Sky Girls

by Gene Nora Jessen

  Bobbi Trout

  Departing to the northeast out of Fort Worth, the racers moved into different terrain. Now closer to sea level, they could fly at lower altitudes than they had been able to do and the engines performed better, no gasping for breath like people at the mountain tops. The section lines began to straighten themselves out into one-mile squares, the same pattern that Thaden had benefited from on her queasy journey with Walter Beech just a few days prior. Instead of navigating toward a peak or mountain range, the racers from now on could cut section lines at an angle, and hold that angle consistently. The geometry was as good as a compass. With the miles of healthy crops as far as the eye could see, Trout wondered how anyone in the world could be hungry. There seemed to be so much.

  Crossing the Red River had meant farewell to Texas, and suddenly below them was red earth. The dirt roads were red, the plowed fields were red, even the barns were red. Ah, it must be from the historical trail of tears, mused Thaden. Had the dispossessed shed blood through their tears? The pilots had entered Oklahoma, Will Rogers country.

  Even in August, the river flow was still high enough to give Thaden the urge to learn to fly a seaplane someday, to explore all the little inlets and fish off the floats—wouldn’t her husband Herb love that? The farmers seemed to take pride in their properties, no junk out behind the barns. She did have to chuckle at the regional dump, hidden behind a line of trees where no one would see it. Louise Thaden could see it! She spotted the minuscule Arbuckle Mountains near Ardmore, remembering how differently she had felt the last time she came by here from the other direction, from Tulsa to Fort Worth, only a week before. Reminded of the carbon monoxide, Thaden took a quick, thankful whiff of outside air through the cockpit pipe.

  As the racers progressed into southern Oklahoma, visibility gradually decreased. Smoke and haze rose over to the east toward the little town of Broken Bow, where forest fires were incinerating what was to be twenty-five thousand acres of trees and brush. At Tulsa, the women would learn that game warden W. A. Ward had his own earthbound drama. When he came upon the man who started the fire, the arsonist fired three shots at Ward and fled.

  Bad luck and a flat tire delayed Gladys O’Donnell in departing Fort Worth. Some were obliged to make some extra landings for other reasons before their luncheon date in Tulsa.

  Ruth Elder’s map disappeared over the side in the wind again, as it had when she met the bulls, and the west wind carried her a little off course to the east over the Ouachita Mountains. Elder knew she was easing over toward Arkansas and corrected back to the west. There were lots more little towns now, and they were confusing without a map to establish their identities. She held her heading as best she could, but she decided to land and find out where she was. The landing was just fine near Muskogee, Oklahoma, where she was able to determine her position east of the desired course. It would be a short hop to Tulsa. However, the takeoff presented a slight problem, her path impeded by a recalcitrant herd of cows. The starlet had grown impatient with their special attention and managed to chase them away, swinging her motor crank overhead. Inexplicably, after firing up, she left the essential starter crank behind. Most of the Tulsa airport crowd waited for her late arrival and gave the glamorous pilot a big ovation.

  Mary Haizlip was forced down twice in Oklahoma by her plane’s dirty oil line, and Vera Dawn Walker made a precautionary landing to cool her overheating engine.

  The Tulsa stop included a chamber of commerce luncheon and an address by William Martineau, president of the State Press Association. His theme was “newspapers’ difficulty in determining and discriminating between good and bad publicity of aviation.” The women were asked to respond—which several did. Ruth Elder’s comment that American women would be fighter pilots in a future war was quoted widely. She was right, though she probably didn’t envision it would take more than sixty years.

  Erle P. Haliburton, who had provided an earlier statement to the press as a self-appointed authority, was on hand to elaborate on his chauvinistic views:

  The women’s “On to Cleveland” air derby is contributing nothing to aviation. It should be canceled immediately.

  Women are lacking in certain qualities that men possess, just as men are lacking in certain qualities that women possess. Handling details essential to safe flying is one of the qualifications women have not mastered successfully.

  Amelia Earhart took time to respond. She sat in the cabin of her airplane talking soberly to Mr. Haliburton for fifteen minutes. Earhart’s credentials gave her some measure of credibility.

  After lunch and the speeches, the Tulsa society ladies took the racers to the Mayo Hotel for yet another reception. The aviators recognized these events as public relations duties connected with their objective of promoting aviation and women in aviation, and they attended in good spirit.

  At last, it was time to check that the airplanes had been fueled, give them a good preflight, and take up a northwesterly course for Wichita, just about an hour away. Mary Von Mach didn’t get very far out before returning to Tulsa. She was ill, but after a short rest she was off again. Though the race route had left the desert behind, brutal heat now included high humidity. The pilots were required to carry water during the race. However, for most there was no way to stash it where it could be reached during flight.

  As dark storm clouds gathered before and above them, the pilots prayed for a cooling wash down from rain. The racers encountered their first showers between Tulsa and Wichita, near Ponca City, or Punkin’ Center as the residents sometimes joked. Flying means you are one with the elements as well as their victim. Those in the open cockpits were attacked by thousands of sharp needles of rain each time they exposed their faces for a navigational peek around the windscreen through the moist, gray veil. They would remove the goggles for sharper visibility, or just keep wiping them. The white silk scarf worn by aviators wasn’t just an affectation. It had a practical purpose as a goggle wiper for rain and the all-too-frequent, inevitable engine oil mist.

  Two modern aviation breakthroughs occurred departing Tulsa. It was the only time during the race that the pilots were given a chart of the winds aloft, compiled from special balloon observations of the upper air. The winds aloft information helped the racers select an en route altitude with either the best tail wind or the least damaging head wind. Heretofore, the weather information had been so inaccurate as to be useless. The current government weather map showed showers in Kansas City, Kansas, and heavy rain in southern Illinois and Kansas City, Missouri, hopefully to end the next day.

  Arrangements also had been made for a live, in-air radio broadcast from an army airplane equipped with a shortwave transmitter. It rendezvoused with the fliers as they approached Wichita, broadcasting a running account of the event. Thaden wasn’t keen on having a stranger fly formation on her, but she supposed these trained army aviators knew what they were doing.

  A shortwave receiving set in a downtown studio picked up and amplified the broadcast. The program was sent out over telephone wires to the station and broadcast on their regular wavelength. A Topeka station normally broadcast on the same wavelength cooperated with the Wichita station, and they agreed to stay off the air. Ground-bound listeners were, for the first time, privy to the thrill of flight. The crowds’ excitement increased as they heard the army observer’s voice over the loudspeakers describing Louise Thaden’s beautiful blue and gold Travel Air approaching Wichita.

  The Wichita Eagle newspaper, which had devoted substantial resources to the derby stop, conspicuously sent their own airplane to greet the arriving racers. The racers were pleased at the excitement and special attention their arrival generated. On the other hand, while they were concentrating on maintaining their speed and keeping track of and avoiding other racers who might be close by, they were less than thrilled to have the army and the newspaper buzzing around in their midst.

  Wichita was organized, and its committee had the advantage of knowing the various hazards and glitc
hes in the guise of hospitality already experienced along the way.

  For a start, spectator viewing planned for some ten thousand people at the airfield offered a clear picture of the arrivals but no access to the airplanes. The turf airfield was well sodded, and airport lights had been installed, should someone arrive late. A large, new hangar was reserved for the race aircraft, with a mechanic assigned to each airplane both for maintenance and security. Accommodations were provided for the accompanying fleet. No more landing in a sea of dust. No more dodging cows and cars. The planes finally got the velvet-glove treatment they deserved, and the ladies were cosseted like the visiting dignitaries they were. Each racer had her own assigned hostess who housed and chauffeured her in a car with her name on its side. Festivities were arranged from the 3:30 p.m. arrival time until conclusion of the dinner and dance. The sympathetic local officials promised they would let the women get some rest by 9:00 p.m. sharp.

  As spectators gathered, awaiting the racers’ arrival, the local manufacturers showed off their ships with an impromptu air show. The spirit of aviation swelled to a fever pitch. Local flyers were ordered down shortly before the racers were due by an airplane launched with yellow letters on the side reading LAND AT ONCE.

  Louise Thaden approached first at 3:17 p.m., registering utter disbelief at the scene below. The new municipal airport located southeast of the city and a mile square in size was overrun with automobiles; roads for miles around were blocked bumper to bumper. An almost physical aura of welcome engulfed her from the ground. Thaden’s blue-and-gold airplane, washed by the en route rain, returned to its city of birth and an explosive cheer from not ten, but twenty thousand throats. They claimed Thaden as their own child returned safely home.

  Determined to make a good showing for the home crowd, Thaden made her timing flyby, then a perfect soft drop onto the healthy green sod. Once on the ground, she was besieged by reporters. Thaden said in her radio interview on KFH, “Today really brought up the most beautiful part of the trip so far, but one of the most welcome sights we’ll see will be that fine, big landing field at Wichita. Can’t help mentioning one thing more before I close tonight. That’s about this ‘sabotage’ business. To be short and sweet, it is ‘the bunk.’ Nothing to it.”

  One by one, the broadcaster announced a pageant of the nation’s state-of-the-art aircraft, many manufactured in Wichita. The crowd appreciated not only fine aircraft, but national heroines making history—marked by the throaty bark of their powerful engines. All of the women were flattered and, in turn, impressed with the advances of modern broadcasting technology.

  The radio announcer filled in with other aviation news of the day between arrivals.

  The Navy is continuing tests on the dirigible Los Angeles carrying as many as six hook-on airplanes at one time—Captain Roscoe Turner took off from Glendale, California, with passengers and landed nineteen hours and fifty-three minutes later validating transcontinental passenger service—a bevy of U.S. marshals and Prohibition agents arrested thirty-two people on charges of selling liquor—eighteen pursuit planes and two Sikorsky amphibians carrying forty-five United States Navy fliers en route to the national air races at Cleveland passed over Wichita, the largest such fleet ever seen—nine men departed Portland, Oregon, racing to their first stop at Walla Walla en route to Cleveland—Anne Morrow Lindbergh made her first solo flight in Hicksville, New York, after nine hours of instruction from her husband Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh.

  Thea Rasche received disappointing information upon her arrival in Wichita. There, officials were notified that her federal license had expired, and she was grounded, crushing news considering how far she had come and her determination to show well for her country. However, negotiations with the Department of Commerce proved successful. Her license was renewed locally, and she was allowed to proceed. Undaunted, Rasche was an enormous hit with the crowd. “I’m glad to be here looking for more speed. Everything is going well, but not as well as I would like it to go for me.”

  As they pressed everyone, reporters besieged Rasche with questions about feelings between the flyers and about sabotage.

  Rasche insisted, “There are no poor sports flying in this race.”

  Newspapers overflowed with descriptions and observations from whoever would make them. Wichita was abuzz.

  Mrs. M. C. Naftzger, a resident of Wichita, was quoted as saying, “The derby will stimulate interest in aviation, doubtless. I think the women are plucky and the excitement helps them to stand the strain.” The race director Frank D. Copeland couldn’t leave public-statement-prone Erle P. Haliburton alone. “To hell with Haliburton!” he exclaimed.

  The National Exchange Club of Wichita, along with Steffen Ice Cream Company and other sponsoring firms, took out a full-page newspaper ad. They said, “The object of this race, to stimulate interest in aviation, to aid long distance flying, and to further the Exchange Club’s program of establishing Airports and Air Markers is being fulfilled. Wichita welcomes you, aviatrixs of the Woman’s Air Derby, and extends to you the keys of the city. Wichita has 113,000 hearts and every one beats for Aviation.”

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 24, 1929

  Race Day 7

  WICHITA TO KANSAS CITY TO EAST ST. LOUIS

  175 MILES, 250 MILES

  They are having about eighteen different red tap investigations as to “Why an aeroplane should run into a storm.” Why don’t they find out “why a ship should run into one?” “Why a town should run into one?” “Why an individual should be allowed to venture out when he knows there is one at large some place?” In fact let’s all get together and by the aid of our chambers of commerce, pass a resolution denouncing storms. You can only defeat the elements by organization, so let all government and civic bodies get together with the real old man thunder and lightnin’ where he stands.

  Yours, Will Rogers

  Syndicated newspaper column

  An airborne traffic jam erupted in Wichita Saturday morning. Not only the Women’s Air Derby departed, but all the newest factory products were being flown to Cleveland for “show and sell.” Planes took off one after another, like a long-segmented worm with propellers. Soon the sky between Wichita and Cleveland was dotted with every type of plane.

  Olive Ann Mellor, a Travel Air executive (and soon-to-be Mrs. Walter Beech), announced they were sending three “speed jobs,” including the much-anticipated craft Walter Beech would be flying. Now referred to exclusively as the Mystery Ship, the Model R had been designed and constructed behind covered factory windows. Building the mystery airplane in secret garnered a great deal of publicity, more than could have been bought through the trade journals.

  Swallow sent two Kinner-engine trainers for the trade show during the Cleveland Air Races. Cessna would enter one Wasp-powered plane to be flown by Colonel Art Goebel, the famous Dole mainland-to-Hawaii air race winner. Stearman was expected to send several models with various-sized power plants.

  Walter Beech had taken Thaden aside, asking, “Would you like to fly our new low-wing Travel Air with the Chevrolet engine in the races at Cleveland?” Thaden realized that he meant the new Model R.

  Ecstatic, Thaden replied, “Are you kidding? Wow. I’d give you my right arm to race that airplane.” She was already committed to racing the derby Travel Air 4000 in Cleveland, and now the new model also.

  Thaden maneuvered into takeoff position, added power at the flag-drop, and started rolling, then as the tail rose, waited for enough speed to lift off. As always, despite distractions, she savored that moment of flight as she lifted free of the earth. She wondered what she had ever done to deserve the gift of flight.

  Thaden turned to a heading of 42 degrees, cutting the section lines at almost a 45-degree angle for 175 miles to Kansas City. The continuing leg on to East St. Louis would be 250 miles. No longer clear and blue, the sky turned a gray overcast. Thaden knew from having climbed up through holes that the tops of the clouds were a fluffy, marshmallow-like white. All those ground
pounders only saw a gray day. Thaden knew that it was sunny and bright just a couple thousand feet above the surface. After all the desert country, this was the first weather the racers were to encounter with lowered visibility and ceilings. There was an advantageous quartering tail wind out of the west, increasing in velocity with altitude. However, since the racers had to stay under the solid cloud layer, they couldn’t ascend to the more favorable winds.

  The departures from Wichita were not without excitement for the huge crowds. The racers taking off to the south made steep turnouts to the left toward Kansas City, except Ruth Elder, who made her turn to the right, skimming the cheering crowd before turning on course. Instinctively, she couldn’t help seeking fanfare. And the public loved The American Girl.

  When Gladys O’Donnell added power for the run-up, the right wheel found a soft spot and dug in with a thump. Her airplane went up on its nose dinging a prop tip. Her assigned mechanic was there in a flash and filed the ding. She was off in just a few minutes. They didn’t worry too much about prop balance or impairment of the prop’s integrity. There were a lot of things they didn’t know to worry about or didn’t yet have the technology to fix. O’Donnell and the mechanic agreed that the damage was too minor to warrant a new prop.

  Telephone reports came in of an airplane down northeast of Wichita near Andover, then an inbound Western Air Express pilot said he saw a plane down near El Dorado, though his passengers observed a subsequent takeoff. Whoever it was went on, for searchers found no one there.