by Dan Hampton
Switching between magnetos he sees all is well and the Whirlwind is performing flawlessly. Sleep is the furthest thing from his mind now, so all the energy he had devoted to remaining awake can now be used for navigation. Gazing through the right window, then glancing to the map, Lindbergh confirms the heading is correct. Spirit will cut across the tops of Kenmare and Bantry Bays, then ought to cross the Irish coast over County Cork west of Cape Clear. After that, it’s barely two hours across St. George’s Channel to the southern tip of England. One more island to cross.
Slim’s eyes wander out over the landscape, and he thinks of how Nungesser and Coli saw these same barnyards and hills just thirteen days ago.* Twisting to look back past the tail he sees the western horizon is already fading, and he turns around, settling in the seat. It’s as though a curtain has fallen behind me, Slim thinks. Like a theater performance where the play carries you along in time and place. Life is real, he knows; it always was real. The stage, of course, was the dream. But his flight must be both: a definite reality, yet part dream as well. He also knows that the two brave Frenchmen vanished somewhere in that curtain and that he, Charles Lindbergh, is profoundly fortunate to have emerged back into life.
There were those who said this flight was impossible. Major A. S. Shearer, a well-known Canadian pilot, was quoted in the New York Times saying such an attempt was “a physical impossibility for one man to pilot an airplane across the Atlantic for forty hours.” Shearer had been speaking about Nungesser, but many “experts” said it applied to any flyer making the attempt. When Lindbergh had told his plans to Major Bill Robertson, a friend and mentor, the other pilot had whistled softly and replied, “That’s some flight, Slim. Do you really think it can be done?”
Now he has done it—and the implications for reliable, nonstop Atlantic crossings are enormous. What limitless possibilities aviation holds when planes can fly nonstop between New York and Paris! Slim can see that the time will surely come when passengers and mail fly every day from America to Europe. Planes may even replace automobiles someday, he thinks, just as automobiles replaced horses. Though the idea of millions of planes flying around doesn’t thrill him.
Still, he’s not to Paris yet.
SLIM HAS BEEN flying too long to take anything for granted, but at least he feels normal again, and that’s something. The tight little cockpit is comfortable, and his muscles have ceased to ache. Much of this is mental, he knows, and just being certain of one’s location removes a huge weight. There may be more trouble ahead, a mechanical fault or difficult weather, but it won’t compare to what he’s been through already.
The rippling hills stretch far off to the northeast, an amazing green patchwork fading into the mist hanging between every dip and valley. From the air, Ireland is a land of ghosts. Slim thinks of his own phantoms—the voices that spoke with such authority and clearness—and wonders if they arrived in those dark hours just to guide him here. To safety after the ocean and the storm; here, barely a hundred miles off Spirit’s left wing is where his mother’s family once lived.
Just before noon, less than an hour after leaving Valencia Island, Slim crosses the Cork shoreline above southeast Ireland. Fuel is fine, oil temperature is good, and on this heading he should merge with the plotted route about twenty-five miles into the St. George’s Channel. The coast is scalloped as far as he can see, and from the window Slim watches a beach emerge from the line of sheer cliffs. It parallels his course before running off into a spit of land shaped like a rabbit’s foot. A small horseshoe inlet appears on the other side, but it’s the little lighthouse that catches his eye. A startling white tower perched on a rocky pinnacle, easy to see against the grassy plateau. Breaking waves throw spray high into the air, splattering the slate-colored rocks. Tonight, he muses, its beam will guide me back to Ireland if England should be blanketed with fog.*
Cork and Waterford slide away past the right wing as Spirit roars over the cliffs, heading out to the next stretch of water. Slim takes a last deep breath of earthy Irish air, then stares ahead at the channel. Puffy, white cloud towers cast black shadows on the water, but he’s unconcerned. It’s daylight and the crossing should take less than two hours. Pulling his head in, Lindbergh lets his eyes adjust and focus on the instrument panel. He takes the stick in his left hand and adds another tally mark for fuel, the twenty-seventh. Twisting the stubborn valve, he opens the nose tank and shuts off fuel flow from the fuselage. None of the tanks is dry yet, but Slim decides to run out the nose tank.
Switching hands again, Lindbergh rests his left wrist, and eyeballs the water. Somewhere off to the left, maybe fifty miles or so, is an imaginary line dividing St. George’s Channel from the Atlantic. The Irish call it the Celtic Sea, and whichever name one calls it, it is strikingly beautiful. From this altitude he can almost see Cornwall, on the southwest coast of England.
Spirit is level at 1,000 feet and Slim can see by the waves that there is still a tailwind. Undoubtedly that makes him faster than the 100 mph indicated airspeed. He’s also corrected back to course, so the 123-degree heading should lead straight to Plymouth, and then from there Paris is just three hours away. Out ahead, past the blur of the propeller, the eastern horizon is darkening slightly. This is land—not bad weather—and with no real issues at the moment his mind wanders back to the future of aviation.
Just imagining what his crossing will do for airmail and commercial flying is exciting. For instance, if a plane like the Spirit were to stop in Newfoundland, and again in Ireland for refueling, some 1,700 miles in fuel could be saved. At ten gallons per 100 miles that would reduce the load by 170 gallons, or about 1,040 pounds. The domestic rate used by Robertson and the other commercial mail carriers had been set the previous year at three dollars per pound for the first 1,000 miles. After that it dropped to thirty cents per pound for each 1,000 miles.
Slim automatically scans the instruments, then the sea under both wings as numbers spin around in his head. For the weight in fuel saved, not even counting the weight of the tanks, that would mean $3,900 for each one-way trip, just at the domestic rate. Surely they could charge more for international airmail. An increase of a dollar more for the first 1,000 miles, plus ten cents extra per thousand miles after that, would bring a gross profit of $5,200-one way. Even accounting for operating expenses, this plane would pay for itself in just two round-trips. And yet the consequences of his achievement still trouble him. I feel like the western pioneer when he saw barbed-wire fence lines encroaching on his open plains, Slim thinks. The success of his venture brought the end of the life he loved. Still, it’s a beautiful afternoon, so why be—
Suddenly the engine coughs, the plane jerks, and the nose falls toward the sea.
HEART INSTANTLY IN his throat, Lindbergh shoves the stick and throttle forward. Spirit lurches, yawing left as the motor slows down, and for the first time in twenty-nine hours the Whirlwind isn’t roaring in his ears. Blue-gray water fills his peripheral vision as the plane drops toward the channel, and his eyes lock on to the tachometer. The needle is jumping, steadily rising on the right side of the gauge as the revolutions decrease. Because he dumped the nose, Spirit’s airspeed is hovering at the dial’s upper left near 85 miles per hour. Stomach hollow, his eyes dart to the altimeter; Spirit had been at 1,000 feet but is at least one hundred feet lower now. Oil pressure is okay and Slim looks outside again, his gut in knots. No ships—wait. He squints and leans forward. Yes, there is one—no, several, but too far away to see him. His eyes bounce back into the cockpit. Altitude 800 feet, airspeed good for now. Fuel pressure is . . .
Near zero.
But of course! Relief washes over him. The nose tank simply ran dry, as I intended it to. Left hand on the stick, Slim reaches down to the center wing tank petcock, the middle of three valves along the top right of the manifold, and turns it horizontally to open the flow. Then grasping the far left petcock, he twists it straight up and shuts off whatever remains from the nose fuel tank. Changing hands again, he sl
aps the mixture lever all the way up to RICH, then wraps his fingers around the wooden throttle knob. There’s no land to turn toward and Slim knows he’ll glide longer straight ahead. Pulling the nose up slightly, he slows Spirit’s descent to give the engine more time.
As the airspeed needle falls below 70 miles per hour Slim gently nudges the stick forward. He doesn’t dare drop below 60 for fear the plane will stall. He’d gotten all the way down to 49 miles per hour at Dutch Flats back in California, but that wasn’t at half weight over water as he is now.* Time slows. For a few long seconds he is acutely aware of details: the altitude, airspeed, even the grain of the plywood instrument panel. Wind rushes through the open windows and scrapes along the cotton fabric. If he does go in, at least Slim knows where land is. If this had happened a few hours ago . . .
Suddenly the Whirlwind’s weak coughing speeds up into sharp, staccato bursts. Slim eyeballs the approaching water and his tachometer. Spluttering, the engine catches, then roars back to life. Biting hard into damp, heavy air, the prop spins up and Spirit lurches hard to the right. Booting his left rudder, Slim neutralizes the yaw but keeps the nose pointed at the waves. A long second passes, then another. Fingers wrapped around the wooden knob, he eases the throttle forward and smoothly pulls back on the stick. The propeller’s spinning silver plate rises through the horizon and again points at the blue sky. Leaving the mixture set he climbs back to 1,500 feet and levels off.
Relieved, Lindbergh slumps backward in the wicker seat. Running an eye over the gauges, he throttles back to hold 100 miles per hour, lines up a 123-degree heading, and sets the stabilizer trim. Two hours ago Slim figured there were a minimum of 175 gallons remaining, and probably more. The tally marks for the nose tank bear that out: eight and a quarter hours ran it dry, so if Spirit is using ten to twelve gallons per hour that tank had to hold nearly 90 gallons. Even with a conservative estimate of 150 gallons left in his other four tanks, he still has well over ten hours of flying time available. If the weather worsens he could circle all night over some lighted city and try for Le Bourget at dawn, or even turn back to Ireland and find a clear spot to land. But with each passing minute the idea of turning back becomes more repulsive, and Lindbergh considers his options.
I have enough fuel to reach Rome, he realizes, pulling out his map of Europe and unfolding it. How surprised people back home would be if I cabled them from Rome instead of Paris! He runs a finger along the map: it was only 700 miles farther, and that seems trivial after the 3,200 miles behind him. New York to Rome wouldn’t beat the endurance record set by Chamberlin and Acosta back in April, but it would certainly be the longest solo flight on record. With a 4:45 A.M. sunrise in Rome there would be no worry about a night landing if he went on to the Italian capital, and Slim isn’t the slightest bit sleepy. At least not right now, but what about after another seven hours? And what if his fuel calculations are off? The tailwind should have helped with gas by pushing Spirit across the Atlantic so quickly, but what if it didn’t? Or what if an extra twenty-five gallons hadn’t been squeezed into the tanks back at Roosevelt? Running out of fuel over the Swiss Alps wouldn’t be like Indiana or Ohio. Too many unknowns.
No, he decides, this flight is from New York to Paris. I planned and organized it with the intention of landing at Paris. If Paris is covered with fog, that’s different, then I can go on with a clear conscience. But this is no time to make unnecessary changes, and if he speeds up a bit Slim can reach France before darkness. Then only fog or violent storms can hold him back at Le Bourget. He has plenty of fuel and likes the idea of covering as much of the remaining distance while there is still some light. Nudging the throttle forward, Slim sets 1,725 revolutions, which increases the airspeed to 110 miles per hour. The maximum airspeed he tested in California was 124.5, but due to the tailwind he’s realized that Spirit likely exceeded this number all night with no ill effects.
Lifting his legs one at a time above the rudder pedals, Lindbergh stretches, then drops his boot heels to the floor. Holding the stick loosely in his right hand, he hunches forward and left in a now-familiar position to gaze through the window. The sky is clear, with a half-dozen ships visible in the channel, and after so many solitary hours, there is comfort in that. Up ahead a pale outline looms from the haze. The pilot squints and, like watching a drawing slowly fill in, the outline materializes into a line of cliffs rising up from the sea.
Cornwall! He’s reached England.
WAVES SLAM INTO a line of offshore rocks, white froth outlining them against the deep blue channel. A hand-shaped spit of land juts from the coast, black rocky fingers splayed toward him in the surf and Slim is excited again at the sight of solid earth.* Running a finger along the Mercator chart he estimates this landfall on the rugged southwest tip of England puts him 3,250 miles out of Long Island, and within 350 miles of Paris. If he maintains 110 miles per hour, plus 5 more for a tailwind, that would mean a little over three hours remains to Le Bourget. As the haze drops away along the coast Lindbergh can see lonely houses along the cliff tops with waves breaking below. Nosing over, he pulls the throttle back a knob width and glides down to 500 feet. The clock reads 2 P.M. for New York, so it’s 6 P.M. here and one hour later in Paris.
As the Spirit approaches the haze fades and tidy little farms appear on the rounded headland, neatly partitioned with rock walls and joined by narrow roads. The golden afternoon sun touches everything, softening the ridgelines and hard cliffs. Cornwall, with its clusters of homes and farmland, seems less wild than Ireland. Not quite the bottle-green shade of County Cork, southwest England is more of a jade color, tinged with yellow, though that could be sun. St. George’s Channel runs into a line of bays, and as Slim peers ahead he sees a fair-sized estuary off to the left.* It would be fun to dip down and fly lower over several of the beaches, but he decides to stay at 1,500 feet and see more of the countryside.
Cutting across the larger bay, Lindbergh passes south of the estuary and leans out for a better look. The farms still amaze him. How, he wonders, can a farmer make a living from fields so small? A hundred of them would fit in a single Kansas wheat ranch. Passing over the hamlets, he can’t help but think that many of the original American colonists came from places like this.
His forebears on his mother’s side came from Kent, on the southeast channel coast, and Slim recalls reading in his great-great-grandmother’s diary that American men are “far from being so good looking or gentlemanly as the English.” She didn’t think very much of American women, either, writing, “They are small women without hips, lanky, scraggy, pale, and Lantern Jaw’d and rather prudish looking. At any rate they look very modest.” The Lodge family always enjoyed laughing at those entries, and Slim decides to get his first impression of the English by dropping a bit lower.
Paralleling the river for five or six miles, he gets a closer look at the countryside. As in Ireland, the fields are irregular, bracketed by fences, and from the air they look reptilian: scales of green, tan, and brown sweeping out in all directions. Clumps of dark trees remain, as this area would have been all forest once. The roads are bordered by sod walls and many of the little houses, at least by the coast, have slate tile roofs. Faces everywhere turn upward at Spirit’s growl, and Slim guesses the locals think him just another British pilot. Even if they’d heard a radio broadcast about his flight, how could they know this is the plane that just crossed from the New World to the Old in thirty hours?
Unknown to Lindbergh, the spectators below did know about his flight. He would have been amazed to learn that the entire world was now aware that he’d crossed the Atlantic, overflown Ireland and was within range of the English Channel. Reporting from London, the May 20 Associated Press banner read:
LONDON THRILLS TO FLIGHT
“Captain Charles Lindbergh’s New York-Paris flight has aroused interest here unequaled by any such undertaking recently. The novel flight is generally pronounced foolhardy, but elaborate arrangements have been made by the press to keep watch tom
orrow along the coast.”
The landscape to the north has changed.
From his left window a wide, scabby spot sprawls across the landscape. The lively greens from the surrounding farms have faded to dull olives and dingy browns. In fact, there are no farms here but Slim catches a gleam of dark water from several low spots. Blotchy, rolling hills rise and fall, almost like gentle waves, and it seems the troughs are filling with fog. Stunted patches of trees cling to life and, astonishingly, several fanglike white hills stick up like pyramids from the fields.* He can see animals running, sheep perhaps, or ponies.
Continuing southeast, Lindbergh stares ahead to the right and is surprised to see the familiar blue haze of water just above the horizon. The English Channel. I’ve crossed England so quickly, he marvels, it seems so small. For the next eleven minutes he flies southeast along the Cornish coastline as it gently curves into a hook pointing out to sea.† His map shows Eddystone Lighthouse somewhere off that spit of land, but it’s not visible from here. However, past the left wing the tip of a blue-green river can be seen against dimpled hills. Meandering generally east, it opens into a bay on the other side of the hook and Slim can see buildings squatting right against the water.
Plymouth.
It has to be Plymouth. The harbor is filled with ships, and gray smoke from thousands of chimneys drifts across the sky. The pilot’s wrist moves slightly and the Spirit comes right to a 123-degree heading. Leaving the throttle set for 1,725 revolutions, he scans the other instruments then looks out under the left wing at the famous port. Sir Francis Drake sailed from here to attack the Spanish Armada, the remnants of which were smashed onto the Blasket Islands, which he flew over a few hours earlier. Man’s ability to conquer the air is truly a wonder, as Commander Read proved when he landed NC-4 in this very harbor eight years ago. Old paradigms are irrelevant, and yesterday’s obstacles are vanquished. Why, yesterday I flew almost over Plymouth Rock, on the coast of Massachusetts, and now, right here, is the very port from which the Mayflower embarked. What took the Pilgrim Fathers sixty-seven days the Spirit has accomplished in thirty hours!
