by Dan Hampton
Or at best on the fringe.
Passing 5,000 feet Slim glances at his eight-day clock: 8:35 P.M. New York time. The ocean has disappeared and now the horizon is gone too. All that remains to Slim are the instruments and stars, those hard, silver specks sparkling against a velvety night sky. I wonder if man ever escapes from worldly bonds so completely as when he flies alone above clouds at night, he thinks, staring through the skylight. It’s a lonely feeling, especially solo over the vast ocean. He’d known all day that there was land close by, even if he couldn’t see it, and contact with the earth, with his own kind, was possible. But not here. Not now. Even though the oceans belong to the earth they are so foreign, so mysterious, that they are a different world entirely.
You fly by the sky on a black night, and on such a night only the sky matters. The Army always taught him to avoid clouds; however, when flying the mail, delivery schedules did not account for bad weather. Clearly nature had to be conquered, or at least subdued, if aviation was to ever progress. Many tried “blind” flying, using very primitive instruments, only to die, deceived by their senses.
An Army pilot named William Ocker had successfully used a turn indicator back in 1918, and there was a similar instrument mounted in Slim’s black panel now.* Officially named a Pioneer #54 Speed and Drift Meter, this was gyroscopically mounted so it always remained horizontal. The instrument displayed the rate of heading change, or yaw, that it detected and revealed this to the pilot by a black ball floating in a horizontal window. As long as the ball stayed within a few degrees of center the aircraft wasn’t turning appreciably. Slim’s main source of attitude information was the T-shaped Riecker P-1057 Inclinometer. Both glass arms of the T were fluid filled and functioned just like a surveyor’s level. Each arm was a tube graduated in 10-degree increments up to 30 degrees, with a bubble displaying horizontal slip and vertical pitch. By using these instruments with the compass it was possible to fly without visual references, and Slim felt that time was fast approaching.
Why try to hold on to those stars? he asked himself. Why not start in now on instruments? After all, the cockpit was a cozy, safe little world and what else was needed? His body had conformed to the seat and through the stick and throttle he could feel the aircraft. The throbbing power of the engine, the wings had become an extension of his own fingers, with the slightest touch lifting or dropping an aileron. Gauges glowed faintly from the Radiolite paint and everything worked in harmony. He and the Spirit were connected through a bond only pilots share with aircraft. But if I start flying blind, God only knows how many hours of it lie ahead. It might go on through the entire night.
WHAT ABOUT GOD?
Slim’s mind drifted to the thought. Is there an existence after life? Is there something within one’s body that doesn’t age with years? It’s hard to be an agnostic up here in the Spirit of St. Louis, aware of man’s frailty, that he is a speck in the universe between earth and stars. When one confronts nature, either by a storm, on the sea, or especially in the air, it becomes painfully obvious that humans are just guests here. We think we control the planet and all that is on it, but that arrogance is a farce. If one dies, all this goes on existing in a plan so perfectly balanced, so wonderfully simple, so incredibly complex that it’s far beyond our comprehension. There’s the infinite magnitude of the universe and man conscious of it all . . . a worldly audience to what, if not to God?
As the time nears 9 P.M. Slim is still climbing.
Passing 9,300 feet with the throttle set to maintain 1,700 revolutions the Spirit is holding 85 miles per hour. Playing the beam of his electric flashlight slowly around the panel, Lindbergh confirms that oil and fuel pressure are both fine. The compass heading is about the same, 089 degrees, and he is still correcting left, or to the north, for winds. At 10,000 feet the clouds change from soaring peaks to rolling plateaus, misty and gray in the moonlight. Leveling off, Slim flicks the light around again and leans the mixture out. Air is thinner up here so less fuel is needed for combustion, and he’s very pleased with the Spirit’s performance. There are still more than 300 gallons of fuel in the tanks, and he doesn’t need to open the throttle all the way to climb. Lindbergh is also relieved to see that the stars are brighter, with no ominous black smudges blotting them out. That means I’m gaining on the storm, he thinks hopefully.
But it’s cold, too. The temperature has noticeably dropped above 5,000 feet, and he knows the decrease will continue as he rises: 3.5 degrees for each 1,000 feet gained in altitude. Zipping the flying suit back across his chest, Slim pulls on the wool-lined helmet and tugs leather mittens over his fingers. Under standard conditions the air temperature is approximately 55 degrees at 1,000 feet, so that means now, at 10,000, it ought to be right around 23 degrees. Well below freezing, and he feels it. Slim considers slipping into his warm, oversized flying boots but decides to wait. The cold is endurable for now, and too much warmth would make him want to sleep, and the bracing air is helping to keep him awake.
His neck is cramping from staring up through the skylight, so Slim shifts, wriggles, and lowers his chin. Slowly moving his head to flex the muscles, he alternates glances between glowing dots on the instrument panel a few feet in front of him and focusing on the distant stars. How high should I climb tonight, he wonders, gazing at the billions of hard, little lights. There is no way to get above a storm, and if one lies ahead he can either deviate around it or fly through it. Both have their risks, but with no way of ascertaining the size of the storm he could be forced hundreds of miles off course with no guarantee of better conditions. In effect, this would be tossing his carefully planned navigation out the window. Going through the storm, especially at night, isn’t an appealing option, either. Turbulence could rip the wings off, he could be struck by lightning, or ice could form. Lindbergh is hoping for the best, but his instincts tell him that nature hasn’t finished with him yet.
Even at this altitude, shredded bits of cloud seem to cling to the whirling propeller like halos in the faint silver light. Thinking about ice, Slim is glad to have chosen an all-metal propeller. Wood is still the most common material in 1927, yet it can pose problems. Wooden blades are not a single slab of timber, but rather five to nine laminated layers: usually mahogany, sugar maple, black walnut, yellow birch, or black cherry. With a powerful engine like the Whirlwind, wood can delaminate, lose its bond, and come apart with prolonged use. Ice can also accumulate, and wood is comparatively easy to damage. Up through and after the Great War, propellers were designed to operate with specific engines and their blades were mounted at a fixed angle.
Advances in metallurgy and a deeper grasp of aerodynamics made the Spirit’s two-bladed, ground-adjustable pitch prop possible. Manufactured by the Standard Steel Propeller Company of Pittsburgh, the blades measured eight feet, nine inches in diameter and were cast from duralumin. This was a new aluminum alloy with 3.5 percent copper, subjected to a rapid cooling process known as “quenching,” and hardened over the course of several days.* The end product was a lower-density, lighter metal that was extremely malleable, inherently corrosion resistant, and easy to cut.
Everything in Spirit’s design, from the airfoils to the Wright Whirlwind engine, was dependent upon the propeller’s capacity to translate aerodynamic form and mechanical power into efficient flight; the props were literally and figuratively the point of the spear. Beyond materials and construction, this was a matter of pitch angle: the angle the blades cut into the air. Slim’s props could be adjusted on the ground by loosening them in the hub. This entailed physically turning the blades to either a “fine” or “coarse” angular setting, then tightening it all up again. A fine pitch, or lower angle, worked like low gear in an automobile. It bit heavily into the air and was good for takeoff, climb-out, or any type of low-speed acceleration. But a fine pitch resulted in much higher drag, as more of the prop was facing the wind, so fuel efficiency suffered. Slim had opted for a coarse prop setting of 16.25 degrees, which would maximize his long-range
cruise capability. The higher pitch angle meant less drag and lower engine revolutions, so fuel could be conserved. This had made it harder to take off, but that is now a moot point.
The clouds suddenly wrapping about him are not.
It is like flying through a narrow, dark mountain pass, cliffs rising on both sides with nothing visible ahead. Unlike in the open air with no references, Lindbergh can feel Spirit’s speed as they slide along the shifting walls of cloud. And what walls! Charcoal towers only slightly less black than the night, they soar upward to seemingly immeasurable heights, blotting out the stars above and yawning open far below. There is no doubt now that a storm area lies ahead. The weather has tricked him, those gently rolling plateaus merely an illusion to draw the Spirit in close before springing the trap.
It’s time.
It’s time to transition to instruments, and “flying blind.” Anything he sees outside at this point will just be a distraction, and there’s comfort in the cocoon of the cockpit, with the familiar dials and the mental precision of blind flying. The body’s reflexes must be largely ignored so the mind can take complete control. The mind must operate mechanically just as the gyroscope that guides it. Slim knows this is the hardest part—to disregard the senses and his instincts, to put all his faith in a few dials.
Suddenly everything beyond the windows vanishes. He’s completely in the clouds now with no outside references. Even the stars are gone. At least the cloud plateau and towers had a surface, something to see. Now there is nothing but blackness. Except . . . a yellow-white flash catches his eye, then another and another. The exhaust! It’s just the exhaust glaring off the mist, he realizes with relief. So that is visible to keep him company, and the glow from his dials. Nothing else exists now, he tells himself; my world and my life are compressed within these fabric walls. Flying blind is a constant, grinding chore and Slim begins a systematic cross-check, glancing at the altimeter, then down to the airspeed indicator. His eyes flicker to the mirror at the panel’s top center, reading backwards the magnetic compass heading in the reflection, then his gaze drops straight down to the inclinometer. The wings rock and the little bubbles bounce, but he fights an impulse to instantly correct. Let it settle out . . . small movements. When a single one strays off, the rest go chasing after it like so many sheep.
Flying tense is never good so he flexes his right hand, opening it and letting the stick rest lightly against his fingers. The stabilizer and throttle are set so Slim can switch hands when he wishes, to ease the fatigue. Focusing on the turn and bank indicator he is relieved to see the little ball centered. The tachometer is steady at 1,650 revolutions. Lindbergh checks the oil temperature and fuel pressure last, two little gauges at the bottom of the panel. Why are they so small? Then the scan begins again, slowly and methodically.
Time passes. Ten minutes or thirty, he’s not quite sure. Spirit is at 10,500 feet now and it is cold! Suddenly a thought occurs: there are things to be considered outside the cockpit. Slim pulls off his left mitten, sticks his arm out of the window, then instantly snatches it back as sharp pinpricks shoot through his hand. No . . . no, not that! He fumbles for the flashlight, switches it on, and aims the beam outside. Shining it out along the double struts, he squints at the bottom of the wing, then plays the beam forward. The leading edges of the strut are bright with ice, and a knot twists in his gut, heavy and tight. Particles fly through the light and Lindbergh hunches forward, playing the beam along the wing.
More ice.
Fighting the hollow, rising fear, Slim knows that this can kill him; ice can disfigure the wing, disrupting the airflow and causing a stall. Or it can overcome the carburetor heater and choke the engine as it did over Arizona. Eyes wide, he stares at the instrument panel. The airspeed indicator depends on a wandlike pitot tube mounted on the leading edge of the left wing, while the altimeter receives air pressure from static ports, exterior flush-mounted openings shielded from the wind stream. If either clog with ice, the cockpit instruments won’t function. Nor will the earth inductor compass if the little windmill mounted behind him on the fuselage freezes up, too. The cups rotate in the wind and generate power for the inductor’s generator.
He knows he must get back into clear air—quickly. But as his hands and feet begin to move, Slim is conscious of something dark hanging overhead. Heavier and thicker than the surrounding night, it droops across the sky like a huge mushroom. A thunderstorm. Ominous, unpredictable, and extremely dangerous, it’s something you can’t outrun or outclimb. A pilot must either get around it or go straight through.
“Kick rudder hard . . . no time to lose,” he mutters anxiously. “The turn indicator’s icing up right now . . . there’s no time . . . only a few seconds . . . quick.”
But if he rushes through the turn, the plane could spin out of control. At night, in a thunderstorm, over open water, this would certainly kill him. Slim watches the instruments and with the concentrated discipline of a trained pilot slowly forces everything else from his mind. He must fly carefully and deliberately despite knots in his stomach, a lurching, skidding aircraft, and the bitter cold. If he panics, he dies.
“No,” he says aloud, comforted by the sound of his own voice in the tiny cockpit. “No, faster; turn the right amount.”
Left boot forward against the pedal . . . Lindbergh can feel the rudder strain against the wind and he locks his eyes to the turn indicator. The little black ball creeps in the opposite direction just beyond the two parallel center lines. As he nudges the stick forward and left, his eyes flick down to the inclinometer. The ball is high, above level, and the plane is rocking in turbulence. Airspeed is 10 miles per hour too low—if he doesn’t correct then the Spirit will stall and spin into the dark, cold water below.
“Turn faster! You see the airspeed’s dropping. It’s ice doing that! Quick, or it’ll be too late!”
Eyes wide open, he fights for calm. Slow movements. Deliberate and steady. With his left hand he shoves the throttle forward until the tachometer rises by 50 revolutions.
“No,” Slim argues with himself. “It’s not ice . . . at least not very likely. It’s probably just the normal slowing down in a bank.”
Spirit bobbles its way through the turn and Slim has no way of knowing how far he’s come. He’s at 10,500 feet, then 10,200 feet, as the airspeed needle hits 100 miles per hour. Descending in the turn . . . skidding . . . can’t keep the plane level. The pitch indicator is an entire bubble low so Spirit’s nose is down. Add power . . . pull back on the stick! I ought to be turned around by now, Slim thinks, rolling the wings level and shining the flashlight on his instruments. At 10,300 feet the airspeed is steady, but the earth inductor compass is moving backward and the magnetic compass is swinging wildly. Rough air. It always takes a few moments for the heading card to stabilize.
But what’s that?
Slim’s eyes shift outside, and he realizes Spirit isn’t wrapped in gray. Stars! Bright, hard, and glittering. The air around the plane is still hazy, but the cloud’s drooping wet fingers have released the Spirit temporarily, and it’s clear above. He looks at the clock . . . ten minutes. That’s all he spent in the thunderstorm, but it seemed like all night. Picturing the weather chart in his mind, Slim thinks south is the best bet. If he is truly on the southern edge of the storm and high pressure is pushing it north, as Doc Kimball reported, then he must try to get around it to the south. Stick and rudder left, he holds the turn indicator steady, feet and hands working to keep the Spirit coming back around to 089 degrees. If it were daytime, Slim could navigate from cloud tower to tower, sighting off in the distance like one would do with mountain peaks. But at night he can only try to hold the heading and, if another thunderstorm blocks the way east, bank up around it again to the south. Always to the south.
But then he has a nasty thought. What if the Weather Bureau was wrong and the whole ocean is like this? Slim leans back in the seat and again cross-checks his instruments. If he climbed up higher maybe the clouds would break u
p and the shifting canyons far below would widen. Maybe not. But he cannot go back through them. Ice, turbulence, or disorientation would surely get him eventually, sending him stalling, diving, and spinning into the ocean.
For the first time since takeoff he seriously considers turning back. But to where? Where would he land? Or would he try to fly 1,400 miles back to New York and Roosevelt Field’s muddy runway? But the weather may have closed in behind him and the American coast might be worse than this. How would that be anyway, to fly thirty hours and end up back in Long Island? No, if he can keep heading eastward he’ll strike Ireland, or at least Europe.
Lindbergh is shaken but determined. What I can do depends largely on what I have to do.
SEVEN
PHANTOMS IN THE MIST
LAST NIGHT I couldn’t go to sleep . . . tonight I can barely stay awake. I cup my hand into the slipstream, diverting a strong current of air against my face. I let my eyelids fall shut for five seconds, then raise them against tons of weight. . . . protesting they won’t open wide until I force them with my thumb. Sixteen hours and 1,500 miles into the flight. So 300 till the halfway point and 2,100 miles more till Paris.
Lindbergh shifts in the wicker seat, flexes his aching back muscles, and shrugs his shoulders. With the windows out, at least the cold air and noise help keep him awake. His feet are cold through the leather boots, and Slim thinks again of the big, warm flying boots he made himself, but decides not to use them yet. He’d have to unbuckle the safety belt and twist around in the little cockpit while flying with one hand. There had been enough confusion for a few minutes so why add more? Then there were the instruments. His compasses have both gone crazy and the earth inductor is hopeless. The needle’s wobbling back and forth from peg to peg, not that he trusted it much anyway. Too new, too experimental, too unproven. So that leaves visual navigation and the liquid magnetic compass. But even it is swinging wildly, 60 to 90 degrees off course. Why? He’s never seen one do this before. It could be precession, the normal drifting associated with maneuvering, but that should stabilize quickly, and these needles have been swinging awhile.
