FLIGHT OVER THE ATLANTIC
Charles Lindbergh’s bravery 90 years ago opened a door to the future
FROM THE FLIGHT: CHARLES LINDBERGH’S 1927 TRANS- ATLANTIC CROSSING
CHARLES AUGUSTUS LINDBERGH was a private, introspective man, and in later years, a controversial one. Son of a US congressman, he married socialite Anne Morrow. Their child was famously kidnapped, and found dead two months later. Lindbergh lived in Europe where he was criticised for opposing US involvement in World War II – although in the end he flew with Allied forces in the Pacific. After Lindbergh died in 1974, it was revealed that he’d had several extramarital affairs. He was a flawed hero, but a hero nonetheless, for nothing could take away from the sheer courage he exhibited over the Atlantic Ocean, 90 years ago. The cockpit reeked of petrol and glue, but the pilot ignored both smells. Slowly pushing the throttle forwards, he brought the roaring engine to its take- off revolutions. The aircraft strained against the wheel chocks, desperate to pull man and machine across the wet field. Leaning against the fabric-covered fuselage, 25-yearold Charles Lindbergh peered through the open window and down the mudsoaked runway.
Not that there was much he could see on this drizzly morning in Long Island, New York. Shredded curtains of rain hung from low, heavy clouds, and he could barely see the treeline at the field’s eastern edge.
The grass runway is soggy and the damp air is not giving as much power to the motor as it should. The tachometer, which measures engine revolutions per minute, is low. That worries him, as does the slight tailwind. Lindbergh had planned a sunrise take-off into the night-time easterly wind, but now the breeze was from the west. His wet boots slipped a bit on the metal rudder pedals. With smooth foot movements he ‘walked the rudder’, keeping the plane aligned on the runway, but without a view ahead it wasn’t easy.
The tall, lanky former mail pilot – inevitably known as ‘Slim’ – had the main fuselage petrol tanks moved in front of the cockpit, which was safer in the event of an accident. This meant he had to use an 8-by-13-centimetre periscope to see straight ahead.
His eyes darted again to the tachometer. If anything was wrong with the engine it would show here first, but the needle is steady. The plane skidded a bit as Slim fought to keep it on the runway. The plane, called the Spirit of St. Louis, held 1700 litres (450 gallons) of petrol, producing a gross weight of over two tonnes (2.5 tons). It felt more
like an overloaded truck than an aeroplane. Slim could feel the stick wobble in his hands. Faster … he had to get the plane moving faster.
Just metres from where he’d started, off the edge of the runway, was a black scorched area. A bent propeller blade was stuck upright in the burn, marking the crash eight months earlier of French flying ace René Fonck, causing the deaths of two crewmen.
Lindbergh bounced in his wicker seat. But he felt a difference. At 90 metres down the runway, the plane is faster. At 300 metres, and the stick is tighter. Slim felt air pressure pushing on the rudder through his boots.
Lindbergh stared out, searching for
a white handkerchief he’d tied on a stick. It was there as a warning that half the runway was gone. Roosevelt Field was almost 1.5 kilometres long, but was it long enough?
A white speck fluttering in the heavy air. The handkerchief! He should have been airborne by now. Was there too much fuel? He’d added an extra 95 litres at the very end. Was it the tailwind? Or the mushy runway?
The Spirit hits a puddle, splashing cold, dirty water along the cotton fabric fuselage. The wings wobble. Pull up!
The roar fills the cockpit. The wheels lift off, then settle. Lindbergh feels the mush again. But now it’s different. The plane wants to fly, all 223 horses
throbbing through the stick. The propeller bites; the wings lift, and Spirit claws itself off the ground at 7.52 on Friday morning, May 20, 1927.
The Course Is Set
He staggered into the air. The line of trees flashed beneath the gleaming wet wheels. Then, through the spinning 2.7-metre propeller, he sees a hill ahead. There’s not enough altitude. Tapping the rudder, Slim gently nudges the stick to the right. The aircraft answers ever so slightly, and they barely clear the hill.
He climbs to 30 metres. If the engine quits now, there’s enough altitude and speed to make a controlled landing somewhere. He can breathe.
Lindbergh eases the throttle back to 1800 rpm, then 1750. He looks out the small windows and sees another plane. It’s full of reporters, cameras sticking out of every window. ‘Lucky Lindy’, the press calls him. As if luck had anything to do with it.
LINDBERGH’S AMBITION, stubbornness and independent spirit went back to his grandfather, Ola Mansson, who was elected to the Swedish parliament in 1847. He was outspoken and self-righteous, backing rights for Jews, women and the infirm, and he acquired enemies as a result. He fathered a son in an extramarital affair with a waitress, and was brought up on charges of bribery and embezzlement. Ola escaped his problems
by emigrating to America with his waitress and young son. He changed his name to August Lindbergh, and became a farmer and blacksmith.
The son, Charles August, grew up on the farm in Minnesota, but went on to become a lawyer. After his first wife died, he remarried and had a son, Charles Augustus Lindbergh, born on February 4, 1902. The elder Lindbergh was elected to the US House of Representatives in 1906 and brought his family to Washington, DC.
Young Charles grew up in Washington, DC, but spent summers in Minnesota, where he relished the outdoor life, fishing, camping and hunting. He was physically tough, mentally introspective and emotionally reclusive.
In June 1912 his father arranged for young Charles to attend the Army Aeronautical trials in Virginia. An aeroplane raced a motorcar around
an oval track. That was when Lindbergh realised he wanted to be a pilot.
Lindbergh went to the University of Wisconsin to study engineering, but found the classroom stifling. He decided to go to the Lincoln Flying School in Nebraska, where he learned about aircraft maintenance and got his first opportunity to fly a plane.
PEERING OUT his window to compare landmarks against his map, Lindbergh swept his eyes ahead over the Long Island shoreline. Scanning the gauges he saw the oil pressure was good. Fuel pressure was steady. He had 1700 litres of fuel in five different tanks, enough for 6440 kilometres if headwinds weren’t too stiff.
Lindbergh settled back in his wicker seat. Using his compass to navigate, he kept checking against the map across his knee. He knew if he was to survive the night, if he was to have a chance to make landfall in Ireland, he must stay as close as possible to the route he’d calculated weeks ago. His setting now was 066 degrees, but winds could blow him off course. As long as he was over land, he would use dead reckoning – fly from landmark to landmark. But beyond Newfoundland lay open ocean, and no references at all.
The inside of the cockpit was completely exposed, with no weight wasted on panelling or unnecessary finishes. Each gram saved meant an extra gram of fuel. For food he carried five sandwiches. When a reporter had asked if that was enough, Slim had replied, “If I get to Paris I won’t need any more, and if I don’t get to Paris I won’t need any more either.”
With the immense, curving fishhook of Cape Cod off his right wing, he tugs out the chart he’ll use for the rest of the flight. Called a Mercator Projection, it projects the threedimensional Earth onto a two dimensional surface. The longitude and latitude lines appear straight, at right angles to one another, and though unrealistic it allows huge distances to be plotted on a chart.
Slim nudges the stick and gently kicks the rudder, watching the compass wobble around to 071. He’ll hold this for the next 160 kilometres, then check to the right, adjusting for the Earth’s curve. His Wright Whirlwind engine is steady at 1760 rpm and other gauges read normal as he switches to the nose fuel tank. Paris is still 5600 kilometres away. But the course is set, and Spirit is performing perfectly.
Sudden Turbulence
Nearly 320 kilometres past Cape Cod and into the Gulf of Maine, Slim yawned and tried to stretch out the cramps. He hadn’t slept much in the days leading up to take-off. I’m a little tired, he admitted.
He noticed mud splattered under the right wing, then another clump under the left. How much did they weigh? How much drag did they generate? Even slight resistance was resistance;
everything cost something in fuel and distance. I’m half asleep. Stop it! Slim stuck his hand out the window. Fresh air hit him in the face. He should have slept more, but hadn’t been able to. Too many details, too many interruptions … and apprehension.
Wriggling in the seat, he forced himself to look at the instruments, to the gauges, then the horizon. Reaching Nova Scotia is the first true test of navigation so he focuses on the chart across his knees. The wind was blowing steadily at 24 km/h, pushing Spirit to the southeast. He corrected as best he could by crabbing left, ten degrees into the wind.
At 11.52 am, there it was. Land. The Nova Scotia coastline. Squinting at his map, he matches printed lines against the land below and knows by its shape this must be St Mary’s Bay.
Relief envelops him – the relief only pilots and mariners feel when they find themselves exactly where they’d planned. This landfall proved that his instruments worked, that the course he’d pencilled in could bring him safely to land after hours over water.
Nova Scotia’s harsh terrain unrolled beneath his wings. The wind suddenly catches his chart, lifting it towards the open window. Startled, Slim jerks it back and tucks it under his leg. That would be a calamity, to be forced back in failure because of a sheet of paper. He has two window panes stored behind his seat, and he slides them in.
Suddenly the plane bolted upwards and Slim’s hand tightened around the stick. Everything loose in the cockpit bounced. He watched the wingtips flex, and out of habit Slim’s left hand went to the throttle, ready to power out of turbulence. Then the plane lurched back to level flight.
The horizon vanished in a solid wall of cloud. Warm air was rising fast, and curtains of rain swept across the ground ahead. As Spirit bucked and yawed in the turbulence, Lindbergh watched the wings. They were 3 metres longer than normal to lift the 1134 kilograms of extra load, mostly fuel, needed for the 5800-kilometre flight. But the longer wings would bend more as they protruded further from the fuselage.
The storm tossed the aircraft up, down and sideways, while blowing it further southeast off course. Slim’s eyes were wide as he fought for control. With rudder pedals smacking his soles, he grabbed the stick with both hands.
The squalls got worse. He could see through the first one, but others marched towards him across the sky like dark sheets. Water beats furiously against Spirit, and the propeller is a whirling silver disk with vapour spinning off. Giving up on trying to hold a bearing, Slim threads his way east through the storm. Maybe the storm breaks up closer to the coast. Maybe by avoiding the worst parts, the wings won’t collapse.
Suddenly Spirit shot into the clear,
bright sunlight. The salty air was fresh, visibility now unlimited. Off to his left was the port of Sydney, and ahead was Scatarie Island, according to the chart, at the mouth of Mira Bay.
The sea is no longer a stranger and he revels in that thought. As I struck Nova Scotia, I will strike Newfoundland. And as I strike Newfoundland, I will strike Europe.
Nothing But Ocean
Flying alone had sounded so logical when he was in St Louis and New York. But now? Slim fights the overwhelming urge to let his head droop. Open your eyes!
Slim shifts position, leans forwards and blinks rapidly. He checks the instruments. His back and shoulders ache. The sun is sinking behind him. How can I get through the night? he wonders. Not to mention the dawn, and another day.
He holds 153 km/ h for another hour. Below him the ocean’s surface shimmers in the setting sun, and he notices the strong west wind flattens the waves. This is good for him, adding a tailwind of maybe 15 knots, pushing Spirit along that much faster.
Craning forwards, Lindbergh sees a coastline ahead. Newfoundland. The final great stepping stone before nearly 3200 kilometres of dark ocean. He passes over Placentia Bay, nudges higher over the Avalon Peninsula, then across Conception Bay to St John’s.
The buildings are painted yellow, red and blue. Slim pushes the stick forwards and dives towards the rooftops, levelling off just above the chimneys. He sees scores of white dots below, faces turned up towards the shiny aeroplane in the dying light. Hopefully, someone will send a wire out, and the world will know where he is.
For the initial 11 hours, covering about 1800 kilometres, Lindbergh held the reassurance that he was never too far from land. But no more. From now until Ireland, nearly 3200 kilometres distant, there is nothing but ocean. Climbing to 244 metres, Slim stared out his windows, but now it was too dark to gauge the wind.
Looking up through the skylight, Slim sees stars. He can find the North Star well enough, though celestial navigation by peering through the skylight of an aircraft is hardly accurate. Still, Europe is a continent. How could he miss it if he flies east long enough?
There’s fog below, forcing Slim into a gradual climb up through 1500 metres. The US Weather Bureau showed a low-pressure area extending east from
Newfoundland to the mid-Atlantic. High pressure from the south was supposed to push the front north, but what if it was stalled?
Levelling off at 3000 metres, he flew among the rolling plateaus of clouds, still correcting left for the winds. The air is thinner, so he burns less fuel. But it’s cold. He zips his flying suit up, pulls on a wool-lined helmet and tugs leather mittens over his fingers.
Shredded bits of cloud cling to his whirling propeller. It’s time to go on instruments, to fly blind. Anything he sees outside now will just be a distraction. He must disregard his senses and put his faith in a few dials.
Suddenly everything beyond the windows vanishes. He’s in the clouds now. Time passes. Ten minutes or 30, he’s not quite sure. He pulls off his left mitten, sticks his arm out the window and feels sharp pinpricks. Oh no, not that! He grabs his torch and aims the beam outside. He squints at the bottom of the wing. The leading edges are bright with ice.
Ice can kill. It disfigures the wing, disrupts airflow and causes a stall. He must get back into clear air.
Left boot forwards against the pedal. He nudges the stick forwards and left. He shoves the throttle forwards. The Spirit bobbles its way through a turn, descending … skidding. Add power, pull back on the stick. He rolls the wings level. The airspeed is steady. But the compass is swinging wildly. Rough air.
What’s that? Slim’s eyes shift outside. The Spirit is no longer wrapped in grey. The cloud’s drooping wet fingers have released him, and the sky is clear above.
“Which Way Is Ireland?”
For the next hour he just flies, concentrating on his instruments. He can see well enough to avoid the big cloud masses, and it’s warmer in the cockpit. He may have crossed into the warmer waters of the Gulf Stream.
The Spirit wings eastward through the night at 3000 metres until there is depth to the sky. There is colour, a faint streak of pink. Dawn.
The dread of night is over. Yet his whole body screams for sleep. Holding the stick between his knees, Slim pumps his arms as if running. He pulls his canteen off the rack and takes a swallow. He’s had no food, but he’s not hungry, and besides, eating might make him more sleepy.
Shoving the stick forwards, he dives through a cloud then pulls up sharply into clear air on the other side. Physically flying helps keep him awake.
Slim resets the throttle, then realises he is not alone. There are human shapes beside him, talking about navigation. Who are these phantoms? Are they here to keep him awake? He wonders if he is dead. Am I crossing the bridge, he asks, beyond the point from which I can bring my vision back to Earth and men?
Suddenly he stiffens, eyes wide
with shock. Land! It can’t be. He’s still over the Atlantic. But through the window he peers out at a haze-covered coastline. It’s purple and rocky.
He shakes his head, rubs his eyes. It’s still there. Could it be Greenland, or Iceland? Could his navigation be that far off? He gropes for his chart, starts to bank left. Then he stops. It’s nonsense, he decides, to be lured off course by fog islands in the ocean.
Slim has been flying for over 24 hours. There is a constant burning deep behind his eyes. He drops down towards the ocean again, sticks his face outside and fills his lungs with salt air. He feels better, except for a layer of clouds forming off to the northeast. Another storm maybe.
Weather had always been a problem when Slim flew the mail. He had spent a year in US Army flight training, but the Air Service was so small there was no need for new pilots. So Slim found himself in St Louis, flying the mail. Air mail pilots used all sorts of tricks
in the fog, including dropping a flare and using the light to land in a field. It was during one of those air-mail flights that he began to plan this trip.
Slim tries to relax, but no position is comfortable. He looks outside again and there, a few kilometres away: a bobbing dark speck on the waves. A boat. Several boats. He aims Spirit towards the little vessels. Levelling off at 15 metres he angles the plane for a better view. Fishing vessels. Far too small to be hundreds of kilometres out to sea.
He circles. A face appears from the cabin porthole. Slim shouts, “Which way is Ireland?” No response. He circles the boat three times. The face doesn’t move. He wants to remain close, see more men, but that is not possible. Rolling out 100 metres above the waves, Slim sets a new course. Land must be close. It would be possible if the winds had blown him further eastward during the night.
Looking northeast, Slim notes that the horizon has ominously darkened with low clouds. Or maybe fog. Or …
Can it possibly be land? He blinks, looks away, and stares again. He wonders if it could be a mirage like the one he saw earlier. No, it is definitely land. But where? Ireland?
The Future Has Changed
Craning his neck, Lindbergh can see an island on the south side of a long, tapering bay. He studies his chart. There’s a place where it all fits. Dingle Bay and the island of Valentia.
Slim drops the nose and spirals down over the little town. People run out to the streets and wave. Slim levels off at 30 metres, leans out the window and, grinning ear to ear, waves back.
The wicker seat doesn’t seem so hard anymore. The Whirlwind’s throbbing is comfortable. He continues southeast across County Kerry, then on to Plymouth, England. He knows he has plenty of fuel left – he estimates at least ten hours of flying time. And he thinks of all the others who tried to make this same crossing, especially the two Frenchmen, Charles Nungesser and Francois Coli, who had vanished over the Atlantic two weeks prior.
Out ahead, past the blur of the propeller, the eastern horizon is darkening slightly. He heads east across the English Channel until he spies the coast of France. He cuts across the
Baie de la Seine and he follows the great river all the way to Paris. He is nearly three hours ahead of schedule, and wonders if anybody will be waiting for him at Le Bourget. Flying at rooftop height, he sees yellow squares of light from windows, and below him people run out of their homes to see what is making that great noise. He goes back up to 1200 metres and sees a glow rising over the horizon, then an unmistakable column of lights: the Eiffel Tower!
He knows that Le Bourget lies about 10 kilometres northwest of the city. Holding 145 km/h, he sees a black patch lined with lights. Is this the right place?
He flies on a few kilometres more,
but the lights thin out. There is nothing ahead but the scattered yellow dots of farms. That had to be Le Bourget.
Slim dips the wing and boots the rudder and descends to 760 m. When the lights are visible again he squints down and sees buildings. One is unmistakably a hangar. He takes a low pass to make sure the surface is clear. He then makes a rectangle above the airport, to get enough height and distance to turn back for the landing.
The plane pitches as he aims for the grassy field. The surface does not look flat. Slim holds the nose a few metres off the ground, then jams the throttle forwards. The Spirit lurches forwards and soars away from Earth.
He checks the gauges one last time. He summons all his conviction that this is the correct field, that he has made it to Paris. Ninety metres to go. One wing down, then up, then dropping again towards the line of cars. Airspeed 130 km/h. He can see the patch of ground beyond the hangars.
Nine metres. Hangars flash by both wingtips. The wheels touch at 10.22pm. The tail drops and makes contact. Slim taps the rudder pedals to keep the nose straight. He’s down!
He slows, then loops the aircraft back towards the buildings. Rolling forwards slowly, he peers ahead. Thousands of people. A surging wall of people running towards him.
Lurching to a stop, Charles Lindbergh and the Spirit of St. Louis are once again part of the human world – a world that has just contracted beyond belief or expectation. They have thrown open a window that will never close. And for those who witnessed history in Paris on May 21, 1927, and for all of us yet to come, the future has changed forever.
Lindbergh received a hero’s welcome in France, Belgium, England and the US. A ticker tape parade in New York was attended by an estimated three to four million people. While making the first-ever solo non-stop flight from New York to Paris had vaulted him to international stardom and fortune, he was later visited by tragedy in 1932, when his 20-month-old son, Charles August Lindbergh Jr., was kidnapped and murdered in what was dubbed ‘the crime of the century’. Bruno Richard Hauptmann was tried, convicted and executed for the crime.