The Flight

by Dan Hampton

  Witnessing the Spirit of St. Louis dropping out of the darkness and landing at Le Bourget, Maurice Rostand promptly sat down and put into words what so many felt. In part, the composition read:

  That which brought you, predestined one,

  Through all these risks where others fell;

  It was the rendezvous which they gave you

  At their fresh graves†

  Blissfully unaware of the full effect his flight had had on the world, and equally unknowing of the traumatic changes coming to his own life, Lindbergh slept for at least ten hours, awaking in early afternoon to the sight of Walter Blanchard, Ambassador Herrick’s valet, standing near the bed holding a robe. After a huge breakfast of bacon, eggs, crisp buttered toast, oatmeal, and grapefruit, Slim dressed in a borrowed blue suit until a tailor arrived to measure him for a new wardrobe. Shoes were a problem as no one had feet as large as Lindbergh’s, so his flying boots were carefully shined and he wore them temporarily.

  All through the morning a crowd large enough to warrant extra police had slowly gathered outside. Some two hundred reporters, fifty photographers, and two dozen movie cameramen were also waiting for the first glimpse of the world’s new idol. This startling attention, combined with personal telegrams from the king of Spain, the French minister of war, and the Prince of Wales, may have given Lindbergh an inkling that everything had changed. Unintentionally, but irrevocably, the young pilot won French hearts by holding up their flag on his balcony and uttering the only phrase he knew: “Vive la France!”

  His first request that Sunday morning was to speak to his mother in Detroit. Through an operator in London who was connected by telephone to Paris and to New York by radio, Slim did just that. Upon learning her son had safely landed, Evangeline Lindbergh spoke to the press saying, “He has accomplished the greatest undertaking of his life, and I am proud to be the mother of such a boy.”

  As she should be. On his own initiative and to the delight of the public, Lindbergh asked to meet Charles Nungesser’s mother. With Ambassador Herrick they made their way to the 3rd arrondissement, off the Boulevard du Temple, and climbed to the elderly woman’s sixth-floor apartment. She kissed the American pilot’s cheeks and through her tears said, “You are a very brave young man. I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. I, too, have a brave son, who I have never ceased to believe is still fighting his way back to civilization.”

  Lindbergh attended a formal dinner that night in borrowed evening clothes, and then turned in early. The next day, Monday, May 23, was his first chance to visit the Spirit of St. Louis at Le Bourget. There was a line of five big hangars on the north side of the administration complex, and the plane had been secured in the southernmost of the group. The French had wanted to get the Spirit under cover as soon as possible, and this had been the logical spot to secure the aircraft in a hurry after control was lost on the airfield.*

  Through the gathered French military pilots Lindbergh managed to return George Delage’s borrowed Air Union coat, and then spent a few quiet minutes with his plane. Slim discovered he had actually landed with eighty-five gallons of fuel remaining, enough for another thousand miles, and more than fourteen gallons of oil. The magnificent Wright Whirlwind engine was cold now, and the holes hadn’t been replaced, but the plane was in far better condition than he recalled from those surreal minutes following his landing. When a pilot and aircraft share something so dangerous an extraordinary bond remains; the man becomes less human, the machine more so. When discussing the flight, Charles Lindbergh quite naturally referred to himself and the Spirit of St. Louis as we.

  As Ambassador Herrick recalled, “While he was talking to the reporters about the flight, he constantly said what ‘we’ did: ‘We were flying over such a place; the fog began to thicken and we decided,’ etc., etc. I finally asked him, ‘What do you mean when you say we?’ He replied, ‘Why, my ship, and me.’ ” From that day on, many of the few moments of peace Lindbergh managed to hoard were at the controls of his beloved Spirit, just the pair of them, beyond the reach of everyone and everything else. Flying doesn’t last, though; you must always return to earth however much a pilot would wish otherwise. As his situation became clearer one wonders how much Lindbergh thought of hopping back into the little plane, lifting off, and disappearing back to a simpler existence. Back to the freedom of just being himself.

  It was not to be, and the new reality of his situation was disconcerting. Several hours after running his hands over the Spirit’s fabric, smelling the familiar dust and oil of a hangar, the grass of an airfield and wind on his face, Lindbergh was walking through the Élysée Palace to meet the French president. For the first time in history the Republic of France conferred its highest award for bravery, the Ordre National de la Légion d’Honneur, on an American. Gaston Doumergue himself pinned the crimson ribbon with the suspended white Maltese cross of the Chevalier order on the flier’s chest.

  Later that afternoon Slim spoke at the Aéro-Club de France. When the members tried to present him with a gift of 150,000 francs, he politely refused, suggesting that it be given to the families of fallen French aviators. Before another roaring crowd Lindbergh said, “The name of my ship, the Spirit of St. Louis, is intended to convey a certain meaning to the people of France, and I sincerely hope it has.”

  All day the red, white, and blue from thousands of American flags added bright splashes of color against Paris’s green parks and broad avenues. By order of the foreign minister, the Stars and Stripes would also fly over the Foreign Office. Every day he was in the city Lindbergh was escorted to monuments or official functions, and feted at event after event. He was especially honored to take a private lunch with Louis Blériot, who first flew a powered aircraft across the English Channel nearly eighteen years earlier. Deferential toward the older Frenchman, Lindbergh had always thought of him with awe and told him so. Blériot responded, “You are the prophet of a new era.”

  ON THURSDAY, MAY 26, Lindbergh was paraded down the Champs-Élysées on the Seine’s Right Bank before half a million screaming Frenchmen, and given a gold key to the city. In the shadow of Notre Dame at the Hôtel de Ville (City Hall), Slim delivered an impromptu speech.

  It began with the usual platitudes expected from an unworldly young man who had accomplished something great, yet then the pilot showed the world that its portrayal of him as a simple country boy was not entirely accurate. “I cannot adequately express my appreciation of the honor which you are doing me and my country to-day,” Lindbergh began—but the speech soon veered into more compelling territory. “I think I have already said everything I have to say with respect to my flight,” he continued, “but I want to express one remaining desire. I hope my flight is but the precursor of a regular commercial air service uniting your country and mine as they never have been united before. That is my hope to-day as I believe Blériot hoped his flight across the English Channel in 1909 would be the forerunner of the commercial aviation of to-day; and I believe that if those gallant Frenchmen, Nungesser and Coli, had landed in New York instead of me here in Paris, that would also be their desire.

  “I have one regret, and that is that New York was not able to accord to these brave Frenchmen the same reception that Paris has accorded to me.”

  Such gestures were very real and offer insight into the true man. Though thoroughly human and with faults enough, in 1927 Lindbergh undeniably still possessed that rarest of qualities: honor. He was truly modest and it was no act. Naïve in many respects, he was certainly no bumpkin. It is well to recall that Lindbergh, raised in a prominent family with two highly educated, professional parents, spent his formative years with his father at the very center of power in the United States. As an adult he simply marched to his own drum and, unlike most people, was utterly unconcerned with their opinion of him. Those who mattered to Charles Lindbergh—his family and a few close friends—mattered. Those who did not, did not. As Ambassador Herrick phrased it, “He was afraid of nothing for himself, but only
worried about those who were dear to him.”

  In a satisfying twist of fate, eight years after Raymond Orteig sent his challenge letter to the Aero Club of America, he was personally on hand in Paris to greet the pilot who won his prize. Orteig and his wife, Marie, had been vacationing near Louvie-Juzon in the French Pyrenees when his son Raymond Jr. cabled Lindbergh’s departure. Orteig senior immediately departed for Paris, and was able to meet Lindbergh at the U.S. embassy on the Place de la Concorde.

  “I am delighted to hear of Captain Lindbergh’s triumph,” the younger Orteig stated to the New York Times. “The fact that he accomplished this feat all alone adds to his glory.” Lindbergh’s competitors, at least the flyers, were equally gracious. Commander Richard Byrd, who would take off for Europe in late June, had this to say: “It seemed an almost impossible thing for one man to do, but he has done it. I think Captain Lindbergh’s feat is one of the greatest individual feats in all history. It will be of great value for the purposes of aviation. Captain Lindbergh has in a little over a day made for himself a page in American history.”

  Floyd Bennett, in traction at a Hackensack, New Jersey, hospital, added, “He deserves all the credit in the world. He has done something that most people won’t be able to appreciate as much as they should.” From Oyster Bay, Long Island, Theodore Roosevelt Jr. enthusiastically stated to the Times, “I’m glad to see that a thoroughgoing sportsman and a man who I believe is a representative American has done the trick. My personal admiration is unbounded. He is just a modest, likeable fellow.”

  LINDBERGH WOULD REMAIN in Paris until the afternoon of May 28, when, just days after its triumphant landing, the Spirit of St. Louis lifted off from Le Bourget. It took about five minutes for Lindbergh to fly six miles down to the Eiffel Tower, and how different this trip was from the last! To begin with, nearly everything is friendlier and easier in daylight and this time he knew precisely where he was going, having now seen much of Paris from the ground. Finally, Slim was well rested and better fed than he’d believed possible.

  Circling counterclockwise, left wing down, Lindbergh could clearly see the horn-shaped Trocadero across the Seine, and the tree-lined peace of the ambassador’s residence along the Avenue d’Iéna. Dropping low, he flew over the Arc de Triomphe, then pulled the Spirit into a chandelle that rolled him out heading southeast above the Champs-Élysées. In the daylight it was such a magnificent view. Wide, leafy spokes close to the center gave way to thinner, less pronounced thoroughfares that covered Paris like an enormous spiderweb. Sluggish and green, the Seine flowed south toward the Île de France and into the heart of Paris.

  Huge green parks broke up the streets, interjecting a bit of very French orderly disorderliness into the cityscape. The glass barrel vaults of the Grand Palais caught the afternoon light, and its steel framework gleamed in the sun. Across the boulevard to the left lay the thick trees and gardens surrounding the Élysée Palace. Bordering it to the south along the Avenue Gabriel was the embassy of the United States, set well back on its own grounds and just beyond the wide, hard rectangle of the Place de la Concorde. Lindbergh circled overhead long enough to drop a message weighted to a small sandbag, and tied to a French flag. It plopped to the ground near the obelisk in the center of the square. Flanked by two fountains the monument was hard to miss, and Lindbergh did not.

  Goodbye! Dear Paris. Ten thousand thanks for your kindness to me.

  Charles A. Lindbergh.

  With that he looped and barrel-rolled out of town, heading north for Evere, Belgium, outside Brussels. One hundred eighty miles of peace and seclusion, free of reporters, free from adoring girls and fawning men, free to hear his own thoughts and be who he really was. It would not last. Two hours and fifteen minutes later he landed for more of the same. However, the Belgians had heard of the Parisian chaos and were determined to make a better impression. King Albert had the airfield guarded by five thousand soldiers with fixed bayonets who kept the respectful crowd at bay. After changing clothes at the American embassy, Lindbergh was taken to lay a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and was then presented to the Belgian king, who made him a chevalier of the Order of Leopold. Lindbergh showed King Albert and Queen Elisabeth the Spirit of St. Louis before attending the Brussels Opera that evening.

  The next day, May 29, he flew forty miles west to one of the Great War’s bloodiest battlefields. Circling the town of Waregem, he found a perfectly tended square of green grass surrounded by trees. In tribute to his 411 fellow Americans buried there, Lindbergh dropped a wreath near the unmistakable white chapel of Flanders Field American Cemetery, then continued west across the channel to England.

  London was not what Lindbergh expected. There was a crowd of more than 150,000 waiting at Croydon, thirteen miles south of downtown, and when the Spirit of St. Louis landed they broke through the rope barriers. As people swarmed onto the field, Slim made a snap decision that no doubt saved lives. Firewalling the throttle he accelerated, lifting off just above stall speed and avoiding cutting his fans in half with the propeller. Circling for five minutes he gave the police a chance to clear spectators away, then landed again. Unlike at Le Bourget, this time he would not leave the cockpit until the plane was roped off and guarded.

  Events, interviews, and all manner of dinners and receptions filled Lindbergh’s days. He met the British prime minister, Stanley Baldwin, at No. 10 Downing Street and was awarded the Air Force Cross by King George V at Buckingham Palace. Slim enjoyed the English, finding them less reserved (on occasion) than he had been told, and no doubt the slightly peculiar British sense of humor appealed to a man whose own mischievousness was well known. During one dinner at the Savoy, Lindbergh found only five sandwiches and a jar of water at his place. Puzzled, the joke became clear when the toastmaster informed the crowd that “Captain Lindbergh will now partake of his customary meal.”

  Lindbergh had hoped to fly himself back to the United States—by way of Siberia, the Bering Strait, and Alaska. But while in London he was informed that President Coolidge would not permit this. Ambassador Alanson B. Houghton, obviously quite diplomatic, explained that acquiescence to “the wish of Washington and those who have your best interest at heart” was truly the only option at this point. Willful young man that he was, Lindbergh knew that bucking the president of the United States was not wise.

  Though not a regular military officer, Slim retained his commission in the Missouri National Guard and was well aware that he could be ordered to obey, so, with no real choice, Lindbergh flew the Spirit to Gosport, on England’s south coast, on May 31.* His beloved plane was carefully disassembled, packed up in two crates for the return voyage, and safely loaded on the deck of the USS Memphis, a light cruiser serving as the flagship for the commander of U.S. naval forces in Europe.

  WITH HIS WINGS gently but very definitely clipped, Lindbergh’s flight was truly over. There were other planes, to be sure, and he flew a borrowed British Woodcock back to London, thence departing RAF Kenley for Le Bourget on June 3. The following morning, with no fanfare, he arrived back in Cherbourg. There, in the same port he’d flown over fifteen days earlier, Lindbergh boarded the Memphis amid cheers from ten thousand Frenchmen. Ironically, as the warship put to sea, Clarence Chamberlin was finally taking off from Roosevelt Field bound for Berlin.* Having had the singularly useless Charles Levine (who could neither navigate or fly) aboard, Chamberlin deserves more credit than he received for his essentially solo 43 hour, 49 minute, 33 second flight to Germany.

  But nothing could eclipse Lindbergh’s glory at the moment. He had made it from New York to Paris, and he had done it alone. He did not seek personal fame, or initially commercialize it once this was gained. Other pilots nipping at his heels seemed somehow coarser, and motivated by less pure goals. This is unfair, of course, but in America’s eyes Slim, with his modesty and boyish good looks, could do no wrong—at least for the moment. His warmth and unaffected manners on the passage home confirmed this to the crew. He ate with the men, d
ined with the officers, answered innumerable questions, and never lost his polite demeanor. The warship’s radio room handled more than 100,000 words in private dispatches and press releases.

  One day Lindbergh climbed the forward yardarm in the face of a 50 mph wind and took a bird’s-eye snapshot of the two crates containing the Spirit. He joked, allowed pictures of himself to be taken, and stated, “I have enjoyed every minute . . . they are a fine lot of fellows.” Slim also worked. As quickly as he could write them, articles were wired ahead and printed for a voracious public. Anything “Lindy” was a hot item, and he did not disappoint, even beginning to write his eagerly anticipated life story. “I have got the book pretty well outlined,” he explained in a June 9 piece for the Times, “with ample material rounded out to make it complete and will do more work on it tonight before going to bed.”

  Early in the afternoon of June 10, 1927, while the Memphis was still a hundred miles east of the American coast, four U.S. destroyers appeared on the horizon, sighted the cruiser’s smoke, and intercepted her.* The Reuben James, Brooks, Sands, and Worden were to escort the Memphis to the Virginia Capes. The USS Humphreys had rendezvoused much earlier at 4:34 A.M., and passed over Richard Blythe, Slim’s long-suffering public relations man, plus a new Army officer’s uniform. Charles Lindbergh was now a colonel in the Missouri National Guard, having skipped the ranks of major and lieutenant colonel altogether. The destroyer removed all the photographs and newsreels, then sped for shore at flank speed. She was replaced by the USS Goff, another destroyer, crammed full of reporters and photographers. They sighted the famous pilot on the cruiser’s bridge and reported, “He appeared to be little different since the morning of his take-off from Roosevelt Field. Apparently his contact with Kings and Princes had not changed him at all.”