shortly to replace the wheels. Theship’s golden wings, with their spread of seventy two feet, were strongand exquisitely fashioned. The red orange of the fuselage, thoughblending with the gold, was chosen not for artistry but for practicaluse. If [102]we had come down orange could have been seen further thanany other color.

The plane just then was being equipped, presumably for its use onByrd’s forthcoming Antarctic trip. Stultz and Gordon were supposed tobe in Byrd’s employ, and Commander Robert Elmer, U.S.N. retired, wasdirecting technical activities.

Our purpose was to keep the plans secret. Once the world knew, weshould be submerged in a deluge of curiosity making it impossible tocontinue the preparations in orderly fashion. Then, too, it would do nogood to aviation to invite discussion of a project which some accidentmight delay. Actually the pontoon equipment on this type of plane wasexperimental, and no one definitely could tell in advance whether ornot it would prove practicable. Another objection was the possibilityof instigating a “race,” which no one wanted. Mrs. Guest proposed thatthe Friendship, as she afterwards named the [105]plane, should crossthe Atlantic irrespective of the action of others. By our example wedid not want to risk hurrying ill-prepared aspirants into the fieldwith possible tragic results.

Only twice did I actually see the Friendship during all this time. Iwas pretty well known at the landing fields and obviously it mightprovoke comment if I seemed too interested in the plane. For thisreason I had no chance to take part in any of the test flying. Actuallythe first time I was off the water in the Friendship was the Sundaymorning when we finally got under way.

The preparation of a large plane for a long flight is a complex task.It is one that cannot—or at least should not—be rushed. Especially isthat fact true where, as in the case of the Friendship, the equipmentwas of a somewhat experimental nature.

Throughout the operations Commander Byrd kept in close touch with whatwas being done, with Stultz and Gordon, and with Commander [106]Elmer,who was overseeing the technical detail. Necessary instruments wereinstalled and gradually tried out; while varying load tests, countlesstake-offs from the bay, and brief flights around Boston were made. Theradio was tested and the inevitable last minute changes and adjustmentsarranged.

With the radio, we were particularly fortunate because Stultz is askilful operator. It is unusual to find a man who is a great pilot, aninstrument flyer, navigator, and a really good radio operator all inone.

Finally the ship itself was ready to go, and our problems focussed onthe weather. At this stage weather is an important factor in all plansof trans-oceanic flying.

Supplementing the meagre reports available from ships to the WeatherBureau, the Friendship’s backers arranged a service of their own.Special digests of the British reports were cabled to New York eachmorning, and meteorological [107]data were radioed in from the shipsat sea. All this information, supplementing that already at hand, wasthen coordinated and plotted out in the New York office of the UnitedStates Weather Bureau. There we came to feel that no flight could havea better friend than Dr. James H. Kimball, whose interest and unfailinghelpfulness were indispensable.

The weather service for a flight such as ours must be largely plannedand entirely underwritten by the backers of the flight itself. And,like so much else, it is an expensive undertaking.

Nearly three weeks dragged by in Boston. Sometimes Mr. and Mrs. Laymanwere there, hoping for an immediate take-off, sometimes Mrs. Putnam.Commander Elmer and Mr. Putnam were on hand constantly. Mrs. Guest’ssons, Winston and Raymond, followed the preparations as closely as theydared without risking disclosure of the ownership.

It was during this period that I had the [108]pleasure of seeingsomething of Commander and Mrs. Byrd, at their Brimmer Street home,just then bursting with the preparations for his Antarctic expedition—aplace of tents and furs, specially devised instruments, concentratedfoodstuffs, and all the rest of the paraphernalia which makes thepractical, and sometimes the picturesque, background of a greatexpedition. There I met “Scotty” Allan, famous Alaskan dog driver, whowas advising Byrd as to canine preparations.

The weather remained persistently unfavorable. When it was right inBoston, the mid-Atlantic was forbidding. I have a memory of long greydays which had a way of dampening our spirits against our best effortsto be cheerful. We tried to be casual by keeping occupied. On fair daysmy battered Kissel roadster, dubbed “Yellow Peril,” was a means forsightseeing. On rainy days the top leaked too much for comfort, so wewalked. We tried restaurants [109]of all nationalities for variety andwent, I think, to all the theatres.

One of the last plays we saw, I remember, was “The Good Hope,” withthe charming Eva LeGallienne. The story is a tragedy; all the hopefulcharacters drown while the most tragic one survives to carry out a coldlamb chop in the last act. A recurring line is “The fish are dearlypaid for,” and our crew adopted that as a heraldic motto, emblazonedunder a goldfish rampant. I had the opportunity of thanking MissLeGallienne for her cheering sendoff when I met her on returning toNew York. She helped Charles Winninger auction off one of the flags wecarried on the flight, at a theatrical performance for the benefit ofthe Olympic team which was about to sail for Europe on the ship whichhad brought us back, the President Roosevelt. Anyway, that evening shegot us on the stage before 17,280,891 people, so we have two grievancesagainst her.

[110]As I look back on the flight I think two questions have been askedme most frequently. First: Was I afraid? Secondly: What did I wear?

I’m sorry to be a disappointment in answering the first query. Itwould sound more exciting if I only could admit having been shockinglyfrightened. But I honestly wasn’t. Of course I realized there was ameasure of danger. Obviously I faced the possibility of not returningwhen first I considered going. Once faced and settled there reallywasn’t any good reason to refer to it again. After all, even whendriving one admits tacitly there is danger, but one doesn’t dwell onthe result of losing the front wheels or having the rear end fall outon a mountain.

Perhaps the second question may be thought feminine, but I have had asmany men as women appear interested.

Remember the early stages of automobiling? [111]In those days an “auto”ride was a rare experience, made rarer by the clothes one wore. A linenduster, gauntlets and a veil were the requisites of touring in 1907.

Fashions in air clothing are emerging from the same sort of chrysalisstage. For routine short flights I wear every-day clothes—what onewould use for street wear or sports. But obviously the Friendshipflight was different. Compare it, perhaps, to a strenuous campingtrip. One couldn’t tell what might happen. Serviceability was the primerequirement. I had to wear breeks because of the jump from the pontoonto the door and also because of the necessity of slipping on and offthe flying suit which is worn outside one’s other clothing.

In Boston I remember a solicitous friend wished to give me a bag forextra clothing.

“There isn’t going to be any,” I explained.

That appeared to concern him somewhat—certainly much more than it didme. There [112]seems to be a feeling that a woman preparing to drop inon England, so to speak, ought to have something of a wardrobe.

However, I chose to take with me only what I had on. The men on theFriendship took no “extras.” Pounds—even ounces—can count desperately.Obviously I should not load up with unessentials if they didn’t.

I’m told it’s interesting to know exactly what the outfit included.Just my old flying clothes, comfortably, if not elegantly, battered andworn. High laced boots, brown broadcloth breeks, white silk blouse witha red necktie (rather antiquated!) and a companionably ancient leathercoat, rather long, with plenty of pockets and a snug buttoning collar.A homely brown sweater accompanied it. A light leather flying helmetand goggles completed the picture, such as it was. A single elegancewas a brown and white silk scarf.

When it was cold I wore—as did the men—a [115]heavy fur-lined flyingsuit which covers one completely from head to toe, shoes and all. Minewas lent to me by my friend Major Charles H. Woolley of Boston, who,by the way, had no idea when he lent it what it was to be used for. Hesuspected, I think, that I intended to do some high flying.

Toilet articles began with a toothbrush and ended with a comb. Theonly extras were some fresh handkerchiefs and a tube of cold cream. My“vanity case” was a small army knapsack.

Equipment was simple, too. Mr. Layman let me take his camera and Mrs.Layman her wrist watch. Field glasses, with plenty of use in the Arcticbehind them, were lent me by G. P. P., and I was given a compact logbook.

Besides toothbrushes—generic term—and food, our “baggage” was a bookand a packet of messages which some of those associated with theenterprise asked to have carried across to friends on the other side.

[116]The book—perhaps the only one to have crossed the Atlantic by airroute—is Skyward, written by Commander Richard Evelyn Byrd. He sent itto Mrs. Guest. Commander Byrd, of course, had owned the Friendship andhas outstandingly sponsored the wisdom of utilizing tri-motored shipsequipped with pontoons, for long-distance over-water flying. So it wasappropriate that his book should be taken to the woman who bought hisplane and made the trans-Atlantic flight possible.

This copy of his book which I delivered bears the followinginscription: “I am sending you this copy of my first book by the firstgirl to cross the Atlantic Ocean by air—the very brave Miss Earhart.But for circ*mstances I well know that it would have been you who wouldhave crossed first. I send you my heartiest congratulations and goodwishes. I admire your determination and courage.”

TWICE, when the weather eastward seemed right, we tried to take off.And twice we failed because of too much fog or too little wind.

Three thirty!

Another day. Another start. Would it flatten out into failure like itspredecessors?

Out of the hotel we trooped in the greyness of before-dawn. Anotherbreakfast at an all-night eating place—Stultz and his wife, Gordon, hisfiancee, Mrs. Layman, Lou and Mrs. Gower, Commander and Mrs. Elmer,George Palmer Putnam, “Jake” Coolidge, and a few others. An hourearlier the sandwiches had been made, the patient big thermos bottleagain filled [118]with coffee for the boys, the little one with cocoafor me.

We drove through deserted streets to T Wharf and at once boarded thetugboat Sadie Ross. The plane, as before, lay moored off the JeffreyYacht Club in East Boston. Stultz, Gordon, Gower, and I climbed in. Wesaid no “good-byes”—too many of them already, and too little going!

Slim uncovered the motors. Bill tinkered a bit with his radio and inthe co*ckpit. Slim dropped down from the fuselage to the starboardpontoon, hopped over to the other, and cranked the port motor. Soon allthree were turning over and Friendship taxied down the harbor, with thetug, carrying our friends, trailing us.

And then, suddenly, the adventure began—the dream became actuality.

We were off!

But let me tell the story here as I wrote it [119]that very morning, inthe little notebook that went with me across the Atlantic. Here is thatrecord, exactly as it was set down (often none too legibly!) in my logbook, penciled as we in the Friendship flew northeastward, with Bostonbehind and Newfoundland ahead:

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

So, a few minutes after the take-off we nearly lost two of our crew.That would have been a jolly beginning! Actually Slim came withininches of falling out when the door suddenly slid open. And when Idived for that gasoline can, edging towards the opening door, I, too,had a narrow escape. However, a string tied through the leather thongin the door itself and fastened to a brace inside the cabin held itshut fairly securely.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

Ordinarily a ship of this type is equipped with two wing tanks,which carry 95 gallons of gasoline. We had four. Many people don’trealize, when they see a monoplane in the air, the thickness of thewings. From bottom to top the wing of Friendship measured abouttwenty-eight inches in some places; but after all this, in comparisonwith the great wing spread of seventy-two feet, gives an appearanceof slightness. For a long cruise extra gasoline carrying capacity isneeded, so Friendship was equipped with two special tanks, ellipticalaffairs, which bulged [125]into the space just aft of the co*ckpitusually occupied by passengers.

There was room between these tanks to squeeze through. Fortunatelythe physical architecture of all three members of the Friendship’screw was distinctly Gothic. But even at that the two boys had to turnsidewise to get through, while I, most Gothic of all, could contrivea straight-away entrance. It was between these two tanks that Ispent many hours of the voyage, because into this space there waftedback some of the warmth from the heater in the co*ckpit. The afterpart of the cabin was unheated and often reached uncomfortably lowtemperatures.

In addition to the gas carried in the wing and these supplementarytanks, we had on board a limited amount in five-gallon tins. This wasnot only a supplementary supply, but was carried in this form forquick dumping in case of emergency. It was advantageous, too, to have[126]the weight distributed well astern. In taking off, all of us,except Bill, crowded as far aft as we could.

* * * *

Log Book:

Mr. Gower came back into the hold in order to force the nose up asfar as possible. To no avail.

* * * *

Lou Gower is an expert pilot, with much big-ship experience, who hadbeen retained as a sort of understudy for Stultz in case of sicknessor accident. It was hoped he could go as far as Trepassey, there toshare the work of the two men who actually would carry through on theAtlantic flight.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

All that was written in the first part of the journey after leavingBoston. It was less than an hour out when the next entry in the diaryis recorded.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

The drift indicator was on the floor by the hatchway which had to beopened each time speed and drift calculations were made.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

During the last two years this remote country [130]has had manyvisitors from the air. These people, I think, have come to feel areal intimacy with the flyers. There have been Lindbergh and Byrd, dePinedo, Mrs. Grayson, possibly Old Glory, and in the old days, theN. C. 4’s, disregarding the incidental flights which doubtless havewinged over this territory.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * *

* * * *

When we were forced down in Halifax our difficulties of maintainingsecrecy increased. Publicity, we feared, was probably unescapable. Butat all events, escape seemed worth an effort. And especially, so faras possible, we thought it wise to conceal the presence of a woman onthe Friendship. The Sergeant had the surprise of his life when he cameaboard the plane to look over the equipment and found me part of it.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

This plethora of ham sandwiches, it developed, was our own fault. Wesimply didn’t explore far enough. Three generous lunches had beenprepared for us by the Copley Plaza Hotel, arranged for a “fishingtrip.” The tactical error was putting all the ham sandwiches on the toplayer. We never got beyond them. Later, to our chagrin, we discoveredthat below there were similar layers of delicious chicken and tonguesandwiches, hard boiled eggs and much beside. We never had the courageto determine exactly what else there might have been.

[141]The gastronomic adventures of trans-oceanic flying really deservea record of their own. Our own highlights were varied. Ham sandwichesseemed to predominate en route. At Trepassey it was canned rabbit,in London the desserts were strawberries, and home again in Americachicken appeared invariably on all state occasions.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

We had expected a pretty routine landing and so I crawled into theco*ckpit to take pictures of the reception committee. But as a matterof fact Friendship’s arrival resembled a rodeo. At once a dozen smallboats began to circle madly about us, the local motto seeming to bethat the [145]early boat catches the plane. It happened that we hadarranged for a mooring of our own to which we wished to be directed.But each local optimist felt that if he contrived to get us in towfirst he could take the prize to his own mooring and reap appropriatereward.

Poised in the bows of the launches each maritime cowboy whirled alofta coil of rope, attempting to cast it at us. Slim, out on the pontoon,was doing his best to keep clear and yelled frantically to ward themoff. The noise of the idling motors, augmented by the racket of thesmall boats, made hearing difficult. I was convulsed with laughter. Inthe co*ckpit, Bill, I fear, was talking to God about it. What concernedhim most was the risk of ropes becoming entangled in the propellers,and especially the danger to the visitors themselves in getting tooclose to whirling props. At the height of the excitement enthusiasmcompletely overcame one would-be welcomer. He hurled his rope and[146]landed a bull’s eye on Slim, nearly knocking him into the water.Fortunately I couldn’t hear what Slim said; at best his enthusiasm formarine affairs was never notable.

The tempo of the maritime merry-go-round was extraordinary. Truly, I’venever had a more entertaining half hour.

Finally we contrived to get the thought across that the most we wantedwas to be guided to our own mooring, which we could reach under our ownpower. Andy Fulgoni, Paramount camera man, finally caught the idea andcircling around in his own launch contrived to clear the way for us. Indue course, Bill sailed to the mooring and made fast.

Log Book:

* * * *

The wind held the key to our problems. For three days it blew brisklyfrom the northwest. This was ideal for the flight itself, but far fromideal locally, as it stirred up such sea it was impossible to load thegasoline with safety. What’s more, Bill feared that the heavy weight[150]of the load left on board the Friendship might seriously injureher as she was buffeted about in the rough water.

The necessity of landing at all at Trepassey was a tragedy for us,the extent of which became apparent during the fortnight of delaywhich followed. Had we been able to carry enough gas from Halifax wecertainly would have kept on eastward as the flying conditions onthe day of our arrival appeared ideal. But once in Trepassey we weretrapped.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

[152]Slim hails from Texas. Geographically and temperamentally he isno sailor. Even the word “pontoon” made him stutter a bit, and neithersalt water nor its products held any joy for him. Consequently he hadbeen plentifully stuffed with stories of what life meant in a fishingvillage by the sea. To make matters worse he had had a severe attack ofptomaine poisoning from eating clams in Boston just before we started.The only escape led to the little local store and its limited supply ofcandy. Before we left we had completely absorbed its entire stock.

* * * *

Log Book:

Bill has just come in, with weather reports. He has wired Byrd forconfirmation of plans and advice. If the wind holds as now (fromnorth) we can get away. The old codgers talking here, told me thewind calms down about 4 a.m., so I suggested we get out of thistrap and into the next harbor. The change in the wind may make thisunnecessary. The [155]boys have retired in the hope the wind stays asis, or moves north.

* * * *

The cruelty of country and climate is surely a contrast to the kindhearts of the people of Newfoundland. They were untiringly good to us.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

For two years I have been associated with Denison House, Boston’sold settlement center on Tyler Street, where the children areanything but quiet. There they are mostly Chinese and Syrians. Allcity children somehow seem noisy. Perhaps that is because of theircramped surroundings. And especially, of course, the urban child isboldly independent, while the children of remote communities have solittle contact with the outer world that they are self-conscious withstrangers.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

The flannel nightgown referred to was borrowed and I began to feel thateven its sturdy fabric would be worn out before we ever got away fromTrepassey—although I didn’t know about the wearing qualities of flannelgowns, never having had one before. Incidentally its [162]warmth wassupplemented by the down beds upon which we slept and into which wesank luxuriously.

I have said my outfit consisted of a toothbrush and two handkerchiefswhen we shoved off from Boston. The toothbrush was holding out, whichis more than I can say for some of the rest of my personal equipment.

After a week of waiting, a telegram came from G. P. P. in New York.

“Suggest you turn in and have your laundering done.”

To which I dispatched this reply:

‡[THANKS FATHERLY TELEGRAM NO WASHING NECESSARY SOCKS UNDERWEAR WORN OUT SHIRT LOST TO SLIM AT RUMMY CHEERIO
A E
910PM]

It is a long time since I have bought hose at 35c a pair. That wastop-price in Trepassey. A khaki shirt was another purchase. Witha safety pin taking a tuck in the back of the collar, it fittedreasonably well.

Bill and I wore the same size shirt. An echo of its tailoring camelater when Mrs. Stultz confessed to me that on first seeing Bill’sTrepassey purchase she had asked him what it was.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

The next log book entry emphasizes our isolation. The only newspaperswe’d seen had been a stray batch from Boston, describing the take-off.By then that seemed in the dark ages. So far as we knew we werecomfortably forgotten by the world. Echoes only came to us in personalmessages, and at that time it was impossible to realize that anygeneral interest remained.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

In those last days at Trepassey, one bit of news that did filter infrom the outside world cheered us mightily. That was word of thesuccessful flight of the Southern Cross from San Francisco across thePacific. She was a tri-motor Fokker, engined with Wright Whirlwindmotors, practically identical with the Friendship except that she wasnot equipped with pontoons.

They made it; so could we. Their accomplishment was a challenge.

Log Book:

* * * *

That was the first entry in the log book following the actual take-offfrom Trepassey. We [171]left the harbor about 11:15 in the morning,having waited until then for final weather reports. The villagers hadseen us “start” so often they had lost faith, so there were only a fewon shore to see the Friendship take the air.

I had left a telegram to be sent half an hour after we had gone.

“Violet. Cheerio.

“A. E.”

That was the message. The code word “Violet” meant “We are just hoppingoff.” That was our official good-bye to America.

* * * *

Log Book:

A motion picture camera and the boys’ thermos bottle left. We haveonly the small thermos filled with coffee for the boys. I shan’t drinkanything probably unless we come down.

* * * *

By the way, our rations might be considered eccentric. About half ofthe five gallons of mineral water put on at Boston remained. There[172]were three elephantine egg sandwiches. (Trepassey bread ishome-made in round loaves.) Eight or nine oranges survived from theoriginal supply. A couple of tins of Drake’s oatmeal cookies wereluxury. For emergency ration, we had a few tins of pemmican, a bottleof Horlick’s Malted Milk tablets, and some Hershey’s chocolate. Andthat, I think, completed the larder.

* * * *

[175]As we left Newfoundland we flew about 1000 ft. over the land. Iwatch the shapes of the many lakes, large and small, which cover theterrain. Two are gigantic footprints; another a buffalo—another aprehistoric animal.

There were many “things” depicted with lumpy paws and flat head andthe usual accumulation of abnormalities belonging to the genus Thing.3300 ft. Over an extensive cushion of fleecy fog.

Bill has been at radio and writes CEV to me. I grab call book and findSS. Elmworth is calling.

Soon Cape Race asks how things are going.

We are at 5000 now getting out of fog, but into a storm. A flurry ofsnow just passed below. I can see clear weather to right, but notahead. Temperature back here 42 degrees. I am not cold, as I got usedto cold in Trepassey.

Speaking of Fog again, I know Dunsany would like to see the worldabove the earth. Irish fogs have been described in detail, and[176]their bilious effect, and their fairies and their little people.But no one has written of a bird’s-eye view of one from an imaginativeeye.

I may not be cold, but my coat will make me more comfortable.

4000 ft. More than three tons of us hurtling through the air. We arein the storm now. 3 tons is shaken considerably.

* * * *

People are so likely to think of planes as frail craft that I drawattention to this entry. Friendship weighs 6000 pounds empty, and onthe flight she carried about her own weight again.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

A surprising element of flying, at first, is the [177]flatness of theearth’s contours as seen from above—even sizeable hills dwarf. Thistendency gives one a feeling of security and a comfortable belief thata safe landing can be made almost anywhere.

“The higher the safer” is a good adage. The air itself isn’t dangerous,as I have said before. The greater the altitude, the larger the pilot’schoice in picking and being able to reach a landing field in anemergency.

Don’t ask a pilot to stay close to the ground, unless he is flying overgeographical billiard tables.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

Those clouds ahead continued from there on. Not again on the flight didwe see the ocean. Skippy was right—it was no sea voyage.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

Very “original” those oranges, almost historic! They were purchasedin Boston in the dark ages of the Friendship’s take-offs. In thethree unsuccessful efforts during that fortnight of disappointments,they went out to the ship with us each morning and came back again tothe hotel. But sturdy oranges they proved to be, and nearly a monthlater were still in good form when they finally found a place on ourmid-Atlantic menu.

On the trans-Atlantic flight three oranges, appropriately fromCalifornia, comprised my full bill-of-fare with the exception ofprobably [180]a dozen malted milk tablets. The sandwiches and thecoffee I left to the boys. Somehow I wasn’t hungry and, curiously, atthe end of the trip there still wasn’t any particular desire for food.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

This is not an unknown phenomenon. Subsequently I learned the rainbowswere caused by our propellers.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

[185]I was kneeling beside the chart table, which was in front of thewindow on the port side. Through it I looked northward. It was at thistime that I took several photographs.

On the starboard side of the plane was another window. The tableitself, a folding device, was Bill’s chart table on which he made hiscalculations. Close by was the radio. Even though one could stand upin the cabin, the height of the table was such that to see out of thewindow one had to lean on the table or kneel beside it. There wasnothing to sit on, as sitting equipment had been jettisoned to saveweight.

* * * *

Log Book:

The sea for a space. Hooray. Slim has just hung a flashlight up forilluminating the compass. This light makes the radium impossible tosee. Soon it will be dark enough without the flash.

* * * *

The faint light of the radium instruments is almost impossible tosee in dawn or twilight, [186]when it is neither dark enough for thecontrast of the radium to show nor light enough to see the numeralsthemselves.

* * * *

Log Book:

It is about 10. I write without light. Readable?1

1For reproduction of log book see page 305.

* * * *

Have you tried to write in the dark? I remember sitting up in bedat school composing themes after lights. During those night hourson the Friendship the log was written with the help of my good leftthumb. I would not turn on the electric light in the after cabinlest it blind Bill at the controls. And so I pencilled my way acrossthe page of the diary thankful for that early training with thosebetter-late-than-never themes. The thumb of my left hand was usedto mark the starting point of one line. The problem of this kind ofblind stenography is knowing where to start the next line. It didn’t[187]always work. Too often lines piled up one on the other andlegibility suffered.

* * * *

Log Book:

* * * *

Big enough, that suit to lose myself in it. Size 40, and fur lined. Itis returned now, appropriately autographed. The Major has threatened tostuff and place it in a museum.

* * * *

Log Book:

Still climbing. I wish the sun would climb up and melt thesehom*ogeneous teddy-bears.

* * * *

Beside these grotesques in the fog, which we all remarked, there wererecurrent mountains and valleys and countless landscapes amazinglyrealistic. Actually when land itself did appear we could not be surethat it was not an illusion [189]too. It really took some moments tobecome convinced that it was reality.

* * * *

Log Book:

Slim has just changed bats in the flashlight hanging over the compass.

* * * *

The compass was hung rather low, so far from Bill’s eye that it wasdifficult to read its illuminated face. So Slim arranged a flash lightfocussed on it.

* * * *

Log Book:

We are going down. Probably Bill is going through. Fog is lower heretoo. Haven’t hit it yet, but soon will so far as I can see from backwindow.... Everything shut out.

Instrument flying. Slow descent, first. Going down fast. It takes alot to make my ears hurt. 5000 now. Awfully wet. Water dripping inwindow. Port motor coughing. Sounds as if all motors were cutting.Bill opens her wide to try to clear. Sounds rotten on the right.

[190]3000 ft. Ears not so painful. Fog awful.

Motors better, but not so good.

It is getting lighter and lighter as day dawns. We are not seeing itdawn, however. I wish I knew radio. I could help a lot.

We are over stratum now.2 At 3000. Bill comes back to radio to findit on the blink.

We are running between the clouds still, but they are coming together.Many clouds all about ... shouldn’t bother. Port motor coughing a bit.Sounds like water. We are going to go into, under or over a storm. Idon’t like to, with one motor acting the way it is.

How grey it is before; and behind, the mass of soggy cloud we camethrough, is pink with dawn. Dawn “the rosy fingered,” as the Odysseyhas it.

Himmel! The sea! We are 3000. Patchy clouds. We have been jazzing from1000 to 5000 where we now are, to get out of clouds. At present thereare sights of blue and sunshine, [191]but everlasting clouds always inthe offing. The radio is dead.

The sea for a while. Clouds ahead. We ought to be coming somewhat inthe range of our destination if we are on the course. Port motor offa*gain. 3000 ft. 7 o’clock London.

Can’t use radio at all. Coming down now in a rather clear spot. 2500ft. Everything sliding forward.

8:50. 2 Boats!!!!

Trans steamer.

Try to get bearing. Radio won’t. One hr’s gas. Mess. All craft cuttingour course. Why?

* * * *

So the log ends.

Its last page records that we had but one hour’s supply of gas left;that the time for reaching Ireland had passed; that the course of thevessel sighted perplexed us; that our radio was useless.

Where were we? Should we keep faith with our course and continue?

[192]“Mess” epitomized the blackness of the moment. Were we beaten?

We all favored sticking to the course. We had to. With faith lost inthat, it was hopeless to carry on. Besides, when last we checked it,before the radio went dead, the plane had been holding true.

We circled the America, although having no idea of her identity at thetime. With the radio crippled, in an effort to get our position, Billscribbled a note. The note and an orange to weight it, I tied in a bagwith an absurd piece of silver cord. As we circled the America, thebag was dropped through the hatch. But the combination of our speed,the movement of the vessel, the wind and the lightness of the missilewas too much for our marksmanship. We tried another shot, using ourremaining orange. No luck.

U. S. Shipping Board

Should we seek safety and try to come down beside the steamer? Perhapsone reason the attempt was never attempted was the roughness of the seawhich not only made a landing difficult but a take-off impossible.

Bill leaped to the radio with the hope of at least receiving a message.At some moment in the excitement, before I closed the hatch which opensin the bottom of the fuselage I lay flat and took a photograph. This,I am told, is the first one made of a vessel at sea from a plane intrans-Atlantic flight.

Then we turned back to the original course, retracing the twelvemile detour made to circle the steamer. In a way we were pooling allour chances and placing everything in a final wager on our originaljudgment.

Quaintly, it was this moment of lowest ebb that Slim chose tobreakfast. Nonchalantly he hauled forth a sandwich.

We could see only a few miles of water, which melted into the greynesson all sides. The ceiling was so low we could fly at an altitude ofonly [196]500 feet. As we moved, our miniature world of visibility,bounded by its walls of mist, moved with us. Half an hour later intoit suddenly swam a fishing vessel. In a matter of minutes a fleet ofsmall craft, probably fishing vessels, were almost below us. Happilytheir course paralleled ours. Although the gasoline in the tanks wasvanishing fast, we began to feel land—some land—must be near. It mightnot be Ireland, but any land would do just then.

Bill, of course, was at the controls. Slim, gnawing a sandwich,sat beside him, when out of the mists there grew a blue shadow, inappearance no more solid than hundreds of other nebulous “landscapes”we had sighted before. For a while Slim studied it, then turned andcalled Bill’s attention to it.

It was land!

I think Slim yelled. I know the sandwich went flying out the window.Bill permitted himself a smile.

[197]Soon several islands came into view, and then a coast line. Fromit we could not determine our position, the visibility was so poor.For some time we cruised along the edge of what we thought was typicalEnglish countryside.

With the gas remaining, we worked along as far as safety allowed.Bill decided to land. After circling a factory town he picked out thelikeliest looking stretch and brought the Friendship down in it. Theonly thing to tie to was a buoy some distance away and to it we taxied.

THERE at Burry Port, Wales—we learned its name later—on the morning ofJune 18, we opened the door of the fuselage and looked out upon whatwe could see of the British Isles through the rain. For Bill and Slimand me it was an introduction to the Old World. Curiously, the firstcrossing of the Atlantic for all of us was in the Friendship. None thatmay follow can have the quality of this initial voyage. Although we allhope to be able to cross by plane again, we have visions of doing so ina trans-Atlantic plane liner.

Slim dropped down upon the starboard pontoon and made fast to the buoywith the length of rope we had on board for just such a purpose—or,[199]had affairs gone less well, for use with a sea anchor. We didn’tdoubt that tying to the buoy in such a way was against officialetiquette and that shortly we should be reprimanded by some marinetraffic cop. But the buoy was the only mooring available and as we’dcome rather a long way, we risked offending.

We could see factories in the distance and hear the hum of activity.Houses dotted the green hillside. We were some distance off shore butthe beach looked muddy and barren. The only people in sight were threemen working on a railroad track at the base of the hill. To them wewaved, and Slim yelled lustily for service.

Finally they noticed us, straightened up and even went so far as towalk down to the shore and look us over. Then their animation diedout and they went back to their work. The Friendship simply wasn’tinteresting. An itinerant trans-Atlantic plane meant nothing.

In the meantime three or four more people [200]had gathered to lookat us. To Slim’s call for a boat we had no answer. I waved a toweldesperately out the front windows and one friendly soul pulled off hiscoat and waved back.

It must have been nearly an hour before the first boats came out.Our first visitor was Norman Fisher who arrived in a dory. Bill wentashore with him and telephoned our friends at Southampton while Slimand I remained on the Friendship. A vigorous ferry service was sooninstituted and many small boats began to swarm about us. While wewaited Slim contrived a nap. I recall I seriously considered theproblem of a sandwich and decided food was not interesting just then.

Late in the afternoon Captain Railey, whom I had last seen in Boston,arrived by seaplane with Captain Bailey of the Imperial Airways andAllen Raymond of the New York Times.

Owing to the racing tide, it was decided not to try to take off but toleave the plane at Burry [201]Port and stay at a nearby hotel for thenight. Bill made a skilful mooring in a protected harbor and we wererowed ashore. There were six policemen to handle the crowd. That theygot us through was remarkable. In the enthusiasm of their greetingthose hospitable Welsh people nearly tore our clothes off.

Finally we reached the shelter of the Frickers Metal Company officewhere we remained until police reinforcements arrived. In the meantimewe had tea and I knew I was in Britain.

Twice, before the crowd would let us get away, we had to go to an upperbalcony and wave. They just wanted to see us. I tried to make themrealize that all the credit belonged to the boys, who did the work. Butfrom the beginning it was evident the accident of sex—the fact that Ihappened to be the first woman to have made the Atlantic flight—made methe chief performer in our particular sideshow.

With the descent of reporters one of the first [202]questions I wasasked was whether I knew Colonel Lindbergh and whether I thought Ilooked like him. Gleefully they informed me I had been dubbed “LadyLindy.” I explained that I had never had the honor of meeting ColonelLindbergh, that I was sure I looked like no one (and, just then,nothing) in the world, and that I would grasp the first opportunity toapologize to him for innocently inflicting the idiotic comparison. (Theidiotic part is all mine, of course.)

The celebration began with interviews and photographs. We managed tohave dinner and what was most comforting of all, hot baths. The latterwere high-lights of our reception, being the first experience of thekind since leaving Boston weeks—or was it months?—previously.

Sleep that night was welcome. In all, we had five or six hours. Wecould not rest the next day, because an early start was necessary inorder to reach Southampton on schedule.

[205]Rain and mist in the morning, that finally cleared somewhat,allowed us to take off. We skimmed over Bristol Channel and the greenhills of Devonshire, which were as beautiful as we had imagined. In theplane with the crew were Captain Railey and Mr. Raymond of the Times.

When we set out from Burry Port on this last lap of the journey,Captain Bailey of the Imperial Airways had expected to guide us.Unfortunately at the last moment he was unable to start his engine andBill decided to hop for Southampton unescorted.

As we approached, a seaplane came out to meet us, and we presumed itwas to guide us to the landing place. As Bill prepared to follow,Captain Railey discovered that we were not being guided. In theuncertainty of landing amid berthed steamers in a strange place, Billfinally picked up the green lights of a signal gun which marked theofficial launch coming to greet [206]us. Mrs. Guest, owner of theFriendship, and sponsor of the flight, was there, her son Raymond, andHubert Scott Payne of the Imperial Airways. My first meeting with thegenerous woman who permitted me so much, was there in Southampton. Itwas a rather exciting moment despite the fatigue which was creepingupon all of us. On shore we were welcomed by Mrs. Foster Welch, theMayor of Southampton. She wore her official necklace in honor of theoccasion and we were impressed with her graciousness. Though a womanmay hold such office in Great Britain, the fact isn’t acknowledged, forshe is still addressed as if she were a man.

With the crowd behind, I drove to London with Mr. and Mrs. Scott Payne.The whole ride seemed a dream. I remember stopping to see WinchesterCathedral and hearing that Southampton was the only seaplane base inEngland [207]and being made to feel really at home by Mrs. Payne, whosat next to me.

London gave us so much to do and see that I hardly had time to think.One impression lingers,—that of warm hospitality which was givenwithout stint. I stayed with Mrs. Guest at Park Lane. Lady Astorpermitted me a glance of beautiful country when she invited me toCliveden. Lord Lonsdale was host at the Olympic Horse Show, whichhappened to be in action during our stay. The British Air League werehosts at a large luncheon primarily organized by the women’s divisionat which I was particularly glad to meet Madame de Landa and LadyHeath. From the latter I bought the historic little Avro with whichshe had flown alone from Cape Town to London. I was guest, too, at aluncheon of Mrs. Houghton’s, wife of the American Ambassador—and manyother people lavished undeserved hospitality upon us.

Being a social worker I had of course to see [208]Toynbee Hall, deanof settlement houses, on which our own Denison House in Boston ispatterned. Nothing in England will interest me more than to revisitToynbee Hall and the settlement houses that I did not see.

But this can be no catalogue of what that brief time in London meantto us. To attempt to say “thank you” adequately would take a book initself—and this little volume is to concern the flight and whateverI may be able to add about aviation in general. Altogether it was analluring introduction to England, enough to make me wish to return andexplore, what this time, I merely touched.

Before we left, the American correspondents invited me to aluncheon—another of the pleasant memories of our visit. It was “notfor publication.” And although I was the only woman present we talkedthings over, I think, on a real man-to-man basis. From first to last mycontact with the press has been thoroughly enjoyable; [209]in Englandand in America I could not possibly ask for greater cooperation,sincerity, and genuine friendliness.

On June 28 we began our first ocean voyage, embarking on the S.S.President Roosevelt of the United States Lines, commanded by CaptainHarry Manning. It really was our first ocean voyage and it was thenthat we came to realize how much water we had passed over in theFriendship. Eastbound the mileage had been measured over clouds, notwater. There never had been adequate comprehension of the Atlanticbelow us.

A curious connection exists between the Roosevelt and the America. Notonly had the Roosevelt relayed some of our radio messages, but CaptainFried of the America had formerly been skipper of the Roosevelt. Itwas Captain Fried who figured so finely in the heroic rescue of thesinking freighter Antinöe a couple of years ago. Captain Fried, I wastold, is interested in trans-Atlantic [210]flight projects. On theAmerica he makes it a practice, when he knows a flight is in progress,to have painted periodically the ship’s position on the hatches in sucha way that the information may be read by a plane passing overhead. Onthe day when we saw the America he had received no news of our flightso that preparations had not been made for the usual hatch-painting.Actually, however, if we had remained above the America perhaps a fewmore minutes the information we sought would have been painted onher decks, ending our uncertainties at once. As it was, Capt. Friedcabled us on board the Roosevelt that the operator had called “plane,plane”—not knowing our letters, in an effort to give us our bearings.But Bill could not pick up the word.

When the Roosevelt reached quarantine in New York, she was held thereseveral hours until the Mayor’s yacht Macon arrived with its officials,its bands, and our friends. I was sorry to [211]delay other passengersin the Roosevelt who had breakfasted at six and who were forced to waitwhile we were welcomed.

Then up the bay, to the City Hall and to the Biltmore. Interviews,photographs, and medals, and best of all, friends.

We were home again, with one adventure behind and, as always in thislife, others ahead.

THE reception given us—and accorded the flyers who precededus—indicates, it seems to me, the increasing air-mindedness of America.And it is not only air-expeditions, pioneer explorations and “stunts”which command attention.

The air mail, perhaps more than any other branch of aeronautics, hasbrought home to the average man realization of the possibilities ofaviation. Its regularity and dependability are taken for granted bymany. While our development of this phase of air transport is notable,the United States is somewhat backward in other branches, comparedwith the European nations. We lag behind the procession in passengercarrying [215]and the number of privately owned planes, in proportionto our size.

Abroad, the entire industry is generously subsidized by the variousgovernments. Of course, aviation here knows no such support, a factwhich means that, so far as we have gone, our industry is on a soundbasis economically.

Although air transport in the U. S. A. has had to pay its own way,and is behind somewhat, slightly over 2000 commercial airplanes wereconstructed in 1927, and operations in the field of mail and transportflying approximated 6,000,000 miles flown. Nearly nine thousandpassengers were carried, and two and a half million pounds of freighttransported.

Impressive as are these figures, they are not comparable to the volumeinevitable.

When I am asked what individuals can do to aid aviation my reply is, tothose who haven’t flown: “Fly.” For, whether or not aviation will befound useful in their lives, or whether they [216]find flying pleasant,at least they will have some understanding of what it is, if they goup. Every day all of us have opportunity to do our bit—and to get ourbit—by using the air for our long-distance mail, and at least some ofour express and freight. And perhaps some who come to touch aviation inthese ways, will find an interest which will carry them into the ranksof plane owners.

Most people have quite incorrect ideas about the sensation of flying.Their mental picture of how it feels to go up in a plane is based onthe way the plane looks when it takes off and flies, or upon theiramusem*nt-park experience in a roller-coaster. Some of the uninitiatedcompare flying to the memory of the last time they peered over the edgeof a high building. The sensation of such moments is almost entirelylacking in a plane. Flying is so matter-of-fact that probably thepassenger taking off for the first time will not know when he has leftthe ground.

[217]I heard a man say as he left a plane after his first trip, “Well,the most remarkable thing about flying is that it isn’t remarkable.”

The sensation which accompanies height, for instance, so much feared bythe prospective air passenger, is seldom present. There is no tangibleconnection between the plane and the earth, as there is in the case ofa high building. To look at the street from a height of twenty storiesgives some an impulse to jump. In the air, the passenger hasn’t thatfeeling of absolute height, and he can look with perfect equanimity atthe earth below. An explanation is that with the high building thereis an actual contact between the body of the observer and the ground,creating a feeling of height. The plane passenger has no longer anyvertical solid connecting him with the ground—and the atmosphere whichfills the space between the bottom of the plane and the earth doesn’thave the same effect.

Many people seem to think that going up in [218]the air will have someill effect on their hearts. I know a woman who was determined to die ofheart failure if she made a flight. She isn’t logical, for she rollslazily through life encased in 100 lbs. of extra avoirdupois, whichsurely adds a greater strain on her heart—besides not giving it anyfun, at all.

Seriously, of course a person with a chronically weak heart, who isaffected by altitude, should not invite trouble by flying. A lame manshould exercise special care in crossing a street with crowded traffic,and one with weak lungs should not attempt swimming a long distanceunaccompanied.

Consciousness of speed in the air is surprisingly absent. Thirty milesan hour in an automobile, or fifty in a railroad train, gives onegreater sensation of speed than moving one hundred miles an hour in alarge plane. On the highway every pebble passed is a speedometer forone’s eye, while the ties and track whirling [219]backward from anobservation car register the train’s motion.

In the air there are no stones or trees or telegraph poles—nomilestones for the eye, to act as speed indicators. Only a somewhatflattened countryside below, placidly slipping away or spreading out.Even when the plane’s velocity is greatly altered no noticeable changein the whole situation ensues—80 miles an hour at several thousand feetis substantially the same as 140, so far as the sensations of sight andfeeling are concerned.

Piloting differs from driving a car in that there is an added necessityfor lateral control. An automobile runs up and down hill, and turnsleft or right. A plane climbs or dives, turns, and in addition, tipsfrom one side to another. There is no worry in a car about whetherthe two left wheels are on the road or not; but a pilot must normallykeep his wings level. Of course [220]doing so becomes as automatic asdriving straight, but is, nevertheless, dependent upon senses everalert.

One of the first things a student learns in flying, is that he turns bypushing a rudder bar the way he wants to go. (The little wagons ofour youth turned opposite the push, remember?)

When he turns he must bank or tip the wings at the same time. Why?Because the plane would skid in exactly the same way a car does if itwhirls around a level corner.

The inside of an automobile race track is like a bowl, with the sidesgrowing steeper toward the top. The cars climb toward the outer edgein proportion to their speed, and it is quite impossible to force aslow car up the steep side of the bowl. The faster it goes the steeperthe bank must be and the sharper the turn. A pilot must make his own“bowl” and learn to tip his plane the right degree relative to thesharpness of his turn and his speed. A skid means lack [221]of control,for a while, either on the ground or in the air, and of course is to beavoided. By the way, compensating for skidding is the same with a caror plane—one turns either craft in the direction of the skid.

Besides skidding, a plane can stall exactly as a car does on a hill.The motor is overtaxed and stops. The plane motor doesn’t stop, butjust as a stalled car starts to roll backwards down the hill, so thestalled plane begins to drop. Recovery of control with an automobile issimple; only a matter of jamming on the brakes and getting the enginestarted again. With the plane there is similarly little difficulty;it falls for a moment until it attains enough forward speed to makethe rudder and elevators again effective. This is comparable to theineffectiveness of a rudder on a too slow-moving boat. If a plane stallwith out motor occurs so close to the earth that there isn’t time torecover control, a hard landing results.

[222]But in the air, as with automobiles, most accidents are due tothe human equation. The careful driver, either below or aloft, barringthe hard luck of mechanical failure, has remarkably little trouble,considering what he has to contend with.

I think it is a fair statement that for the average landing, thedescent of the plane is less noticeable than the dropping of the modernhigh-speed elevator. It comes down in a gentle glide at an angle oftenmuch less than that of a country hill. As a result, unless a passengeris actually watching for the landing, he is aware he is approaching theground only when the motors are idled.

“I would gladly fly if we could stay very close to the ground,” is astatement that I have heard often in one way or another. As a matter offact, a plane 100 feet off the earth is in infinitely more danger thanone 3600 feet aloft.

[225]Trouble in the air is very rare. It is hitting the ground thatcauses it. Obviously the higher one happens to be, the more time thereis to select a safe landing place in case of difficulty. For a shipdoesn’t fall like a plummet, even if the engine goes dead. It assumesa natural gliding angle which sometimes is as great as eight to one.That is, a plane 5000 feet in the air can travel in any direction eighttimes its altitude (40,000 feet) or practically eight miles. Thus ithas a potential landing radius of 16 miles.

Sometimes, a cautious pilot elects to come down at once to make a minorengine adjustment. Something is wrong and he, properly, is unwilling torisk flying further, even though probably able to do so. Just so theautomobile driver, instead of limping on with, say, worn distributorpoints, or a foul spark plug, would do well to stop at once at a garageand get his engine back into efficient working order.

[226]All of which obviously points the necessity of providing frequentlanding places along all airways. Few things, I think, would do moreto eliminate accidents in the air. With perfected motors the dread offorced landings will be forgotten, and with more fields, at least inthe populous areas, “repair” landings would be safe and easy.

Eliminating many of the expected sensations of flying doesn’t mean thatnone are to be anticipated or that those left are only pleasant. Thereare poor days for flying as well as good ones. Just as in yachting,weather plays an important part, and sometimes entirely prevents atrip. Even ocean liners are occasionally held over in port to avoida storm, or are prevented from making a scheduled landing becauseof adverse conditions. In due time a plane will probably become asreliable as these ocean vessels of today, because although a severestorm will wreck it, its greater speed will permit it to fly around the[227]storm area—to escape dangers rather than battle through them as aship must do.

The choppy days at sea have a counterpart in what fliers call “bumpy”conditions over land. Air is liquid flow and where obstructions occurthere will be eddies. For instance, imagine wind blowing directlytoward a clump of trees, or coming in sudden contact with a cliff orsteep mountain. Water is thrown up when it strikes against a rockand just so is a stream of air broken on the object in its way, anddiverted upward in atmospheric gusts which correspond to the spray ofthe seaside. Encountering such a condition a plane gets a “wallop”—istossed up and buffeted as it rolls over the wave.

There are bumps, too, from sources other than these land shoals.Areas of cool air and warm disturb the flow of aerial rivers throughwhich the plane moves. The “highs” and “lows” familiar to themeteorologists—the areas of high and low barometric pressure—areforever playing [228]tag with each other, the air from one area flowingin upon the other much as water seeks its own level, creating fairweather and foul, and offering interesting problems to the students ofavigation, not to mention variegated experiences to the flyer himself.

The nautical boys have an advantage over the avigators. Constantthings like the gulf stream can be labeled and put on charts andshoals marked. But one can’t fasten buoys in the atmosphere. Flyerscan only plot topography. Air, like water, gives different effectsunder different conditions. The pilot must learn that when the windblows over a hill from one direction, the result is not the same asthat when it blows from another. Water behaves similarly. The shoals ofthe air seem a little more elusive, however, because their eddies areinvisible. If one could see a downward current of air or a rough patchof it, avigating might be easier sometimes.

“Bumpiness” means discomfort, or a good time for strong stomachs, inthe air just as rough [229]water does in ocean voyaging. There is noreason to suppose, however, if one isn’t susceptible to seasickness orcar-sickness, that air travel will prove different.

Some of the air-sickness experienced is due to the lack of properventilation in cabin planes. Many are not adequately ventilated forwith the opening of the windows, the heat and sometimes the fumes ofthe motors are blown in. Adequate ventilation is one of the amenitieswhich the plane of the future will have to possess.

Perhaps the greatest joy of flying is the magnificent extent of theview. If the visibility is good, the passenger seems to see the wholeworld.

I have spoken of the effect of height in flattening the landscape,always a phenomenon in the eyes of the air novitiate. Even mountainsgrow humble and a really rough terrain appears comparatively smooth.Trees look like bushes, and automobiles like flat-backed bugs. A second[230]plane which may be flying a few hundred feet above the ground, asseen from a greater altitude looks as if it were just skimming thesurface. All vertical measurement is fore-shortened.

The world seen from the air is laid out in squares. Especially strikingis the checkerboard effect wherever one looks down on what his brotherman has done. Country or city, it is the same—only the rectangles areof different sizes. The city plays its game of checkers in smallerspaces than the country, and divides its area more minutely.

If one is fortunate enough to fly over clouds, another world isentered. The clouds may be grey or white or tinted the exquisitecolors of sunset. Sometimes “holes” occur in them through which littleglimpses of the earth may be seen. It is possible to be lying insunshine and to look down on a piece of dull grey earth. There is sportto be had playing hide-and-seek through the light fluffy clouds thatare not compact [231]enough to be ominous. An instant of greyness isfollowed by a flash of sunlight as one emerges into the clear air. Bythe way, a flyer can dissipate a fairly small cloud by diving into it.

That is the fun of the clouds which look like “mashed potatoes.” Thebig fellows can be much more serious. Once into them, and one hasthe sensation of being surrounded by an everlasting mass of grey,comparable, so far as visibility goes, with a heavy fog. In such cloudsone can find all varieties of weather—rain, snow, or sleet.

In the trans-Atlantic flight, we encountered both rain and snow. Therelies one of the greatest risks of long distance flying—I mean moisturefreezing upon the wings of the plane. The danger zone of temperature issaid to lie chiefly between twenty-four and thirty-eight degrees, whenslush begins to form. Once in trouble of that kind, the pilot does hisbest to find warmer [232]or colder temperature, normally by decreasingor increasing his altitude.

As an example of the ice menace, I was told of a plane which after avery few moments in the air was barely able to regain the field whenceit had taken off in a sleet storm, coming down with a coating of icewhich weighed at least five hundred pounds.

Speaking of ice, I am often asked about the temperatures in the air.“Is it dreadfully cold up there?”

Recently a group flew from New York to Boston on one of the hottestmornings of the summer. The temperatures at about 2000 feet wereprobably some degrees lower than those prevailing on the ground. We allknow that unless one encounters a breeze, often the temperature on amountain 5000 feet high is no more agreeable than that at its base. Ina small open plane, as contrasted to the cabin ship, one would have apleasanter time on a summer day, [235]and conversely more discomfort incold weather. It parallels the experience in an open car.

In crossing the Atlantic I think the lowest temperature we had in theunheated aft cabin of the Friendship was around forty. Our lowestoutside temperatures were only a few degrees below this. On theAtlantic our maximum altitude was about 11,000 feet, with an averagefar lower. Doubtless it would have been colder had we flown high moreof the distance.

In addition to the visual joys of airscapes, there is much else thatflying gives. Nothing, perhaps, is more appealing than the sense ofquick accomplishment—of getting somewhere, sooner. Aviation means anapproach to the elimination of time wastage, and seems to point the wayto further increase in the world’s leisure.

Humanity reaches for leisure—as time in which to do what it wants. TheOrient finds contemplation its pleasure, while the Occient is notcontent without action. Of course, Americans [236]are noted for thework they do to play. Perhaps aviation will tend to make them enjoylife a little more, by providing time to do something else.

WHILE this chapter is called “Women in Aviation,” just as appropriatea title might have been “Women Outside of Aviation.” For women reallyto influence aviation development it is not essential that they beflyers themselves, although the more who fly the better. When the womenof America are thoroughly “sold” on aviation, not only as a sportingphenomenon but as an everyday utility, air transport will come into itsown.

Today we have planes for carrying passengers, mail, express andfreight. It is the modern note in transportation, comparable to theelectric refrigerator, vacuum devices and all the other [238]leisuremaking appliances of the household. Aviation is another time-saverready to be utilized.

Generally speaking, women control the purchasing power of the moderneconomic world. It is a brave man who buys another make when his wifewants a Chrysler! Woman’s influence primarily is responsible for therapid development of the American automobile’s beauty and comfort. Asimilar influence inevitably will be exerted in connection with airtransport—if women will fly. As they became an important factor inpassenger revenue their requirements will be increasingly studied andmet.

Conversely, it is my opinion that if the show windows of aviation weremade more attractive women in far larger numbers would be lured intothe air. Specifically, I mean landing fields and their appurtenances.The average field today is a comfortless place. Too often itsapproaches and its equipment are uninviting. It [239]attracts nobodyexcept people who have to go there.

The time is coming, I think, when all the fields will be attractiveand convenient. When they are, it will be easier to procure femininebacking. As it is now, the only thing attractive to feminine eyes, inmany flying fields is the handsome collection of flyers.

Besides flying there is much that women can do in the various branchesof the industry. Many touch it now in factories, offices, fields,service stations and the like. In such jobs it is ability, not sex,which counts, in the final analysis.

There should be no line between men and women, so far as piloting isconcerned. Except when the muscular strength of men is a decidingfactor, it hardly seems possible great differences exist. Of course,so few women have essayed flying that no comparison of ability canjustly be made yet. In them even the desire to learn [240]to fly mustbe cultivated so the only possible criterion is that of their driving.Bring on the arguments.

Age and physical equipment determine the fitness to fly. While thereare many older people learning to fly today, and many excellent pilotswho are no longer young, still it is youth which has the advantage, asin all physical activities.

I make no statement as to how young youth is. To soothe excitablemothers, I should say, they needn’t worry yet about children underseven adding to life’s complexities by trying to fly, and that pilots’licenses can’t be obtained after fifty-two.

Today there are ample facilities for flying instruction throughout theUnited States. It is, however, considerably more difficult for a womanto procure it than it is for a man. A primary reason is the advantagea man has through what the army and the navy offer. By enlisting ineither branch the beginner has not only free [241]instruction butactually receives a salary as well and in due course may emerge as acompetent pilot. There is no such opening for women. She must pay forthe instruction she gets.

And it is just a little harder, too, for the woman to get thisinstruction at the average field than it is for the man. It is notso much that there is any definite prejudice against the womanbeginner—the men are remarkably fair in their attitude—but that asmatters stand, it is pretty well a man-conducted business. Equipmenttoo is naturally designed for men—for instance, there is no parachutereally adequate for women. Woman is conscious that she is intruding—orsomething akin to that—a feeling which causes hesitation. That samesort of thing prevails in medicine, the law, and other professions, toa certain degree. Gradually it is being overcome where ability has beendemonstrated. Too often, I think, sex has been used as a subterfuge bythe inefficient woman who likes to make herself and [242]others believethat it is not her incapability, but her womanhood, which is holdingher back.

Generally speaking, the average cost of ten hours in the air, as I havesaid, is about $250. But ten hours in the air doesn’t make a finishedpilot. After such time the average person should be able to solo, butit is experience which alone counts. A novice can learn to drive anautomobile in a way in a matter of a few hours, but only mileage makeshim competent.

New planes can be bought for a little more than $2000 and up. Hangarspace comes to from twenty-five to fifty dollars a month and up.Obviously a very large plane will cost more to store and handle thana small one. A plaything with a wing spread of seventy-two feet, suchas Friendship had, requires as much space as a whole fleet of trucks,and specialized space at that. It is not simply a matter of a buildingin which to house the plane. There should be a well equipped fieldoutside, with runways, lights, [245]and facilities ranging all theway from a filling station to a machine shop. And for all of thisoverhead one naturally has to pay. The actual cost of plane maintenancedepends entirely upon the amount of use made of it, exactly as withan automobile. I don’t believe any reliable estimates of up-keep areavailable.

The number of hours a motor can run, without overhauling, depends notonly on the motor itself but the character of the attention given it.Meticulous care of a plane’s power plant is vital. It is not that themotors themselves are any more complicated than the engines of largeautomobiles, but there simply aren’t any service stations 10,000 feetin the air. An oversight on a highway means only inconvenience; onealoft means inconvenience, too—the inconvenience of coming down wherethere may be a landing field or there may not.

All of which information may sound indefinite. But I believe exactlythe same uncertainty [246]applies to automobiling. Few people who haveone or two cars can say exactly what a year’s operation costs, whendepreciation, replacement and performance are figured. The cost ofupkeep of any machine depends in a great measure upon the amount oftime the owner himself devotes, or has devoted, to its care and thedegree of skill employed. Withal, I believe that the maintenance of aplane is probably very little greater than that of a similarly pricedautomobile.

There is a belief, I suppose (and perhaps it is well founded) thatwomen shrink more than do men from the alleged hazards of aviation.Inheritance, training and environment seem to make women lessaggressive than men, although in real courage I think they are equals.So much of woman’s excitement through the ages has been pushing themen into adventure that they have the habit of hanging back a little.We can’t infer Lady Macbeth lacked courage or [247]ability because sheherself didn’t do the job she wanted Macbeth to do.

Regarding flying risks, as compared to others, there is an endlessfield for discussion. Figures as to accidents and flying hours mileageI have quoted elsewhere. I know the facts and the conclusions to bedrawn from them remain largely a matter of individual opinion. Butwhether one feels flying fairly safe or not it must be admitted it issafer than it was. Recent steps have been made in securing true safetyfor the flyer in the last few years. Once attainment of something akinto it was merely a vague hope. If one flew one took the risks. Selah.

The problems of safety are concerned with the engineering problemof the motor and design of plane, the skill of the pilot and groundtechnique. Probably improvements in the power units will always bemade. But it seems impossible that advances can go on so rapidly asthey have in the last few years. It has been well [248]demonstratedrecently that the multiple engine plane has a factor of safety farbeyond what is possible with the single engine.

The Friendship is equipped with three. If one motor fails the other twocan carry on, even with the large gas supply for long-distance flyingaboard. At the end of a flight, when a minimum load weight has beenreached, it is possible with one motor to keep the plane in the air.One engine can also greatly prolong the downward glide of the crippledplane for a forced landing, if need be. For instance, in flying overthe ocean if two motors had cut out simultaneously (an unlikelycontingency), with the remaining one the plane could have continuedmuch farther than it could have, without any. The power of one motorwould have made possible a flatter, and thus more extensive, glide.That long glide might enable one to reach a ship lane, or specifically,come down in the vicinity of some particular [249]vessel that had beenlocated by radio in the meantime.

The plane and the engine, of course, are no better than their pilot.His reliability and skill are essential. There are fine men in thegame today and on their capable shoulders the success of flying leansheavily.

Just as the railway accumulated air-brakes, automatic signals, etc.,so is the aeroplane being improved with safety devices. Landing placesare included under this head. Their frequency is important, as well astheir conduct. Some fields are so congested that planes have to circleabout for minutes before rules of the air allow them to land. Terminaloperations will have to be worked out as thoroughly as they have beenby railroads and the safety devices of airways—lights, radio, signals,etc.—be equally efficient.

Despite the fact that there are traffic laws to govern flying, andinspectors to enforce them, many infringements occur. Bad mannersof the [250]air exist, unfortunately, as they do on the automobilehighways or on the high seas. Any maneuver which endangers another’slife needlessly, no matter where, seems to me bad manners. The pilotwho flies low over crowds or stunts near the ground, I fear, is notquite playing the game. His misdemeanors can be reported to the policeand his license number given just as can be an offending automobiledriver.

Most pilots are careful of such breaches of etiquette for theirreputation counts. There are some who overstep, and there will be a fewaccidents caused by them from time to time, until they gradually arereformed.

Possibly that feature of aviation which may appeal most to thoughtfulwomen is its potentiality for peace. The term is not merely an airyphrase.

Isolation breeds distrust and differences of outlook. Anything whichtends to annihilate distance destroys isolation, and brings the world[251]and its peoples closer together. I think aviation has a chance toincrease intimacy, understanding, and far-flung friendships thus.

IT would be wrong to attempt to lure people into the air with anyfalse assurances that everything connected with aviation runs likeclock-work. It doesn’t. Because the whole industry is so new itprobably has more difficulties proportionately than many others.Growing pains are inevitable. Aviation is only now emerging into thestatus of an industry. Hitherto it has been largely a jumble of gallantindividual efforts. Even today, there are more independent producers ofairplanes than there are automobile manufacturers. The survival of thefittest, with accompanying combinations, will come just as they havecome in the motor industry.

[255]Most present-day manufacturers are swamped with orders. Eventuallythe better products will survive. In plane buying the same sortof selection as prevails with automobiles—that is, that based onquality—will become effective.

No thoughtful person associated with aviation makes any claims as tothe infallibility of air equipment. Of course there are accidents. Thesurprising part is not how many, but how few, there are.3

3ACCIDENTS AND THEIR CAUSES

Fatalities in Post-Office Air Mail Operations

[256]There is an element of unfairness in comparing mechanicalfailures and human errors on the [257]ground, with those in the air.The results are so different—as matters stand today. An automobileengine gives out. Normally the worst that happens is a stalled car,and some resulting inconvenience. Even if a wheel comes off thedamage, and danger, is comparatively slight. But let an accidentof similar magnitude occur in the air, and the consequences may beserious. Serious, that is, unless there is a landing field in reachabledistance. And therein lies an outstanding problem of American aviationdevelopment.

During 1927 there were 482 municipal and commercial fields in theUnited States, with 56 under construction. In addition there were53 army and 8 navy fields. Taking the whole lot, and adding thecomparatively few in Canada and Mexico, it gives a pretty thin coveragefor the continent.

While it is true that in some parts of the country, notably in thelevel areas of the west, [258]one can land with safety almost anywhere,it is necessary to have service as well as landing facilities.Obviously adequately equipped fields will follow the economicjustification for them. And that justification is fast approaching.

Too often cities have delayed in purchasing land for air terminalfacilities. Acreage near a population center was either not availableor too expensive. Many landing fields, excellent in themselves, areso remote that the primary appeal of flying, namely, its time-savingelement, is hopelessly offset by the waste of time in getting to andfrom the airport.

Notable among the cities attacking the problem is Chicago. A fivemillion dollar bond issue is being put through there which will financethe creation of a model airport. It will be situated close to thevery heart of the city itself, actually only ten or fifteen minutesby automobile from Chicago’s business center. This is in contrastto the forty or fifty minutes required to reach the [259]presentmunicipal field. Chicago’s lead may well be followed by other Americancities—although, of course, a number are already well equipped.

Hind-sight is so easy—and so costly. If, for instance, in thedevelopment of our larger cities, especially the comparatively newtowns of the middle western states, we had been able to visualize thepresent day requirements of the automobile, how easily modern trafficproblems could have been prepared for. All our cities have faced theexperience and the expense of widening streets already built; andall of them are shadow-boxing with the unsolvable puzzle of forcinga thousand automobiles through inadequate thoroughfares designed tohandle perhaps a hundred facilely.

It is possible, of course, that long runways won’t be necessary for theaircraft of the future. Science may teach us how to alight and take offfrom very small areas, such as the tops of buildings. [260]Even if suchevents do eventually come to pass, there will be plenty of meantime forthe cities to reap reward for their investments in landing fields. Atthe worst, in after years what a generous gesture it would be for themunicipalities to plan to turn these unused fields into playgrounds forthe derelicts whose mentality has finally snapped under the strain of atoo enthusiastic promotion of aviation!

Just another word about fields—a word of warning, if you will. Agreat many communities, even really small ones, can support and willbe benefited by landing fields. But the smaller community should notstrain its resources trying to create elaborate airports, for whicheconomic support reasonably cannot be expected. After all, the field,if adequate in area, can grow into an airport.

The activities of the Department of Commerce are admirably summarizedin the Air Craft Year Book published by the Aeronautical Chamber[261]of Commerce of America, from which the following paragraphs arequoted:

“Civil aeronautics made great progress during the first year ofFederal cooperation and supervision under the Air Commerce Actof 1926, efficiently administered by the Department of Commerce,under the direction of Assistant Secretary William P. MacCracken.New airways were laid out, lighted and mapped. Improved lightingequipment was developed and installed. Many municipalities with Federalencouragement and assistance other than monetary established adequateairports. Airway bulletins containing airport maps and informationwere published and distributed. Radio aids to avigation passed throughtheir laboratory tests and started on service tests. Plans for betteraeronautical weather service have been formulated and partiallyinstalled.

“Undoubtedly the outstanding accomplishment of the year was thepromulgation and enforcement [262]of the air commerce regulations withpractically no friction or upheavel, at a time when the industry itselfwas undergoing tremendous expansion....

“One of the greatest problems confronting the Department of Commerce inits aeronautical duties was to secure adequate appropriations. Civilaeronautics in this country is being successfully developed withoutGovernment subsidy, but this does not mean that the Federal Governmentwill not have to spend large sums of money for aids to avigation, andto promote the use of aircraft in commerce....

“One of the most interesting problems has been that of organization.The Air Commerce Act provided comprehensively for the promotion andregulation of civil aeronautics, but it did not create a new bureau inthe Department of Commerce to perform the functions. The intention wasthat so far as practicable, the duties [265]imposed by the act shouldbe distributed among existing agencies of the department.

“Accordingly, the task of establishing, maintaining and operatingaids to avigation along air routes was assigned to the LighthouseService; the mapping of air routes, to the Coast and Geodetic Survey;the scientific research for the improvement of air navigation aids, tothe Bureau of Standards; and the development of foreign market to theBureau of Foreign and Domestic Commerce.

“The department had no facilities for the examination and licensing ofaircraft and airmen, for the enforcement of air traffic rules, or forthe collection and dissemination of aeronautical information. It wasnecessary to set up new instrumentalities to deal with these matters,and two special divisions were accordingly established—the Division ofAir Regulations and the Division of Air Information. For convenience ofreference these two divisions, together with the [266]Airways Divisionof the Bureau of Lighthouses, the Airway Mapping Section of the Coastand Geodetic Survey, and the Aeronautical Research Division of theBureau of Standards, are collectively referred to as the AeronauticsBranch of the Department.

“The work of the Air Regulations Division includes the inspection ofaircraft for airworthiness and their registration as aircraft of theUnited States; the examination and licensing of airmen serving inconnection with licensed aircraft; the identification by letter andnumber of all aircraft, including those not licensed; the investigationof accidents and the enforcement of air traffic rules....

“It is contemplated that practically all new production aircraft willbe manufactured under what is known as an approved type certificate.In order to secure such a certificate the manufacturer submits tothe Air Regulation Division plans and specifications with a stressanalysis. [267]This is checked by aeronautical engineers and if foundsatisfactory an airplane built according to these specifications isthen given a thorough flight test. After this has been successfullyaccomplished the certificate is issued. Thereafter planes manufacturedaccording to the approved plans and specifications will be licensedupon the manufacturer’s affidavit to this effect and a short flighttest. The department’s aircraft inspectors and aeronautical engineersvisit the various factories from time to time to check up on materialsand workmanship, but Government inspectors are not stationed regularlyat any of the factories.

“To carry out the medical certification of applicants there have been230 doctors appointed in various parts of the country, all of whom*operate under the medical director of the Aeronautics Branch.

“Pilots receive identification cards and licenses when they havesatisfactorily passed their [268]medical, piloting and intelligencetests. The license is renewable periodically, depending upon the classin which it has been issued. These classes include the air transport,limited commercial, industrial, private and student pilot licenses.Each calls for different qualifications, all of which are explained inthe Air Commerce Regulations.

“Aircraft are registered in classes according to weight. All craftwhich operate in interstate commerce or in the furtherance of abusiness which includes interstate commerce are required to belicensed. All aircraft whether operating in interstate commercenon-commercially or solely within a State must bear identificationnumbers issued by the department and must obey the air traffic rulescontained in the Air Commerce Regulations.

“The Department of Commerce keeps in touch constantly with activitiesof the manufacturers and of the aerial service and transport[269]operators by means of periodical surveys. These surveysreveal that during 1927 a total of 2,011 commercial airplanes wereconstructed, with unfilled orders for 907 planes, representing a totalvalue of $12,502,405. The operations in the field by the commercialflyers approximate 13,000,000 miles of flying; 500,000 passengerscarried, and 2,500,000 pounds of freight and express transported.

“The Airways Division selects and establishes intermediate landingfields and installs and maintains lighting equipment and other aids toavigation on established airways. In addition, it is charged with theestablishment of radio aids, maintenance of a weather reporting serviceand a general communication system throughout the airways.

“The field service now consists of 20 airway extension superintendents,all pilots, 11 inspectors, 6 engineers, 4 mechanics, and in addition,numerous radio operators, caretakers and [270]weather observers, atintermediate fields and in some cases at beacon lights.”

The air problems of the army and navy are peculiar to themselves.Governmental support is naturally important in the development ofplanes and motors and in quickening production. Then, too, bothbranches are turning out trained pilots, useful in national emergency,many of whom will eventually find their way into the fields ofcommercial aviation.

I can’t help expressing the wish that men already trained could havemore opportunity to fly. Many excellent flyers who served in the war,and later, want to keep in practise. They can, of course, join thereserves and fly Peteys (P.T.s), the training plane which replacedthe Jennys, recently condemned. But flying a P.T. doesn’t equip oneto pilot the modern pursuit and larger planes. Unless these men areable to afford the luxuries of planes of their own, they can’t obtainany adequate training and their [271]great value in possible nationalemergency is lessened. Could they be permitted to fly new type planesthat are in the army hangars, it would save all the lost motion ofretaining them in time of need, besides keeping them interested.

Probably no department of aviation touches the business people of thecountry more closely than the air mail, which, by the way, includesnot only letters but express and freight as well. The Aircraft YearBook analysis of the activities of the Post Office Department is soadmirable I again quote from it verbatim:

“The Post Office Department, relieved of the details of the actualoperations of flying the mail through letting out this work at publicbidding to private operators, has been devoting its efforts exclusivelyunder the direction of Second Assistant Postmaster General W. IrvingGlover, to the building up of the network of privately operated airmail lines and of bringing to the [272]attention of the public thevalue of the air mail service.

“One of the high lights in the operation of the air mail service in1927 was the splendid demonstration by this service of the safety ofcommercial operations with able pilots, good equipment and efficientground organization, under most trying flying conditions. This isattested by the Post Office Department’s record last year of a singlefatality in 1,413,381 miles of day and night air transportation.

“Another achievement was the steady increase in the use of the air mailby the public. This is shown by the fact that while the mileage flownby private mail route operators was practically the same in June, 1926,as in June, 1927, the amount of mail carried by these private lineshad increased from 29,673 pounds in June, 1926, to 55,026 pounds inJune, 1927. Another measure of the increase in the use of the air mailservice is found in the Government figures showing that [275]while thenumber of miles flown in carrying mail during the first half of 1927was practically the same as the mileage flown in the last half of theyear, the compensation to the operators which is based on the poundagecarried, had increased nearly 50 per cent. The Government figures showthat while the average revenue per mile to operators during the firsthalf of 1927 was 58.4 cents, it had jumped to 76.9 cents during thelast half of the year.

“A third notable accomplishment of the Post Office Department in 1927was the success of its night flying, which has led it to authorizea considerable additional mileage of night mail carrying by privateoperators. The overnight operations now in effect and to be put intoeffect as speedily as the additional air mail routes are lighted,aggregate approximately 2,800,000 miles per year. The night flyingprogram includes the following services each night of the year:

“This night flying, formerly done by the Post Office Department,but now relinquished entirely to private mail transport companies,aggregates more than a million and three-quarter miles of flying in theyear, and constitutes the greatest night air flying operation in theworld.”

In the development of aviation—especially long distance flying, andpioneer over-water efforts—meteorological study is vital. In connectionwith the Friendship flight I have told somewhat of how its backerscooperated in supplementing the work of the Weather Bureau withseparately collected data. These efforts brought home to us all, Iam sure, a vivid realization [277]of how much is to be done in thatfield—a need understood better by no one than the weather expertsthemselves.

Our knowledge of Atlantic weather is extraordinarily incomplete.Generally speaking, the machinery for securing the requisite dataactually exists, but there are not funds to pay for its utilization.The Weather Bureau has no appropriation to meet the costs of theconstant reports that should be radioed in by ships at sea, ifthe Bureau is to be able to forecast with accuracy precise detailconditions prevailing in various areas.

Meteorologists tell me, for instance, that if reports at intervals ofsay every four hours could be secured from vessels between America andEurope, much, if not all, of the uncertainty regarding trans-Atlanticweather conditions as they affect air travel could be avoided. Shortly,it seems probable, Congress will provide funds for such work. Possiblyeven an international [278]code will be created, with the cooperationof the steamship companies themselves, so that supplying such data willbe automatic. At present, providing it is purely a matter of individualaccommodation, and the person getting it has to pay the transmissionbills which are likely to be heavy.

Reports six times daily, say from a hundred different vessels, wouldpermit experts on both sides of the Atlantic to lay out weather chartsof incalculable value. The information sent would primarily includebarometric pressure, temperature, wind direction and velocity andvisibility.

Ultimately the exact position of storms and their movements will bedeterminable. With such information the fast-flying sturdy airships ofthe future can set their courses so as to avoid these storms, and totake advantage of favorable flying conditions.

PREPARATIONS ... the flight ... England ... our return ... the firstreceptions ... photographs, interviews ... New York, Boston, Chicago... the many invitations not accepted because of lack of time ...mayors, celebrities, governors ... splendid flyers; Wilkins, Byrd,Chamberlin, Thea Rasche, Balchen, Ruth Nichols, Reed Landis ...speeches, lunches, radio microphones . . . acres of clippings (unread)... editors, promoters ... settlement houses, aldermen’s offices... gracious hostesses, camera-wise politicians ... private cars,palatial planes ... and then my book ... hours of writing piled up inthe [280]contented isolation (stoically maintained) of a hospitableRye home ... friends, a few parties ... swimming, riding, dancing,in tantalizing driblets ... brief recesses from work ... Tunney vs.Heeney, my first fight (a boxer’s career is measured by minutes in thering; an aviator’s by hours in the air) ... more writing—much more.

Such is my jumbled retrospect of the seven weeks which have crowded bysince we returned to America.

Finally the little book is done, such as it is. Tomorrow I am free tofly.

Now, I have checked over, from first to last, this manuscript of mine.Frankly, I’m far from confident of its air-worthiness, and don’t knowhow to rate its literary horse-power or estimate its cruising radiusand climbing ability. Confidentially, it may never even make thetake-off.

If a crash comes, at least there’ll be no fatalities. No one can seemore comedy in the disaster [281]than the author herself. Especiallybecause even the writing of the book, like so much else of the flightand its aftermaths, has had its humor—some of it publishable!

I never knew that a “public character” (that, Heaven help me,apparently is my fate since the flight) could be the target of so muchmail.

“Please send me $150; it will just pay for my divorce which I musthave....” So read one letter, plus details anent the necessity of theproposed separation. Autographing, I discover, is a national mania.Requests for photographs, freak suggestions, involved communicationsfrom inventors, pathetic appeals, have been numerous.

Yes, the mail has brought diverse proposals of marriage, andapproximations thereof. Perhaps the widespread publication of myphotograph has kept the quantity down!

Best of all the letters are those from average people about thecountry—mostly women—who have found some measure of satisfaction, orperhaps [282]a vicarious thrill, in the experiment of which I happenedto be a small part. For their congratulations and friendly messages Ifind myself always deeply grateful.

A wave of invitations almost engulfed me, and offers of employment,many of them bewilderingly generous, proved part of the harvest ofnotoriety. The psychology of inferring that flying the Atlantic equipsone for an advertising managership or banking, leaves me puzzled.

However, the correspondence of a “goldfish” isn’t all bouquets, by anymeans.

Cigarettes have nearly been my downfall. Not subjectively, understand,for my indulgence is decently limited; the count, I think, shows therestrained total of three for the current year. It’s not what I did,but what I said, that caused trouble. I wickedly “endorsed” a certaincigarette which was carried by the boys on the Friendship. This Idid to benefit three gallant gentlemen,—Commander Byrd, to whoseSouth Polar Expedition [285]I turned over my own financial proceeds,and the companions on my flight who benefited only if my name wasused. Among the immediate souvenirs of my viciousness is a copy ofthe advertisem*nt, torn from a newspaper and sent to me by an iratecommentator. On the margin she wrote: “I suppose you drink too!”

It happens that I don’t—it just never seemed worth while. Anyway, theincident struck some journalistic sparks. Amusing among them is thisfrom the “New Yorker”:

One of the greatest personal sacrifices of all times, as we lookat it, was the sacrifice Miss Earhart made in endorsing a brand ofcigarettes so she could earn fifteen hundred dollars to contribute toCommander Byrd’s South Pole flight. She admitted in her letter thatshe “made the endorsem*nt deliberately.” Commander Byrd, replying,said that it seemed to him “an [286]act of astonishing generosity.”Pioneering must go on, whatever the toll; the waste places must beconquered. Since, however, the faculty of Reed University, in Oregon,declares that it is impossible for a person blindfolded to tell onecigarette from another, it seems to us that the only honorable courseleft for Commander Byrd, in order to vindicate science and validateMiss Earhart’s gift, is to fly to the South Pole blindfolded.

Photographers, too, are innocent (sometimes) instruments of acritical fate. (I’ve never fathomed why photographers always want“a-great-big-smile-please”; and prefer their victims waving.) Idid contrive to resist the blandishments of one who would have hadme pictured blowing a kiss to Pittsburgh. But in Chicago, when theboys and girls of the Hyde Park High School turned out to see theirAtlantic-flying Alumna, the picture men asked me to step forward fromthe stage upon a grand piano backed up to its edge, so as to includethe youngsters as well as myself. Picture taken, picture published.

[287]Promptly arrived an acid letter from a friend: “How did you geton the piano?”

Doubtless she visualized me in scandalizing progress through the west,leaping from piano to piano.

The school incident reminds me of my peripatetic education. My fatherwas a railroad claim agent and attorney, his work seldom keepinghim long in one place. As a result I graced the high schools of sixdifferent communities, and happened to be in Chicago when graduationday rolled around. During the first turmoil after our London arrival,cablegrams came from at least four communities, each one doing me thehonor of claiming me as its very own. Beyond proclaiming the fact thatI spent more time in Atchison, Kansas, than anywhere else, discretion,it seems to me, dictates silence as to other comparative allegiances.

A considerable crop of poetry, verse, and rhyme is chargeable to ourflight, some of it far [288]more meritorious than the subject sung.From the direct-by-mail offering, with which friendly souls seem wontto deluge those whose names appear in print, I garner the followingexcerpts:

Two experiences which were privileges, too, of the busy weeks, standout oddly in my memory.

Shamelessly I confess my admiration for motorcycle policemen. Thoughthey have spoken harshly to me on occasion they are so good to look at,I’ve quite forgiven—most of them. Gallant figures cycle cops, weavingthrough traffic, provoking drivers to follow suit—and get a ticket.

In the autocratic days of our post-flight glory [289]we were whirledabout with motorcycle escort, unmindful of traffic lights and speedordinances. Of an afternoon I motored to New York’s new Medical Center,with one of the escorts driving a side-car. On the way back to theBiltmore I transferred from the limousine to that side-car.... Therewasn’t a speedometer so I don’t know exactly, but I suspect that fiftym.p.h. doesn’t tell the story.

That was one of the cherished experiences. The second found me in alocomotive cab of the Pennsylvania Railroad, bedecked in overalls,goggles and cap. The ride from Pittsburgh to Altoona, round theHorseshoe Bend, was not so fast as flying, about as noisy, and muchdirtier. Also far more hot. If and when my feminine readers takeup locomotive travel, let them wear heavily soled shoes. Mine werefairly thin—and the fire box heated the floor below where I sat whenI couldn’t stand and stood when I couldn’t sit. Even the photographs,incidental to these [290]experiences, did not detract from myenjoyment. However, some of them clipped subsequently from newspapers,arrived thoughtfully labelled bologna.

There were many editorials in both England and America. Some appraisedthe technical accomplishments of the flight generously. But moreinteresting than the bouquets were the brickbats, especially when shieddirectly at me—as they often were.

As to the part I personally played in the flight I have tried to beentirely frank always. The credit belongs to the boys, to the shipand to its backer. I was a passenger. The fact that I happen to be asmall-ship pilot, reasonably experienced in the air, didn’t affect thesituation other than having contributed to my selection.

Said the “New York World”:

Using Newfoundland and Ireland, and possibly the Azores, as fuelstops, commercial airplaning between the Old World and [291]theNew appears likely to become feasible within the not very distantfuture. To have shared with her skilled companions in bringing thatdevelopment a step nearer is higher honor for Miss Earhart than thesporting record of the first air crossing accomplished by a woman.

Not only “honor,” but satisfaction—the joy of a share, however small,in a great adventure.

When we were in London a clipping from “The Church Times” came to me.The envelope was addressed in the shaky handwriting of an elderlyperson. There was no letter and no signature, but certain sentences inthe article were underlined.

Here is that clipping as it greeted me, the underlined sentencesprinted in italics:

For compensation, here is another clipping, a chuckling commentary uponback-seat driving, of course utterly unfair to my sex:

AS A BACK SEAT DRIVER WOULD HAVE MADE THAT FLIGHT

(Two Hundred Miles Off Trepassey.)

The Woman: Where are we now?

Pilot: I can’t quite make out.

The Woman: There must be some way of telling.

[296]Pilot: I just don’t seem to recognize anything.

The Woman: Are you sure that place we left was Trepassey?

Pilot: That’s what it was called on the map.

The Woman: Well, maybe the map was wrong. I don’t feel as if we wereheaded for Europe. Hadn’t we better stop and make certain?

* * *

(One Thousand Miles Out.)

The Woman: Are we on the right route now?

Navigator: I’m pretty certain, but I wouldn’t swear to it.

The Woman: I’ll bet we’re miles off going ahead blindly if we’re notcertain!

Pilot: We may be a little off the course.

The Woman: I’ll bet we’re miles off it. I could have told you 600 miles[297]back we weren’t going the right way. Can’t you straighten thingsout by looking at the map?

Navigator: The map won’t do us any good just now.

The Woman: What’s a map for, then? I’ll bet if I had a map I could tellwhere I was.

* * *

(Twelve Hundred Miles Out.)

The Woman: Why do we have to keep flying in this awful fog? It’sperfectly terrible!

Pilot: There’s no way of avoiding it.

The Woman: That’s a perfectly silly thing to say. When you sail rightinto a fog and stay in it for hours I should think you’d admit you’dmade a mistake and not drive calmly on, pretending it was necessary.

Pilot: We’ve flown way up in the air to get out of it and we’ve flownclose to the ocean to escape it, but it’s no use.

[300]The Woman: I’ll bet if you’d turn a sharp right you’d get out ofit in no time. I told you to take a sharp right five hours ago.

Pilot: We can’t take any sharp right turns and reach Europe, my dear.

The Woman: How do you know without trying?

* * *

(Fifteen Hundred Miles Out.)

The Woman: Well, I just know we’re lost and it’s all your fault.

Navigator: Please have a heart. Everything’ll come out okay if you havepatience.

The Woman: I’ve had patience for hours, and for all I know may be rightback where I started. If you don’t know exactly where you are why don’tyou STOP AND ASK SOMEBODY?

* * *

[301](Over South Wales.)

The Woman: Look! It’s land! What place is it?

Pilot: The British Isles.

The Woman: Isn’t it just splendid? Here we are across the Atlanticin no time just as we had planned. And you boys were so NERVOUS ANDUNCERTAIN ABOUT IT ALL THE WAY OVER!

H. I. Phillips added that to the gaiety of aviation, in the Sun Dial ofthe “New York Sun.” By the way, at the N. A. A. luncheon at the Bostonreception I was introduced as the most famous b. s. d. in the world.

One of the largest organizations connected with the Friendship flightwas the I-knew-all-about-it-beforehand-club. Most of them contrivedto get into the papers pretty promptly. Some charter members recordedthat they turned down tempting offers to pilot the ship, actuated by anexuberant loyalty to Uncle Sam.

[302]Here, in conclusion of this hodge-podge are three more extractsfrom the press, random examples of what men do and say.

The first is from the “English Review,” evidence that the world isfar from any universal air-mindedness:

After all, the “Review” may be right; but somehow its viewpoint isreminiscent of certain comment when the Wrights were experimenting[304]at Kitty Hawk. Also of the mathematical deductions which provedbeyond doubt that flight in a heavier than air machine was impossible.

TWO CHARACTERISTIC PAGES FROM THE TRANS-ATLANTIC LOGBOOK. THE DIFFICULTY OF WRITING IN THE DARK IS EXEMPLIFIED BY THEPENMANSHIP OF THE SECOND PAGE

To balance the pessimism here is an editorial from this morning’s “NewYork Times”—current commentary upon characteristic news of the day:

And last, just an item of news, gleaned from “Time”:

With such excerpts, from the newspapers and the magazines of every day,one could go on endlessly, for aviation is woven ever closer into thewarp of the world’s news. Ours is the commencement of a flying age, andI am happy to have popped into existence at a period so interesting.

[311]WILMER STULTZ—Pilot

Born April 11, 1900.

He enlisted in 1917 for duration of the war. Joined the 634th AeroSquadron at San Antonio, Texas, and later served at Middletown, Pa.Discharged March, 1919.

On August 4, 1919, married Mildred Potts, of Middletown.

December 2, 1919, Stultz joined the Navy, being stationed at HamptonRoads, Virginia, until July, 1920. Then he went to Pensacola, Florida,to the flight school, where he received training with seaplanes, inthe ground school, and in navigation, aerology, meteorology, radio,etc. Thereafter he returned to Hampton Roads until December 2, 1922,securing his discharge.

In February, 1923, Stultz took a position with Curtiss Export Company,being sent to Rio de Janeiro to oversee the setting up of forty F5L andother types [312]of planes. He also instructed Brazilians in flying.That autumn he returned to New York, working with the Curtiss Companyat Curtiss Field. Later for the Fokker Company he tested the “JosephineFord” used by Commander Byrd.

Among those for whom he flew subsequently were Al Pack, President ofthe Hubbard Steel Foundries, for the Gates Flying Circus, and theReynolds Airways.

In August Stultz joined Mrs. Grayson, testing her plane “The Dawn.”From Old Orchard, Maine, in October he made three take-off attemptswith Mrs. Grayson. A flight of about 500 miles was terminated by enginetrouble. Lacking confidence in the “Dawn’s” equipment, he severed hisconnection with Mrs. Grayson.

In November, 1927, Stultz took a position with Arrow Airways, Paterson,N. J., which he left to make flights with Charles Levine to Havana, etc.

Thereafter he became associated with the Friendship flight.

[313]LOUIS EDWARD GORDON—Flight Mechanic

Born March 4, 1901, San Antonio, Texas.

Gordon enlisted in the Army Air Service at Ellington Field, Houston,Texas, July 15, 1919.

Later he was transferred to the 20th Bombing Squadron and went to KellyField, San Antonio, Texas, where he had six months in the aircraftmotor school. Rejoining his organization in New York, he was assignedas mechanic to two tri-motored Caproni and one Handley Page plane.In May, 1921, he was with the Handley Page bombers during operationsagainst obsolete battleships off the Virginia Capes.

Subsequently Gordon became Chief Mechanic at the proving grounds,Aberdeen, Maryland. Then until 1926 he served with bombers at MitchelField, where he was throughout the International Air Races. In May,1926, after seven years and nine days in the service, he received hishonorable discharge as Staff Sergeant.

[314]Gordon next was with the Philadelphia Rapid Transit Air Service,operating Fokker tri-motors between Philadelphia, Washington, andNorfolk.

In June, 1927, R. J. Reynolds bought the ships. Gordon was working on atri-motor at Monroe, Louisiana, when Stultz, telephoning from New York,asked him if he would like to join up on the Friendship project. Thenext day he met Stultz in Detroit and joined the Friendship.

On July 20, 1928, married Ann Bruce of Brookline, Mass.