The Torch Magazine

Lindbergh's Flight

by Edward F. Weber

    In the dark of the night on May 21, 1927, Charles A. Lindbergh, 25 years old, flying alone in his single engine monoplane, "The Spirit of St. Louis," circled the Eiffel Tower at 4000 feet. The lights of Paris were twinkling below him.   A few minutes later he landed his ship (as he called it) at Le Bourget Airfield. The young aviator had just completed a flight of 3600 miles which began at New York City 33 hours and 30 minutes before—the first trans-Atlantic crossing ever made by air.    150,000 French men and women swarmed across the landing strip. They pulled him from the cockpit and did not allow his feet to touch the ground until 30 minutes later. Overnight an American hero had been born.

    Born in 1902, Lindbergh was a third generation American of Swedish descent. His grandfather settled in Minnesota in 1860. He had been a member of the Swedish Parliament and at one time was Secretary to the King. His father was a lawyer in Little Falls, Minnesota and served ten years in the United States Congress. His mother taught high school chemistry.

    After high school, Lindbergh took three semesters in the engineering school at the University of Wisconsin and then dropped out to take flying lessons in Nebraska. After learning to fly, he bought a Curtiss Jenny bi-plane for $500 at an Army auction of war surplus airplanes. Before long he wanted to fly something better than a vintage bi-plane, so he enrolled in the Army Air Corps Reserve. He later called the Army's flight school the best in the world. He graduated as a 2nd Lieutenant and took civilian status in the inactive Reserve.

    He soon began barnstorming—flying from town to town and selling $5 airplane rides. He got from town to town by seat-of-the-pants navigation: dead reckoning by compass and map; following roads and railroad tracks; sometimes using the moon and stars at night. He began to do stunt flying at air shows—the old " flying circuses" at county fairs. The Army had taught him all the tricks: loops, spins, barrel rolls. He was a daredevil. While someone else piloted the plane, Lindbergh even did "wing-walking," climbing onto the wing and walking to the wingtip. He ended the act with a parachute jump; his specialty was to free-fall several hundred feet before pulling the ripcord.

    All airmail then was carried under private contracts with the Postal Service. Robertson Aircraft, who had the route between Chicago and St. Louis, hired Lindbergh as their chief pilot. He flew the mail, sometimes at night and through all kinds of weather.

* * *

    In 1919 Raymond Orteig, a Frenchman who owned a hotel in New York, offered a prize of $25,000 (about $300,000 today) for the first successful non-stop flight between New York and Paris. He set a five-year deadline, but when the five years were up no one had even made the attempt. The challenge was not only the distance, but also the weather: the intersection of the Gulf Stream and the Labrador Current created fog banks a thousand miles wide. Winds could be so fierce that a plane flying at 100 or 125 miles per hour could hardly make headway. Flying over the storm at higher altitudes raised the risk of ice on the wings and struts that could make the plane to go out of control.

    Orteig was persuaded to extend the prize, and by the mid-1920s improvements in airplane design—airfoils, lighter weight materials, air-cooled radial engines—made the challenge seem more doable, inspiring a number of experienced aviators. The race was on, and the public was paying attention, as was one relatively obscure aviator. As Lindbergh wrote in his autobiography, "I first considered the possibility of the New York-Paris flight while flying the mail one night in the fall of 1926" (198).   He believed "it would not only be possible to reach Paris but, under normal conditions, to land with a large reserve of fuel" (199).

    He took a leave of absence and set about to raise the money needed to acquire a plane and make the flight. Two men in St. Louis, Harry Knight and Harold Bixby, guaranteed a bank loan of $15,000; Robertson Aircraft added $1000, and Lindbergh himself put in every cent he had: $2000.

    Three basic decisions had to be made: the type of airplane, the number of engines, and whether to fly alone or with a co-pilot. Lindbergh decided on a high wing monoplane with a single engine and chose to make the trip alone—breaking with custom. All of the others who were trying for the prize were using tri-motor airplanes and flying in pairs, a pilot and co-pilot/navigator, and some were intending to take additional crew as well. By being the only one in the plane, Lindbergh saved weight, which would allow for additional fuel, and as an airmail pilot he was accustomed to flying alone and being his own navigator.

     Lindbergh tried to purchase a plane from three different manufacturers, but none of them would sell unless they could choose a pilot older and more experienced than Lindbergh, so Lindbergh's group decided to build their own plane. On February 28, 1927 an order was placed with Ryan Aeronautical in San Diego for a monoplane specially designed by Ryan's engineer, Donald A. Hall, with Lindbergh's assistance. The wingspan was 46 feet, the fuselage 28 feet, the power provided by a Wright Whirlwind 223 horse-power, nine-cylinder radial engine.   Lindbergh was at the factory every day. The men knew they were in a race and worked hard, sometimes for 24 hours straight. (1)

    Lindbergh was late getting into the race, and at times he felt sure that someone would get there first. Looking at his competition, he had good reason to be worried.

    France's all-time leading war ace, Rene Fonck, was the first to try, but his plane crashed (he survived, his crew did not). Another French WW I ace, Charles Nungesser, took off but never arrived; stormy weather near Newfoundland probably brought his plane down.

     American naval officer Richard Byrd (later to be Admiral Byrd of South Pole fame) led another group that would be flying in a Fokker tri-motor. On April 16, just two weeks before Lindbergh's plane was ready for its first test flight, Byrd's plane crashed on landing. It was quickly rebuilt, but his financial backer would not permit take-off until Nungesser had been found. They waited too long; Lindbergh had already won the prize when two weeks later Byrd was given the go-ahead and he and his crew also flew non-stop to Paris.

    Another plane—one Lindbergh had tried hard to purchase—was ready to go and probably would have won the prize had a court order not padlocked the hangar. The owner, Charles Levine, had a very skilled pilot, Clarence Chamberlin, ready and able, but a dispute with a crew member resulted in a court injunction. Just a few weeks after Lindbergh's flight, Levine and Chamberlin set a new non-stop distance record by flying to Berlin.

    Lindberg earned his nickname "Lucky Lindy" for a good many reasons, but perhaps the luckiest break of all was that Byrd's plane and Levine's plane were held back although they were both ready and both proved a few weeks later that they could have won.

* * *

    While the "Spirit of St. Louis" was being built Lindbergh plotted his course and compass headings. He would travel the great circle, passing over Newfoundland. His next way-point would be Ireland, a distance of 1850 miles.

    "The Spirit of St. Louis" was finished on April 28, and Lindbergh climbed aboard for the first test flight 60 days after the order for the plane had been placed with Ryan. The plane fully met Lindbergh's requirements, but it had its drawbacks. Forward vision was completely blocked by the necessity of placing a huge fuel tank between the engine and the dashboard. The plane vibrated badly because the engine was bolted to the fuselage without rubber cushioning. The cockpit was drafty during flight unless the windows were put in place, which Lindbergh chose not to do, thinking that the cold air would help him to stay awake. Additionally, the plane was unable to keep straight and level on its own, requiring the pilot to keep control at all times, but Lindbergh excused this too as further help in staying awake. (2)

     On May 10 the weatherman cleared him to fly from San Diego to St. Louis; from there he flew to New York, arriving in the afternoon on May 12. Everything had gone well. He wanted to leave for Paris as soon as the weather was clear and his equipment, which was not much, was on board: no parachute, but instead an inflatable "air raft"; emergency Army rations to last five days; and a gallon jug of water. For his food in flight he had five sandwiches and a quart of water. One of the instruments was a sealed barograph (an instrument that records atmospheric pressure with a stylus on a moving drum) that would be unsealed and examined by the rules committee to confirm that the flight had been non-stop.

    When Lindbergh and his ground crew were sure the plane was ready, they had to wait for the weather to clear up. Bad fog and storms were over the Atlantic. On the morning of May 19 the weather continued to look bad, but a special report came in at 6 o'clock that the weather system was changing, creating a window of opportunity that would probably not last long. As quickly as they could, Lindbergh and his team serviced the plane and began filling the fuel tanks.

    Lindbergh went back to his hotel to try to get some rest, but interruptions and more details to be worked out prevented him from sleeping more than about two hours.   At dawn he returned to the airfield. A light rain was falling. Then at 7:52 on the morning of May 20, 1927, Lindbergh began his take-off. It was a grass runway made soft by the rain. The plane was heavy with fuel—451 gallons weighing 2710 pounds. The wheels were stuck in the mud and people had to push the plane until it could go on its own. Gradually the plane picked up speed. Two times it got a little off the ground but came back down. It was splashing through puddles, but by the halfway point Lindbergh knew "The Spirit of St. Louis" would clear the telephone line and some high trees ahead of him.   At last it was airborne.

    To hear Lindbergh tell his story in his book We, written in July 1927, it was just another routine flight sometimes in unfriendly skies. It remained for him to describe in his later 1954 Pulitzer Prize-winning book, Spirit of St. Louis, his constant battle to stay awake, his hallucinations and the mirages, his near panic when the struts and wings of his plane began to ice, along with his feeling that he was lost flying blind in the fog.

    Only part of the flight was in good visibility. Most of the time over the North Atlantic he was in fog; sometimes in sleet. He flew blind for hours on end. At one point the plane began to ice up. At times he flew low over the water to gauge the wind speed by the spray blowing off the waves; he calculated his drift and made compensating course corrections. All of the time he was fighting sleep, struggling to keep his eyes open. After many hours he wasn't sure where he was. He spotted a fisherman in a small boat. He circled over it and dipped low enough to put his head out the window and call out, "What direction is Ireland?" But he got no response and flew on.

    Less than an hour later, he reached the mountainous coast of Ireland. After flying blind for long periods through clouds and fog, it was amazing that he came out within three miles of where he was aiming. After locating two landmarks on the Irish coast to be sure of where he was, he got back on his course and reached England in another two hours just south of Plymouth.   He crossed Cherbourg at 1500 feet still in daylight and good visibility.

    The sun went down soon after his leaving Cherbourg behind him. In the distance he saw airway beacons marking the London-Paris route. At about 10 p.m. European time, he saw Paris and made a circle around the Eiffel Tower. He could see the lights of Le Bourget airfield but it seemed too close; he had expected it to be farther out, so he flew beyond it and into the country for four or five miles to be sure there was not another field that might be the one he was aiming for.   He came back and spiraled down closer to the lights. Soon he could see hangars and roads jammed with cars. He circled low over the field once and then circled again into the wind and brought the ship in. The tank still had 85 gallons of fuel.

    When the plane rolled to a stop he turned around to taxi back. This is how he described the scene in We:

The entire field ahead, however, was covered with thousands of people all running towards my ship. When the first few arrived, I attempted to get them to hold the rest of the crowd back, away from the plane, but apparently no one could understand.

I cut the switch to keep the propeller from killing some one, and attempted to organize an impromptu guard for the plane. […] when parts of the ship began to crack from the pressure of the multitude I decided to climb out […] but as soon as one foot appeared through the door I was dragged the rest of the way without assistance on my part.

For nearly half an hour I was unable to touch the ground, during which time I was ardently carried around. […] Everyone had the best of intentions. (224-26)

At last Lindbergh was pulled away from the tumult and hurried off to the American Embassy. He had not slept for 48 hours. At noon he awoke and went out on a balcony in response to a huge crowd that wanted to see him. He made no speech. As the people cheered, his smile showed them his appreciation; they could feel his personality reaching out and winning them over.

* * *

    Great crowds greeted him everywhere. Half a million Parisians lined the streets to see his motorcade. He was received by the President of France, the King and Queen of the Belgians, and the King and Queen of England. Medals were pinned on his chest or placed in his hands: the French Cross of the Legion of Honor; the Gold Medal of the City of Paris; the Gold Medal of the City of Brussels; The Royal Air Force Cross of Great Britain.

    After his visit to Belgium, he flew low over the American Cemetery outside of Brussels, cut his engine, glided low over the row upon row of white crosses, and tossed a wreath of flowers from the plane.

    At Croydon Airfield, 150,000 Londoners were there when "The Spirit of St. Louis" landed. Just as many crowded around the American Embassy hoping to see him.

    Wherever he went, his response to the adulation he received was humble. Always, he emphasized his conviction that aviation had a great future in commerce and travel that was destined to bring nations together.

     When it was time to go home, President Coolidge sent the cruiser Memphis to Cherbourg for his return trip. ("The Spirit of St. Louis" was taken apart and put aboard the ship.) Reaching Chesapeake Bay, the Memphis was met by an escort of four destroyers and forty airplanes. The next morning, as the cruiser steamed up the Potomac, factory whistles, automobile horns, fire sirens, and church bells sounded the enthusiasm of the moment. People were on every rooftop, every wharf, and every jetty craning to get a view of the young aviator. Marching bands and cavalry escorted Lindbergh to the Capitol Mall. At the Washington Monument, Coolidge pinned on him the Distinguished Flying Cross and announced his promotion to the rank of Colonel.

    The next stop was New York City, where he landed in the harbor as a passenger in a seaplane. 300,000 people were waiting at the Battery. A parade to Central Park followed, in a snowstorm of confetti. 4.5 million New Yorkers had stood all day along the route waiting to see him. He stayed in New York for a week that was jammed with appointments before returning to Washington. Then he flew "The Spirit of St. Louis" back to St. Louis and another triumphant arrival.

    Always he spoke simply and humbly, sharing the credit for his achievement with all those who had paved the way with their own effort and contribution to his plane and the advancement of aviation technology. He called upon private enterprise to build the passenger travel by air industry, to catch up with Europe in this respect, and urged that airports be built in every city. Everywhere he spoke he carried the message of friendship and affection for America that had been demonstrated to him time and again in France, Belgium, and England.

    Lindbergh, in the words writer Fitzhugh Green, had "loosed the greatest torrent of mass emotion ever witnessed in human history" (quoted in We, 236). Of course he had done more than that. He had broken a barrier; opened the door to aviation's future; nurtured bonds of friendship among nations; and inspired the hearts and minds of millions of people. Quite an accomplishment for anyone, especially for a 25-year-old from a small town in Minnesota.

Notes

(1) One of the workers was Douglas Corrigan, later to be known as "Wrong-Way Corrigan" because of his unauthorized flight to Ireland in 1938.

(2) When the film The Spirit of St. Louis was made in 1957, with Jimmy Stewart in the role of Lindbergh, three working replicas of the "Spirit" were made. The builder, Paul Mantz, took one on a test flight and had a terrible time with it. He wondered where he had gone wrong. In his words, "Charles Lindbergh could never have flown the Atlantic in a heap like that." According to a possibly apocryphal story, Lindbergh visited the set and asked if he could take it up. Of course, they couldn't say "no." Lindbergh was up for an hour and came back to shake Mantz's hand warmly. He was beaming. "Do you know, I'd forgotten how nice that airplane was... You've got it just right. Thank you very much indeed."

Works Cited

Gherman, Beverly. Anne Morrow Lindbergh: Between the Sea and the Stars. 21st Century Books, 2008.

Jackson, Joe. Atlantic Fever. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2012

Lindbergh, Charles A. The Spirit of St. Louis. Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1953.

---. We. Grosset & Dunlap, 1927.

Author's Biography

    Ed Weber is a retired attorney living in Toledo, Ohio, which is his hometown.

    Educated in the public schools, he went to Denison University for his B.A. In 1953, where he was Phi Beta Kappa, and to Harvard Law School for his LL.B in 1956.

    In 1980 he was elected to the United States Congress, where he served for one term.

    While practicing law, Ed found time to be Scoutmaster to a Boy Scout troop and to teach as an adjunct professor in the Law College of the University of Toledo.

His hobbies include walking his Labradoodle a mile before breakfast each day, playing clarinet in a community band, and singing in the church choir.

    He and his wife Alice have been married for 60 years. They have three children and six grandchildren.

"Lindbergh’s Flight" was presented to the Toledo Torch Club on December 21, 2015.