In 1924, he revised his proposition. He placed the prize under the auspices of the National Aeronautic Association, removed the time limit, and allowed fliers from any nation to enter. By 1926, there was much discussion in aeronautical circles, even around Louie’s lunch shack, about the problems of performance and endurance involved in making such a flight. Years later, Charles Lindbergh would admit that the “offer of the Raymond Orteig prize called my attention to the New York-Paris flight.” He said he was “much more interested in the flight than in the prize,” but he hastened to add that he did not “mean to imply that the prize was not of definite interest too.”
In September 1926, France’s most victorious flying ace made a run for the money. René Fonck came to America, where he joined forces with an American syndicate set on winning the prize. After weeks of disputes, Fonck’s crew was assembled, including a co-pilot, a navigator-engineer, and a radio operator. Their ship was the S-35, a sesquiplane—a biplane whose lower wing was shorter than its upper—with three engines. It was conceived and constructed by an ingenious Russian émigré named Igor Sikorsky, who was trying to launch his aircraft manufactory. Sikorsky wanted to put the plane through more tests, which would postpone the takeoff until spring; but everybody involved with the flight talked him out of waiting.
On the morning of the fifteenth, Fonck and his crew went to the end of the runway at Roosevelt Field on Long Island to board the S-35. Lindbergh later read newspaper articles detailing the plane’s accoutrements—a bed, red-leather upholstery, long-wave and short-wave radio sets, flotation bags in case of an emergency landing, a hot “celebration” dinner to be eaten upon arrival … even a last-minute batch of croissants to send them on their way. A large crowd watched as this mighty machine taxied, straining to lift itself off the ground, only to disappear into a gully at the end of the runway. There was a moment of stillness before an explosion rent the air. Fonck and one other were able to flee; the two others perished.
Flying the mail, Lindbergh visualized his flight to Paris. “Well, if I can get a Bellanca,” he later recalled of that moment of conception, somewhere south of Peoria, “I’ll fly alone. That will cut out the need for any selection of crew, or quarreling. If there’s upholstery in the cabin, I’ll tear it out for the flight. I’ll take only the food I need to eat, and a few concentrated rations. I’ll carry a rubber boat for emergency, and a little extra water.” But first he had to solve the problem of obtaining his new plane: the Wright-Bellanca—with its small body and single high wing—propelled by a Wright Whirlwind engine—air-cooled and radial, reputedly the most reliable source of power in the air. For all the dangers, in Lindbergh’s mind “a nonstop flight between New York and Paris would be less hazardous than flying mail for a single winter with our Liberty-powered DHs.”
Lindbergh knew that he lacked both the money to buy a new airplane and the credentials that might induce an airplane manufacturer to sponsor his flight. For all his recent experience, he was hardly a Fonck or Byrd or de Pinedo. His reputation hardly extending beyond Lambert Field, he prepared a salespitch to lure people in St. Louis into backing him. “But where shall I start?” he wondered while continuing his airmail rounds. “To whom shall I go with my project? I have friends in the city, but most of them are aviators too, and men in aviation seldom have much money.”
He made a date with Earl Thompson, an insurance executive with his own golden-winged Laird, to whom Lindbergh had given flying lessons. At one of the most fashionable addresses in St. Louis, a maid ushered Lindbergh into Thompson’s living room. No sooner was he joined by his host than he launched into his appeal, which was ostensibly not for money so much as “advice.” Lindbergh had already handwritten a draft of what he called “propaganda” for his trip, a long page which he never showed anybody but which codified for him all the reasons the town burghers should support his venture. “It would show people what airplanes can do,” he said. “It would advance aviation, and it would advertise St. Louis.” Toward that end, he said he hoped a group of businessmen might back him, not only for the cash but also the cachet he would need in dealing with airplane manufacturers. He figured a Wright-Bellanca—if he could secure one—would cost at least $10,000.
“But the Wright-Bellanca is a land plane—and it has only one engine, hasn’t it?” Thompson asked. With that, Lindbergh sensed that he was on his way. Thompson was discussing the possibilities, not dismissing them out of hand. When he suggested a flying boat or a three-motored ship, such as Byrd’s Fokker, Lindbergh explained their downsides, that “a flying boat can’t take off with enough fuel and a trimotored Fokker would cost a huge amount of money.” Moreover, Lindbergh felt that three engines presented three times the chance of engine failure. By the end of the evening, Thompson was interested in the project.
By chance a representative from the Fokker company suddenly appeared one day that fall in St. Louis, where they were thinking of establishing an agency. Fokker had a trimotored plane ready to market, with seats for ten passengers! Out at Louie’s lunch stand, he began to talk about the safety of multiengines and “the efficiency of thick airfoils.” Before he left, Lindbergh buttonholed the man from Fokker to inquire about the company’s ability to produce a plane that could make the New York-to-Paris flight. He said they had already considered that challenge, and if an order were placed right away, Fokker could deliver a ship by spring for $90,000, $100,000 with extras … and Fokker would, of course, have to approve of the personnel flying it. When Lindbergh asked about their building a single-engined plane, the man from Fokker dismissed the questioner all together.
More discouraging was the news in late October 1926 that Lieutenant Commander Byrd, the Fokker company’s best-known customer, intended to fly from New York to London or Paris the following summer. “He’s experienced in organization,” Lindbergh had to admit; “and he knows how to get financed.” There were also rumors of other fliers going after the Orteig Prize—a pair of Frenchmen, who were planning a flight from Paris to New York, and Americans Noel Davis and Stanton Wooster, who were securing backing from the American Legion.
Lindbergh was not deterred. In fact, he believed more strongly than ever in his ability to make the flight and that its success depended on simplicity—one set of wings, one engine, one pilot. To his mother he revealed on October thirtieth only that “I am working on a new proposition in St. Louis and have been very busy lately.” He set an appointment with Major Lambert, who said that if Lindbergh felt it was a practical venture and could “get the right fellows together,” he would take part. “He said he already had two thousand dollars raised to help finance the flight,” Lambert remembered of the meeting ten years later. “I finally got it out of him that the two thousand dollars represented his savings.” Major Lambert pledged $1,000 and indicated that his brother, Wooster, would match it.
His dream officially backed, Lindbergh disclosed his plan to his boss. As much as Major Bill Robertson’s endorsement, Lindbergh sought his willingness to adjust the airmail schedule so that he could take time off to arrange for his Paris flight. Robertson was barely making ends meet—facing a weekly deficit from the airmail of almost $400—and was unable to support Lindbergh financially. But if pilots Love and Nelson were willing to cover for him on his route, Robertson said he supported Lindbergh’s plan and that Lindbergh could even drop the name of Robertson Aircraft wherever it might prove useful. He suggested that the St. Louis Post-Dispatch might finance the whole proposition.
The way Lindbergh’s luck had been running, that seemed possible. He feared that might mean turning his airplane into a flying billboard—advertising the newspaper—a repugnant possibility he was willing to consider. Days later he learned that he had nothing to fear. “The Post-Dispatch wouldn’t think of taking part in such a hazardous flight,” one of the editors told him. “To fly across the Atlantic Ocean with one pilot and a single-engine plane! We have our reputation to consider. We couldn’t possibly be associated with such a venture!”
For the first time since he was ten, Lindbergh arrived at Pennsylvania Station in New York City—on Sunday, November twenty-eighth. The next day, he went to the Wright Aeronautical Corporation factory in Paterson, New Jersey, where he discussed with an executive the possibility of purchasing the Bellanca airplane with its Wright Whirlwind engine. The executive explained that Wright had never intended to manufacture aircraft, that they had built the Bellanca merely to demonstrate their engine, and that they were in the process of selling their rights to that plane to another company. The executive suggested he speak directly to the designer, Giuseppe Bellanca himself, which he did the next evening at the Waldorf-Astoria.
Bellanca was a “serious, slender man—straight black hair, sharp-cut features, medium height,” as Lindbergh described him. “One feels, in his presence, genius, capability, confidence.” Because Bellanca was then unaffiliated with any company, he was vague in answering questions about production of a plane; but he provided Lindbergh with all the specifications of the vehicle, including his belief that it could stay aloft for fifty hours. After less than an hour, Lindbergh left to catch an 8:20 train for home. He felt so confident of Bellanca’s support that he revealed to his mother that the “object of the trip was concerning a contemplated St. Louis NY to Paris flight next spring,” adding, “the outcome will be unknown for some time.”
Into December most of Lindbergh’s plans were put on ice. A volley of telegrams revealed that the plane was still tied up in the negotiations of the Wright Corporation, and the best Bellanca could offer was a new trimotored ship he had designed, which he would sell for $29,000. Lindbergh could not afford it, and he still believed in making the trip on one engine. Meantime he considered a plan of public subscription, inviting the citizens of St. Louis to chip in ten dollars apiece toward a plane with the city’s name on it. He remained determined to call on every businessman in St. Louis—and Chicago, if necessary—until he found sufficient backing.
His next call—to the brokerage firm of Knight, Dysart & Gamble—proved shrewd. Lindbergh had selected the devil-may-care son of one of the founding partners, Harry Hall Knight, who worked at the firm and was also president of the St. Louis Flying Club. He told Lindbergh, “Slim, you ought not to be running around worrying about raising money. You’ve got to put all your attention on that flight if you’re going to make it.” Within minutes, he had Harold Bixby—a vice president of the State National Bank of St. Louis, a private pilot, and the president of the St. Louis Chamber of Commerce—in his office. Within weeks, Knight and Bixby agreed that they would raise the fifteen thousand dollars Lindbergh said he needed to reach Paris.
The day after Christmas 1926, Lindbergh wrote his mother that “the N.Y. to Paris flight is gradually taking shape and it is now quite probable that we will have a St. Louis expedition ready to hop off from New York next spring.” Knowing her obvious concern, he immediately assured her that his “plans will be entirely different from those of Sikorsky and other contemplated expeditions. I may leave the mail service this week to begin organization. If so will be in New York a majority of the time for the next three months.”
Lindbergh compiled endless lists: equipment he would need; maps he would have to study; landmarks he would have to learn; and information he would need from the Weather Bureau and the State Department. Unable to count on getting the Wright-Bellanca, Lindbergh also made a list of backup manufacturers. He wired the Travel Air Company in Wichita. When they replied that they would not take the order, he thought of another small outfit, Ryan Aeronautical Company in San Diego, whose high-wing monoplanes were flown on the West Coast mail route. And if they refused him, he would try Curtiss and Boeing and Douglas and Martin. “CAN YOU CONSTRUCT WHIRLWIND ENGINE PLANE CAPABLE FLYING NONSTOP BETWEEN NEW YORK AND PARIS STOP IF SO PLEASE STATE COST AND DELIVERY DATE,” he wired Ryan on February 3, 1927.
The next day—his twenty-fifth birthday—he received the second-best news he had wished for. There was still no word about a Wright-Bellanca, but Ryan replied: “CAN BUILD PLANE SIMILAR M ONE BUT LARGER WINGS CAPABLE OF MAKING FLIGHT COST ABOUT SIX THOUSAND WITHOUT MOTOR AND INSTRUMENTS DELIVERY ABOUT THREE MONTHS.” Lindbergh wired back, asking the plane’s specifications and if they could produce it any faster. On February sixth, they informed him that the plane would have a gas capacity of 380 gallons and could cruise at one hundred miles per hour—enough to get him to Paris—and they could manufacture it within two months of receiving a fifty-percent deposit.
Then Giuseppe Bellanca sent even better news. “WILLING TO MAKE ATTRACTIVE PROPOSITION ON THE BELLANCA AIRPLANE FOR PARIS FLIGHT,” he wired Lindbergh. “SUGGEST YOU COME NEW YORK SOON POSSIBLE SO WE CAN GET TOGETHER IN QUICKEST MANNER.” His address had become the Woolworth Building, the offices of Columbia Aircraft, with whom he had gone into business. Days later, Lindbergh sat before the company’s pilot, Clarence Chamberlin, and the Columbia board chairman, Charles Levine, a fast-dealing twenty-eight-year-old who had become a millionaire off surplus war materiel and who now owned the one existing Wright-Bellanca.
The meeting seemed promising. Lindbergh impressed Levine with his roster of St. Louis backers; and Levine said while his plane was worth $25,000, he would sell it for $15,000, the difference being his company’s contribution to the enterprise. Because the price was higher than any Lindbergh had ever mentioned to his backers, he said he would have to discuss it with them.
“My trip to N.Y. ended very satisfactorily,” Charles wrote his mother from the train home. “It will be possible to obtain immediate delivery of the only Bellanca in existence and probably the only plane in the world now flying, which is capable of the Paris flight.” He said there would soon be publicity, but it would “not mention a Paris flight before late fall. However we intend to make the attempt sometime around the first of April and hope to misslead any rival attempts by placing the time much later in the year.”
The Associated Press was already onto the story. Even before he had secured his plane, headlines announced, “LINDBERGH, MAIL PILOT, MAY FLY FOR SEA AWARD.” Upon reading the article in The New York Times, C. F. Schory, Secretary of the contest committee of the National Aeronautic Association, sent Lindbergh a copy of the Orteig regulations and a reminder that the entry must be filed sixty days prior to the start of the flight.
That weekend, Lindbergh learned that Harry Knight, Harry Bixby, and Major Lambert had completed the financing of the plane, having talked Harry Knight’s father, the Robertson brothers, and E. Lansing Ray, owner of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, into investing as well. Bixby sent a memorandum to his fellow board members at the State National Bank, asking them to grant a loan to him and Harry Knight, which they would endorse, for $15,000. The check was cut, and Harry Knight signed it over to Lindbergh. Bixby, wearing his Chamber of Commerce hat, asked Lindbergh, “What would you think of naming [the plane] the ‘Spirit of St. Louis’?”
“I am again enroute to New York,” Lindbergh wrote his mother hours later, “but this time with a little over $15,000”—every penny of which he would account for. He expected to close the Bellanca deal the following day, then spend the rest of the week in Washington, securing the cooperation of the government agencies on his list. “If neither the French or Byrd are in a position to make the flight sooner,” he continued, “we will wait until after Apr. 15th before taking off from N.Y.; otherwise we intend to go without waiting the required 60 days according to the rules of the Ray
mond Orteig Prize.” He sent his mother a six-month subscription to the St. Louis newspaper so that she could clip any articles pertaining to the flight.
According to plan, Lindbergh stood before Charles Levine in his office at the Columbia Aircraft Corporation the next day—February nineteenth—and placed the cashier’s check for $15,000 on his polished desktop. “We will sell our plane,” Levine said, “but of course we reserve the right to select the crew that flies it.” For a moment Lindbergh was dumbstruck. When he finally found the words, he suggested there must have been some misunderstanding, that this point was non-negotiable. Levine countered that his company could not possibly release its plane without selecting its crew but that he was willing to let the St. Louis group paint the name of their city on the fuselage. Angry that he had wasted so much time and money—more than fifty dollars each way—Lindbergh picked up his check and started for the door. “You are making a mistake,” Levine argued. “The Bellanca is the only airplane built that is capable of flying between New York and Paris.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied, “but if you won’t sell outright, the sooner I start looking for another plane the better.” Before Lindbergh could leave the office, Levine asked him to call the next day. “I had planned on returning to St. Louis that night and replied that I would wait until the next day only if he felt that there was a reasonable possibility of his selling the Bellanca outright,” Lindbergh recalled ten years later. “He again asked me to stay over”—another three dollars for a night in a hotel—“and to call him at 11 o’clock in the morning.”
In a daze, Lindbergh wandered the streets of Manhattan, even tried to kill time in a motion picture theater. It was a waste of fifty cents, as he could focus on nothing except his eleven-o’clock call. At the appointed hour, Lindbergh telephoned. “Well,” Levine said, “have you changed your mind?” Too angered by the question to speak, Lindbergh simply hung up the phone.
Lindbergh Page 14
