The Spirit of ST Louis by Charles A. Lindbergh Read Free Book Online Page B

present.
     
     
     
    That's formidable competition. Commander Byrd is a keen and able officer. It's not long ago that I met him here in St. Louis, and heard him speak. He's experienced in organization; and he knows how to get financed. Maybe he can put a bigger wing on his North-Pole Fokker, and carry enough fuel to fly from New York to Paris.
    And what about those French pilots who say they are going to win the Orteig prize by flying from east to west? For weeks there have been newspaper rumors to the effect that they were ready to take off. And the other American projects—I've read reports about two or three of them. A lot of people want to be first to make the nonstop New York-Paris flight. It looks as though my idea will end as it began—a dream.
     
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    "The Post-Dispatch wouldn't think of taking part in such a hazardous flight. 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!"
    Major Robertson and I sit uncomfortably in front of the editor's desk. He hasn't even asked us any questions. The Post-Dispatch is not impressed either with the advertising value of a flight to Paris or with my plan for making it. There's nothing else to say. We get up, shake hands, and leave.
    "I'm surprised, Slim. I didn't think they'd feel that way about it. I think they're losing a good bet." Bill's face is as long as though the mail were unreported. "Well, we'll have to try somebody else," he continues. "I juste know there are people who'll get behind that flight. We've got to find them, that's all. Say, I wonder if – – –" His face brightens. He's off on a new idea. You have to admire Bill Robertson. He doesn't stay down for long. No matter how hard he's hit, he bobs back up like a cork in water.
    "I’m going to talk to the Wright people before we proposition anybody else," I interject. "I want to know just what the Bellanca can do, and how often Whirlwind engines fail. If I'd had accurate data, I could have put a better argument up to that editor. It's time for me to make a trip east."
     
    11
     
    A student is waiting for me when I get back to the hangars—a Catholic Father, who has become a personal friend. He arrived at Lambert Field one day last summer and announced that he wanted to take flying lessons. It was a great surprise to all of us pilots, for he's close to sixty years of age, and we look with doubt on any prospective student over thirty.
    I had taken Father Hussman up in an OX-5 Standard and turned the stick over to him, simply because instructing was my job. His handling of the controls was just as bad as I'd expected. But how he loved to fly! I learned that he didn't care much whether he soloed or not. He wanted to climb up above the earth and look down on its farms and villages, over its horizons, to see the great winding lengths of its rivers, and handle the controls of the plane he was in—wallow, slip, or skid as it might. He couldn't afford to fly often; but every week or two he came out to the field for another hour in the Standard. And he wasn't a fair-weather flyer. If it was windy or raining, he'd still go up with you if you'd take him, as though he wished to know God's earth and air in all their phases.
    It's cold, overcast, and blustery this afternoon. We have a hard time getting the OX-5 started, even with five gallons of hot water in the radiator. Ground is soft after the morning's thaw. Water oozes slowly into tire tracks. It's not a day for student landings and take-offs. I suggest that we do an hour's air work, and the Father happily agrees. The wind's northwest, blowing kitty-corner downfield from the hangars. I take off with it on our tail to keep from rutting the sod any more than necessary. Besides, the engine's not revving up too well, and I don't like the downdrafts on the higher, western border. With an OX-5, one doesn't clear the electric wires by many feet even in the