Transcriber’s Notes


  Table of Contents added by Transcriber and placed into the Public
  Domain.

  Misspelled words have been corrected. These are identified by
  ♦ symbols in the text and are shown immediately below the
  paragraph in which they appear.

  Details and other notes may be found at the end of this eBook.




  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full shot of Gordon, Earhart, and Stultz on
                a ship
   caption: ON THE “PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT”
            © _London News Agency_
  ]

                            20 HRS. 40 MIN.

                     OUR FLIGHT IN THE FRIENDSHIP

 THE AMERICAN GIRL, FIRST ACROSS THE ATLANTIC BY AIR, TELLS HER STORY

                                  BY

                            AMELIA EARHART

                         WITH 61 ILLUSTRATIONS

                          G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
                            NEW YORK—LONDON
                        The Knickerbocker Press
                                 1928

                            20 HRS. 40 MIN.

                            Copyright, 1928
                                  by
                          G. P. Putnam’s Sons

                  This is a copy of the first edition

  [Illustration:
   description: Publisher’s name written in cursive
   image text: G. P. Putnam’s Sons
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Publisher’s logo of a sailing ship over a sign
   image text: The Knickerbocker Press New York
  ]

                 Made in the United States of America

                                  To

                         DOROTHY BINNEY PUTNAM

              UNDER WHOSE ROOFTREE THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN




                               FOREWORD

In re-reading the manuscript of this book I find I didn’t allow myself
to be born. May I apologize for this unconventional oversight as well
as for other more serious ones—and some not so serious?

I myself am disappointed not to have been able to write a “work”—(you
know, Dickens’ Works, Thackeray’s Works), but my dignity wouldn’t stand
the strain. I can only hope, therefore, that some of the fun of flying
the Atlantic has sifted into my pages and that some of the charm and
romance of old ships may be seen to cling similarly to the ships of the
air.

                                                                A. E.




                             INTRODUCTION

                           By Marion Perkins


_Miss Perkins is Head Worker at Denison House, Boston’s second oldest
settlement, with which Amelia Earhart has been identified for two
years._

A tall, slender, boyish-looking young woman walked into my office in
the early fall of 1926. She wanted a job and a part-time one would do,
for she was giving courses in English under the university extension.
Most of her classes were in factories in Lynn and other industrial
towns near Boston. She had had no real experience in social work but
she wanted to try it, and before I knew it I had engaged her for
half-time work at Denison House. She had poise and charm. I liked her
quiet sense of humor, the frank direct look in her grey eyes.

It was some time before any of us at Denison House knew that Amelia
Earhart had flown. After driving with her in the “Yellow Peril,” her
own Kissel roadster, I knew that she was an expert driver, handling
her car with ease, yes more than that, with an artistic touch. She has
always seemed to me an unusual mixture of the artist and the practical
person.

Her first year at Denison House she had general direction of the
evening school for foreign-born men and women. She did little teaching
herself, but did follow-up work in the homes, so necessary to the
success of such an undertaking. In her report of her year’s work after
we had planned her next year’s program, which did not include the
evening school, she wrote: “I shall try to keep my contact with the
women who have come to class; Mrs. S. and her drunken husband, Mrs.
F.’s struggle to get her husband here, Mrs. Z.’s to get her papers
in the face of odds, all are problems that are hard to relinquish after
a year’s friendship.”

In the spring of 1927, Denison House was giving a country carnival for
the benefit of the house. For such a good cause, Amelia consented to
fly over Boston and drop publicity dodgers. She first said that she
would do this if her name could be kept out of the papers! We had to
use some persuasion to keep her from flying incognito. The first day
of the carnival, the Boston police up and down Boylston and Tremont
Streets were perhaps too amazed to try to arrest a man and woman,
apparently Italian peasants just landed, who drove back and forth in a
queer yellow car, stopping now and then to grind a tune on a battered
hand-organ and to distribute handbills.

The organ grinder was Amelia Earhart.

Youth, keeping a heart, a soul and a body that are wide open to all the
rich opportunities of life—that is part of Amelia’s creed. How many
times I have heard her say that, to her, one of the biggest jobs of
the social worker in a settlement is just that—to give boys and girls
the experiences that will keep them young and that will develop a zest
for life. Last fall, she came to Denison House as a resident and as a
full-time staff worker. She has directed the work of girls from five
to fourteen years and has had general charge of the pre-kindergarten.
Jokingly we have sometimes called Amelia the “official secretary,” for
she is the secretary of the staff, of the Board of Directors (to which
she was elected this year) and to the House Committee of the board. She
has an unusual flair, in a meeting, for the gist of the thought and
expresses herself in writing with accuracy and originality. Last year
and this, Amelia has been a member of an inter-settlement committee
working on child-study records.

She herself made studies of children that show her keen insight
into child life. Here are sentences taken from her record of a
seven-year-old boy. “Ferris is fond of making experiments of various
kinds. How far can the pencil be moved before it falls? How high can
the chairs be piled before spilling? He conceived the idea on a cold
day of ‘warming’ his little sister’s beads on his father’s stove. That
the beads were hot enough to burn the child when she put them on was
not part of the experiment.”

“Where is Miss Earhart now?” “Is she still flying?” “Gee, I hope she
beats that other woman.” These and hundreds of other questions greeted
us on Tyler Street. “Is she coming back soon?” “I couldn’t sleep last
night thinking about her flying.”

The day she told me of the trans-Atlantic project, and swore me
to secrecy, she said, “And I’ll be back for summer school. I have
weighed the values and I want to stay in social work.” Her simplicity,
her honesty, her complete lack of any quality that makes for
sensationalism—this is Amelia Earhart. A few days after the flight
project was under way, a dinner guest at Denison House, who was
learning to fly at the East Boston Airport, told of the big Fokker
monoplane that Byrd was “to fly to the Antarctic”; just a quiet twinkle
across the room to me from Amelia’s eyes, and afterwards an infectious
chuckle as we enjoyed the incident together.

One day last year, after a discussion of L. P. Jacks’ lectures on The
Challenge of Life, she handed me some verses. Here they are, more
appropriate at this time than any words I can write:

  Courage is the price that Life exacts for granting peace,
  The soul that knows it not, knows no release
  From little things:
  Knows not the livid loneliness of fear,
  Nor mountain heights where bitter joy can hear
  The sound of wings.
  How can Life grant us boon of living, compensate
  For dull grey ugliness and pregnant hate
  Unless we dare
  The soul’s dominion? Each time we make a choice, we pay
  With courage to behold resistless day,
  And count it fair.




                               CONTENTS


                                                               PAGE
  Foreword                                                        9
  Introduction                                                   11
  CHAPTER
       I.—Toronto Days                                           29
      II.—Early Aviation                                         43
     III.—My Own Plane                                           59
      IV.—I Shift My Base to Boston                              82
       V.—Preparations                                           95
      VI.—Off for Newfoundland                                  117
     VII.—At Trepassey                                          147
    VIII.—Across                                                170
      IX.—Journey’s End                                         198
       X.—Aviation Invites                                      212
      XI.—Women in Aviation                                     237
     XII.—Problems and Progress                                 252
    XIII.—Retrospect                                            279
          Wilmer Stultz—Pilot                                   311
          Louis Edward Gordon—Flight Mechanic                   313




                             ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                               PAGE
  On the “President Roosevelt”                       _Frontispiece_
    London News Agency Photo.

  Amelia Earhart                                                 35
    Underwood and Underwood.

  Wilmer Stultz                                                  36
    International Newsreel.

  Slim Gordon                                                    41
    Paramount News Photo.

  Mrs. Guest Returning to New York is Met by Commander Byrd
  from Whom She Purchased the “Friendship”                       42
    International Newsreel.

  My First Training Ship, 1920                                   51

  A. E., 1928                                                    52

  Southampton—Mrs. Guest, Gordon, A. E., Stultz, Mrs. Foster
  Welch                                                          57
    Keystone Views.

  After My First Solo, 1921                                      58


  My Cabbage Patch Landing, California, 1921                     63

  “I was Fond of Automobiles, Horseback Riding, and Almost
  Anything Else that is Active and Carried on in the Open”       64

  “Ladies’ Day”                                                  73
    Sykes in the _New York Evening Post_.

  Brynjulf Strandenaes Paints a Portrait                         74

  Flyers All—Eielson, Wilkins, Byrd, Chamberlin, Balchen,
  Stultz, Earhart, Gordon                                        83
    P. & A. Photos.

  Boston, June 9                                                 84

  At Boston with Her Mother and Major Woolley, whose Flying
  Coat Miss Earhart Wore Across the Atlantic                     93
    Wide World Photos.

  “The Yellow Peril” and Her Driver Back in Boston, before
  Denison House                                                  94
    International Photos.

  Welcomed by the Southampton Crowd                             103
    Wide World Photos.

  At Medford, Massachusetts                                     104

  Ready to Go                                                   113

  A Picture of the “Friendship” Over Boston                     114
    Autographed before the flight started.

  Percy Crosby’s Skippy Has His Own Ideas about Flying the
  Atlantic                                                      123

  The “America” as Photographed through the Open Hatch in the
  Bottom of the “Friendship’s” Fuselage                         124

  On the Step                                                   133

  Flying to Boston—Gordon, A. E., Stultz, Mrs. Gordon,
  Mrs. Stultz, Mrs. Putnam                                      134

  Stultz in the Cockpit of the “Friendship” Looking Aft
  between the Gasoline Tanks                                    143
    P. & A. Photos.

  Two Musketeers and—What is a Feminine Musketeer?              144

  “X Marks the Spot”                                            153
    Our Home in Trepassey.

  Main Street, Trepassey                                        154

  Slim on the Job                                               163
    International Photos.

  The Inevitable Winter Woodpile                                164

  The “Friendship” Off Trepassey                                173

  B-a-a-a! A Front Lawn at Trepassey                            174

  Lady Lindy; Lady Luck                                         183
    Rollin Kirby in _The New York World_.

  For Nineteen Hours Only a Sea of Clouds                       184
    Wide World Photos.

  The “Friendship” “Bombing” the “America”                      193
    U. S. Shipping Board.

  The Last Page in the Log Book                                 194

  We Didn’t Doubt that Tying to the Buoy was Against
  Official Etiquette                                            203

  “We Opened the Door of the Fuselage and Looked Out upon
  what we Could See of the British Isles”                       204
    International Newsreel.

  Landing at Burry Port—the Ubiquitous Autograph Seeker         213
    Wide World Photos.

  The First Step in England. Hubert Scott Payne Helps Me
  Ashore                                                        214
    International Photos.

  In London (Miss Earhart)                                      223
    Topical Press Agency.

  “A Big Smile, Please!”                                        224
    Paramount News Photo.

  The Bobby Said: “If My Wife Sees This—!”                      233
    Keystone Views.

  Off for Ascot—Mrs. Guest and Her Sons Winston and
  Raymond                                                       234

  Between Us Girls                                              243
    Weed in _New York Evening World_.

  First Look at Burry Port                                      244
    P. & A. Photos.

  2500 Feet Up. A. E. and Mrs. Putnam Sign the Guest Book
  of Jas. H. Rand’s Trimotored Ford the “Rem-Rand”              253

  A. E., Thea Rasche, Ruth Nichols at the
  Westchester-Biltmore                                          254

  Goodbye                                                       263

  At Toynbee Hall, London                                       264
    Wide World Photos.

  Arriving in Boston by Plane, July 9                           273
    P. & A. Photos.

  Lady Heath and Her Historic Avro Avian                        274

  Rear Platform Stuff                                           283
    Wide World Photos.

  With a Model of the “Friendship” Presented by A
  Boston Schoolboy                                              284

  The Camera, too, Handed Us Brickbats                          293
    These are culled from our less (oh, far!) ♦flattering
    photographic souvenirs.

        ♦ “flattering-ing” replaced with “flattering”

  Yesterday’s Hero, and Today’s                                 294
    John T. McCutcheon in _The Chicago Tribune_.

  From Pittsburgh to Altoona                                    297

  Before the Flight in Boston—A. E. and G. P. P.                298

  Two Characteristic Pages from the Trans-Atlantic
  Log Book                                                  305–6–7
    The difficulty of writing in the dark is exemplified
    by the penmanship of the second page.

  Boston, 1928                                                  308




                            20 HRS. 40 MIN.




                               CHAPTER I

                             TORONTO DAYS


There are two kinds of stones, as everyone knows, one of which rolls.
Because I selected a father who was a railroad man it has been my
fortune to roll.

Of course rolling has left its mark on me. What happened to my
education is typical. Until the eighth grade I stayed the school
year with my grandmother in Atchison, Kansas, and attended a college
preparatory school. With the exception of two grades skipped, one
spent trying a public school and one conducted at home under a
governess-friend, my course was fairly regular—not including time
out for travelling. However, it took six high-schools to see me through
the customary four year course. Would it be surprising, considering
this record, if I should come out with a right round “ain’t” or “he
done it” now and then?

Despite such risks there are advantages in a changing environment.
Meeting new people and new situations becomes an interesting adventure,
and one learns to value fresh experiences as much as old associations.

When the war broke out for the United States I was at Ogontz School,
near Philadelphia. My sister was at St. Margaret’s College in Toronto
and I went to visit her there for the Christmas holidays.

In every life there are places at which the individual, looking back,
can see he was forced to choose one of several paths. These turning
points may be marked by a trivial circumstance or by one of great joy
or sorrow.

In 1918 Canada had been in the war four weary years—years the
United States will never appreciate. Four men on crutches, walking
together on King Street in Toronto that winter, was a sight which
changed the course of existence for me. The realization that war wasn’t
knitting sweaters and selling Liberty Bonds, nor dancing with handsome
uniforms was suddenly evident. Returning to school was impossible, if
there was war work that I could do.

I started training under the Canadian Red Cross and as soon as possible
completed the first-aid work necessary to qualify as a V.A.D. or
nurse’s aide. Those four men on crutches!

My first assignment was to Spadina Military Hospital, a rather small
institution occupying an old college building converted for war use.
Day began at seven and ended at seven, with two hours off in the
afternoon. There were many beds to be made and trays and “nurishment”
to be carried, and backs to be rubbed—some lovely ones!

Most of the men had been through a physical and emotional crisis. Many
were not sick enough to be in bed and not well enough to find real
occupation. Even when jobs were offered many lacked the mental stamina
to take them—or make good at them, if taken. Spiritually they were
tired out. Generally speaking they were a far harder group to care for
than the really sick. For with the latter the improvements noted by the
patient from day to day are cheerful mile posts, while these poor lads
had lost even that means of happiness.

The first day I was in the hospital there was a fire. It was not
serious enough for attendants to do anything but slam windows shut and
stand by to carry out patients. Nearly everyone enjoyed the excitement
except a few of the autumnal nurses and the poor fellows in the
shell-shock ward. They suffered greatly for a few days from the
effects of the unexpected disturbance which was to most of the other
men a welcome break in their colorless existence.

Of course one of the jobs of a V.A.D. was to be a merry sunshine,
not difficult for me whose I.Q. is low enough to insure natural
cheerfulness. Despite our best efforts time often dragged. I wonder if
we might not have accomplished more if we had all been good-looking and
especially, perhaps, if we’d all worn brilliant colors instead of our
grey and white uniforms. It’s a pet theory of mine that color in a drab
world can go a long way in stimulating morale. There’s a suggestion,
here, perhaps, for the management of the next war.

The monotony of the hospital prevailed with its food also. Even after
ten years I am unable to look a jelly-roll in the eye. They were the
diurnal diet in the officers’ mess, just as rice puddings prevailed
in the wards. I have a depressing memory of passing out little rice
puddings in endless procession from the diet kitchen to the
patients. Sometimes they came back untouched but bearing crosses
and the inscription R.I.P. However, those who rated rice pudding
were entitled to ice cream—if they could get it. We K.P.’s often did
the getting for the patients most in need of cheer. Our funds were
immorally collected, the winnings of matching pennies in the kitchen.

The war was the greatest shock that some lives have had to survive.
It so completely changed the direction of my own footsteps that the
details of those days remain indelible in my memory, trivial as they
appear when recorded.

Days of routine slipped by quickly enough into months of nursing. I
hope what we did was helpful. Somebody had to do it. There is so much
that must be done in a civilized barbarism like war.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo close medium 3⁄4 view shot studio portrait of
                Amelia Earhart with signature below
   image text: UNDERWOOD & UNDERWOOD STUDIOS N.Y.
   caption: Amelia M. Earhart
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo close medium 3⁄4 view shot outdoor portrait of
                Wilmer Stultz wearing flight gear
   caption: WILMER STULTZ
           © _International Newsreel_
  ]

War followed one everywhere. Even entertainments weren’t always merely
fun. Often they meant having tea with a group of women who were
carrying their war work into their homes. I remember, for instance,
hours spent with a power sewing machine making pajamas.

The aviation I touched, too, while approached as an entertainment was
of course steeped with war. Sometimes I was invited to a flying field,
Armour Heights, on the edge of the city. I think there were many planes
there; I know there were many young pilots being trained—some very
young. (As a matter of fact I wasn’t exactly grey with age—twenty,
then.)

But the planes were mature. They were full-sized birds that slid on the
hard-packed snow and rose into the air with an extra roar that echoed
from the evergreens that banked the edge of the field. They were a part
of war, just as much as the drives, the bandages and the soldiers. I
remember well that when the snow blown back by the propellers stung
my face I felt a first urge to fly. I tried to get permission to go
up, but the rules forbade; not even a general’s wife could do
so—apparently the only thing she couldn’t do. I did the next best thing
and came to know some of the men fortunate enough to fly. Among them
were Canadians, Scotch, Irish and even Americans who could not pass our
rigorous tests but were accepted in Canada at that time.

They were terribly young, those air men—young and eager. Aviation
was the romantic branch of the service and inevitably attracted the
romanticists. The dark side did not impress the enlisted men or me. To
us there was humor in the big padded helmets, despite their purpose,
which was to prevent scalp wounds in the crashes that were frequent
in those days. The boys smeared their faces with grease, to prevent
freezing, and that seemed funny, too. The training planes were often
under-powered, but no matter how well that was understood, the pilots
joked about possible unpleasantness.

I have even forgotten the names of the men I knew then. But
the memory of the planes remains clearly, and the sense of the
inevitability of flying. It always seemed to me one of the few
worth-while things that emerged from the misery of war.

I lived through the Armistice. Toronto was forty riots rolled into
one that memorable day. Whistles awakened us. They blew continuously.
Electric cars were stalled in the streets which were deep with trash.
Insane old ladies crawled on top and hooked men’s hats with their
umbrellas. Fresh lads grabbed girls and powdered their faces with
flour. Bands marched without knowing where they were going. There
were speeches that were not heard and food that went untasted. Flags
appeared everywhere, with confetti and streamers.

Those months in Toronto roused my interest in flying, although I
did not realize it at the time. Perhaps it was the glamour of the
environment, the times, or my youth. Aviation had come close to me.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo 3⁄4 view closeup of Slim Gordon
   caption: SLIM GORDON
            © _Paramount News_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full shot of Earhart shaking hands with
                Mrs. Guest as Commander Byrd looks on
   caption: MRS. GUEST RETURNING TO NEW YORK IS MET BY COMMANDER BYRD
            FROM WHOM SHE PURCHASED THE “FRIENDSHIP”
            © _International Newsreel_
  ]




                              CHAPTER II

                            EARLY AVIATION


At the end of my brief hospital career I became a patient myself. It
was a case of too much nursing, perhaps with too long hours, in the
pneumonia ward. I picked up an infection and there followed several
minor operations and a rather long period of convalescence.

At Toronto I had been put into the dispensary because I knew a little
chemistry and because it appeared I was one of the few people who
wouldn’t drink the medical supply of whiskey. My brief experiences
aroused my interest in medicine, and after the armistice I went to New
York with the idea that I might become a physician. At Columbia
I took up a very heavy course which included pre-medical work.
Scholastically I think I could have qualified, but after a year of
study I convinced myself that some of my abilities did not measure up
to the requirements which I felt a physician should have.

My mother and father wanted me to come to Los Angeles. Regretfully I
left New York and moved west.

Southern California is a country of out-door sports. I was fond of
automobiles, tennis, horseback riding, and almost anything else that
is active and carried on in the open. It was a short step from such
interests to aviation and just then, as now, Southern California was
particularly active in air matters.

I remember the first air meet I attended. It was near Long Beach, at
Daugherty Field, the ocean side of the broad Los Angeles valley. The
sky was blue and flying conditions were perfect, as I remember.
As this was the summer of 1920 commercial flying was in its infancy.
Even to go to see planes then was considered really sporting by the
populace. There were mechanical imperfections of many kinds, but
progress is made always through experimentation.

Certainly a great many of the people gathered that day had never before
seen an aeroplane. The planes mostly were old war material, Jennys and
Canucks. The Army and Navy were represented with the planes available
at that time—Standards, D. H.’s, Douglasses, Martins, etc. None of
the ships stand out distinctly in my mind as types. I imagine there
were some bombing planes and pursuit jobs, but they all seemed to my
untrained eye more or less routine two-seaters. Of course at that time
I knew somewhat less than I do now.

However, one thing I did know that day. I wanted to fly. I was there
with my father, who, I fear, wasn’t having a very good time. As the
dust blew in his eyes, and his collar wilted, I think his enthusiasm
for aviation, such as it was, waned. He was slightly non-plussed,
therefore, when I said:

“Dad, you know, I think I’d like to fly.”

Heretofore we had been milling about behind the ropes which lined the
field. At my suggestion we invited ourselves into the arena and looked
about. I saw a man tagged “official” and asked my father to talk with
him about instruction. I felt suddenly shy about making inquiries
myself, lest the idea of a woman’s being interested in trying to fly be
too hilarious a thought for the official.

My father was game; he even went so far as to make an appointment for
me to have a trial hop at what was then Rogers Airport. I am sure he
thought one ride would be enough for me, and he might as well act to
cure me promptly.

Next day was characteristically fair and we arrived early on the
field. There was no crowd, but several planes stood ready to go.

A pilot came forward and shook hands.

“A good day to go up,” he said, pleasantly.

My father raised an inexperienced eye to the sky and agreed. Agreeing
verbally is as far as he went, or has ever gone, for he has not yet
found a day good enough for a first flight.

The pilot nodded to another flyer. “He’ll go up with us.”

“Why?” I asked.

The pair exchanged grins. Then I understood. I was a girl—a “nervous
lady.” I might jump out. There had to be somebody on hand to grab my
ankle as I went over. It was no use to explain I had seen aeroplanes
before and wasn’t excitable. I was not to be permitted to go alone in
the front cockpit.

The familiar “contact” was spoken and the motor came to life. I suppose
there must be emotion with all new experiences, but I can’t remember
any but a feeling of interest on this occasion. The noise of the
motor seemed very loud—I think it seems so to most people on their
first flight.

The plane rose quickly over some nearby oil derricks which are part of
the flora in Southern California. I was surprised to be able to see the
sea after a few moments of climbing. At 2,000 feet the pilot idled the
motor and called out the altitude for me. The sensation of speed is
of course absent, and I had no idea of the duration of the hop. When
descent was made I know the field looked totally unfamiliar. I could
not have picked it out from among the hundreds of little squares into
which populated areas are divided. One of the senses which must be
developed in flying is an acuteness in recognizing characteristics of
the terrain, a sense seldom possessed by a novice.

Lessons in flying cost twice as much in 1920 as they do now. Five
hundred dollars was the price for ten or twelve hours instruction,
and that was just half what had been charged a few years before.

When I came down I was ready to sign up at any price to have a try at
the air myself. Two things deterred me at that moment. One was the
tuition fee to be wrung from my father, and the other the determination
to look up a woman flyer who, I had heard, had just come to another
field. I felt I should be less self-conscious taking lessons with
her, than with the men who overwhelmed me with their capabilities.
Neta Snook, the first woman to be graduated from the Curtiss School
of Aviation, had a Canuck—an easier plane to fly than a Jenny, whose
Canadian sister it was. Neta was good enough to take payments for time
in the air, when I could make them, so in a few days I began hopping
about on credit with her. I had failed to convince my father of the
necessity of my flying, so my economic status itself remained a bit
in the air.

I had opportunity to get a fair amount of information about details
of flying despite my erratic finances. In Northampton, where I had
stayed a while after the war, I had taken a course in automobile repair
with a group of girls from Smith College. To me the motor was as
interesting as flying itself, and I welcomed a chance to help in the
frequent pulling down and putting together which it required.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo medium shot of Earhart wearing flight gear
                looking out from a biplane
   caption: MY FIRST TRAINING SHIP, 1920
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo 3⁄4 view full shot of standing Earhart wearing
                flight gear with white background
   caption: A. E., 1928
  ]

New students were instructed in planes with dual controls; the
rudder and stick in the front cockpit are connected with those in
the rear so that any false move the student makes can be corrected
by the instructor. Every move is duplicated and can be felt by
both flyers. One lands, takes off, turns, all with an experienced
companion in command. When passengers are carried these controls are
removed for safety’s sake with little trouble. If there is telephone
connection, communication and explanation are much easier than by
any methods of signs or shouting. This telephone equipment, by the way,
seems to be more usual in England than here.

I am glad I didn’t start flying in the days of the “grass cutters,”
which exemplified an earlier method of flying instruction. One of the
amusing sights of the war training period was that of the novices
hopping about the countryside in these penguin planes. They could fly
only a few feet from the ground and had to be forced off to do that.
The theory had been that such activity offered maximum practice in
taking off and landing. In addition it was a sort of Roman holiday for
the instructors—they had nothing much to do but, so to speak, wind up
their play-things and start them off. And nothing very serious could
happen one way or the other.

It was really necessary for a woman to wear breeks and leather coats
in these old days of aviation. The fields were dirty and planes
hard to enter. People dressed the part in a semi-military khaki outfit,
and in order to be as inconspicuous as possible I fell into the same
styles. A leather coat I had then, I wore across the Atlantic, eight
years later.

Neta sold her plane and I bought one and changed instructors after
a few hours’ work. John Montijo, an ex-army instructor, took charge
of me and soloed me after some strenuous times together. I refused
to fly alone until I knew some stunting. It seemed foolhardy to try
to go up alone without the ability to recognize and recover quickly
from any position the plane might assume, a reaction only possible
with practice. In short, to become thoroughly at home in the air,
stunting is as necessary as, and comparable to, the ability to drive an
automobile in traffic. I was then introduced to aerobatics and felt not
a bit afraid when sent “upstairs” alone for the first time.

Usually a student takes off nonchalantly enough but doesn’t dare
land until his gas supply fails. Any field is familiar with the sight
of beginners circling about overhead, staying up solely because
they can’t bear to come down. The thought of landing without their
instructors to help them, if need be, becomes torture, which is only
terminated by the force of gravity.

In soloing—as in other activities—it is far easier to start something
than it is to finish it. Almost every beginner hops off with a whoop of
joy, though he is likely to end his flight with something akin to D.
T.’s.

I reversed the process. In taking off for the first time alone, one of
the shock absorbers broke, causing the left wing to sag just as I was
leaving the ground. I didn’t know just what had happened, but I did
know something was wrong and wondered what I had done. The mental agony
of starting the plane had just been gone through and I was suddenly
faced with the agony of stopping it. It was all in a matter of
seconds, of course, and somehow I contrived to do the proper thing.
My brief “penguin” flight came to a prompt conclusion without further
mishap.

When the damage had been repaired, I took courage to try again, this
time climbing about 5,000 feet, playing around a little, and returning
to make a thoroughly rotten landing. At once I had my picture taken by
a gentleman from Iowa who happened to be touring California and wanted
a few rare sights for the album back home.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide shot of 5 people. Earhart is in middle
                holding a bouquet of roses; Earhart and Stultz are
                wearing flight gear
   caption: SOUTHAMPTON—MRS. GUEST, GORDON, A. E., STULTZ,
            MRS. FOSTER WELCH
            © _Keystone Views_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide shot of Earhart in flight gear standing in
                front of a biplane
   caption: AFTER MY FIRST “SOLO,” 1921
  ]




                              CHAPTER III

                             MY OWN PLANE


In the war some students were soloed with as little as four hours’
training. That meant they were considered competent to go up in their
planes alone after this amount of instruction. Obviously these were
exceptional students. In civilian flying, ten or twelve hours, I
imagine, would be about the minimum training. But these hours usually
mean simply routine instruction in straight flying, comparable to
the novice driving his automobile along the level uncrowded country
highway. For the automobilist beginner the problem comes when he first
meets traffic, and a big truck, say, suddenly cuts in ahead of him. Can
he handle the emergency, or will he crash? And what will the beginner
do when his car, or the other fellow’s, skids on the wet pavement
for the first time? The answer is that good driving results from
experience and the requisite of having met many varied situations.

And so with planes. Straight flying is, of course, the necessary basis;
but it is the ability to meet crises, large and small, which counts.
And the only way to train for that is, as I have said, to have actual
instruction in stunting and in meeting emergencies. To gain experience
after the beginner has soloed, and while he is at home in a plane he
knows intimately and upon a field familiar to him, he should play
around in the air for four or five hours alone, practising landings,
take-offs, turns and all the rest of it where he is perfectly safe and
can come down easily any time.

Then he should have three or four more hours’ instruction in emergency
situations. This feature is too often overlooked. As I visualize it,
the beginner should go up with an instructor with dual controls
again and should get himself into—and out of—one scrape after another,
including forced landings. After he has done so repeatedly, he will
have confidence and a real feeling of what must be done, and done
instantly, under any given set of circumstances. More of this sort
of follow-through training and there would probably be fewer of the
accidents which too often are beginners’ bad luck.

I had rolled up the tremendous total of two and one-half hours’
instruction when I decided that life was incomplete unless I owned my
own plane. Those were the days of rather heavy, under-powered ships
which lifted themselves from the ground with a lumbering effort.
The small sport planes were just beginning to appear, most of them
in experimental stages. The field where I flew was owned by W. G.
Kinner of the Kinner Aeroplane and Motor Corporation, who was then
developing one of the first sport planes made.

I watched that plane at work in those days when I was cutting my
aviation eye teeth. Little by little I became able to distinguish the
different makes of planes, and the finer points of their performance.
I realized that the small plane took off more quickly, climbed more
steeply, was faster and easier to handle than its bigger brothers with
their greater horse power and wing spread.

After two and one-half hours I really felt myself a competent judge
of planes! A few hundred solo hours since then have modified greatly
that initial self-confidence! The fact that wise pilots with a thousand
hours or so warned me against this little fellow, influenced me not. I
wanted that sport plane that hopped off like a sandpiper and actually
seemed to like it. And I set about buying it. My pilot friends came to
me quietly. “Look out for the motor,” they said.

Power was the thing, they assured me, and the paltry 60 horse power
of the little Lawrence air-cooled motor simply didn’t measure up to
commonsense requirements. It is interesting to realize that the plane
in which Lady Heath made her famous solo flight from Croydon to South
Africa and back, the lovely little Avian which I bought from her,
actually has little more horse power than this first love of mine.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide shot of crowds surrounding a crashed biplane
   caption: MY CABBAGE PATCH LANDING, CALIFORNIA, 1921
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide profile shot of Earhart on a black horse
   caption: “I WAS FOND OF AUTOMOBILES, HORSEBACK RIDING, AND
             ALMOST ANYTHING ELSE THAT IS ACTIVE AND CARRIED ON IN THE
             OPEN”
  ]

The small air-cooled motor I speak of was the first in this country.
The man who had built it was not well known then. He was one of a
number of able experimenters who were working out their own private
ideas, often in the face of all sorts of sacrifices. The name of the
builder of this original air-cooled engine is Charles L. Lawrence,
famous today as the creator of the Wright Whirlwind which carried
Lindbergh, Byrd, Chamberlin, Maitland and others on their famous
flights, and with which our own Friendship was equipped.

The idea of an air-cooled engine appealed to me. The elimination of
the water cooling system meant simplification and a notable decrease
in weight. Thanks largely to the lightness of the engine and resulting
light plane, it was possible for me to pick it up by the tail and move
it around the field easily, whereas with the Canucks and the others it
took at least a man, or a dolly, and great effort. I was won by the
motor, despite some weaknesses, and I have never regretted that first
enthusiasm. So I said “no” to my pessimistic pilots, and “yes” to Mr.
Kinner.

The price was $2000. After talking it over with my father he agreed
that I needed the plane and that I should have it, and promised to
help out in paying for it. But I am afraid my salesmanship was faulty
for he did not stay “sold.” I signed the sales contract and plunked
down all my available capital to seal the bargain before I knew of his
indecision. Consequently, there wasn’t any backing out even if I
had wanted to—which I emphatically did not.

To pay for that plane I got the first job I ever had, the telephone
company taking me on as unskilled labor. I was associated with the
office boys at the back of the office, an association which I was told
was one of the worst in the organization. We did things to the mail,
opened it, sorted it, distributed it. I also filed letters and then
tried to find them again. I liked the job and the boys, who were very
funny and not the criminals they were pictured.

Perhaps this move on my part doesn’t seem very convincing, for
obviously my salary as playmate of office boys would have to run on
for a long time before it would wipe out the balance of the $2000. But
it did help my credit immensely! I think it made my flying companions
believe I was in earnest.

It also affected mother to the extent that she finally wiped out my
indebtedness, on condition I resign and stay home a little. By the way,
_she_ has remained sold, and it was her regret she wasn’t with me
on the trans-Atlantic flight, if I would go.

There was a partnership of interest, and of near poverty, between many
of us in those days. Aviation demanded much from its devotees—and there
was plenty of opportunity for sacrifice. Many of the pioneers sank
their teeth into aviation’s problems at the very beginning—or was it
the other way about?—and simply wouldn’t let go.

So I owned my own plane. Immediately I found that my whole feeling
toward flying had changed. An added confidence and satisfaction came.
If I crashed, it was my own responsibility and it was my own property
that was being injured. It is the same sort of feeling that obtains,
I think, in driving. There is a freedom in ownership which is not
possible with a borrowed car.

Of course I had shouldered a new responsibility. I had an
expensive, inanimate object on my hands. I wanted it to look all right
on the outside and _be_ all right on the inside. Few words are more
expressive than “care and upkeep.” Fortunately in their obligations
I was remarkably lucky. The plane was an experiment for Kinner,
a model for production. Obviously he wanted to have demonstrated
exactly what it could do. When I was around, I was informally a sort
of demonstrator—we agreed that he could use it for demonstration in
return for free hangar space, and I was given much mechanical help, and
other assistance in addition to hangar space. It was this situation, I
suppose, which really made it possible for a “telephone girl” to carry
on. At any rate, to me the important fact is, that I secured many free
hours in the air and much kindly help.

Demonstrating has other advantages; it means an effort to sell someone
something. And selling involves debating the virtues of the thing
to be sold, the prospective purchaser usually being on the silent
end of the debate. So I found myself studying the virtues of my plane,
and in so doing, those of others.

The first thing most people want to do when they get a new car is to
take someone out driving in it; a desire which seems to apply equally
to a plane. Somehow I have always felt a little differently. It
isn’t that I am not proud of my possession, but that I always have a
suspicion that my pride may run away with my prudence. If it be car or
plane, my inclination is to be absolutely sure of myself before I whisk
anybody else’s body around in it. Consequently my air passengers were
few.

As a matter of fact, I have never asked any men to take a ride. I think
I have always feared that some sense of gallantry would make them
accept, even though they did not trust me. So my male passengers have
always had to do the asking.

There were plenty of potential joy riders around the fields in
those days. Many of them had drifted into aviation after the war—or
rather had not drifted out. They wanted to be near planes, and accepted
any opportunity to take a ride no matter who the pilot or what the
machine. From this gang have graduated many of the men who are today
the real working human backbone of the industry.

From them were recruited the gypsy flyers who barnstormed their way
around the country and whose activities actually figured largely in
the development of American aviation. It was they who kept alive
public interest. Mostly they flew wrecks, old war crates tied together
with baling wire. Anything that would get off the ground—most of the
time—was good enough for them. Many of them, of course, paid a heavy
price for their devotion.

I didn’t like public flying. It didn’t coincide with my ideas of what
I wished to do with my plane. It was hard enough to keep out of
the papers anyway in those days if one flew. The slightest mishap was
called a crash and disasters were played up lugubriously.

For me flying was a sport and not a circus—I used to sneak away to
a secluded field and practise, with no one to bother. I appeared in
public only on special occasions. For instance once I was invited to
take part in a meet held by the Aero Club of Southern California at
Pasadena. It was purely a public demonstration, a sort of circus, yet
it was for a purpose—to raise money for the Club and to arouse local
interest in flying.

I was asked to do a little stunting, the usual thing on occasions of
this kind. The little plane looked well in the air, so I accepted. The
minute I flew up to the field I began to feel like a clown, although
happily there were two of us female freaks to divide the honors and the
odium.

  [Illustration:
   description: Drawing of giant Columbia and Britannia shaking hands
                across the Atlantic; Earhart plane flies below; U.S.
                (Uncle Sam) and J.B. (John Bull) look on
   caption: “LADIES’ DAY”
            Sykes in the _New York Evening Post_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full shot of seated Brynjulf Strandenaes applying
                paint to Earhart painting
   caption: BRYNJULF STRANDENAES PAINTS A PORTRAIT
  ]

There was plenty of chatter about two “aviatrixes,” but the
chatterers never knew that they came near having something actually
to talk about. For, as I reached the field, after flying from my own
hangar, a spark plug blew out. Luckily I was over the field just then
as otherwise I might have made my landing in a treetop. One cylinder
dead in eight is not so serious a matter as one in three. I had only
three and wished for eight just then.

It happened that my own engine was on the repair bench and the boys at
the field, determined to get me to the meet, had worked all night
switching the motor from the Goodyear pony blimp over to my plane. In
the blimp the motor had been run at a low speed and as a result when I
turned it up to my requirements one of the spark plugs could not stand
the strain. After a new extra long plug was inserted I started out
again.

It was a beautiful day with splashes of clouds which sailed up over the
mountains from the desert westward. They made a perfect background
for the audience below and a perfect playground for anyone in the sky.
Speaking seriously, the most effective stunting, from an artistic
point of view, should be staged against just such a sky. Alternate
white and blue with irregular outline brings out the full grace of the
maneuvering plane.

A good deal of air racing was going on then all over the country. But
my feeling toward it was similar to my feeling toward any other public
flying. It was not for me. I wasn’t good enough. I remember one funny
offer. A group of people, wanted to stage a race and seemed to think
that I was timid about entering. So they suggested that I let their own
pilot fly most of the race, then come down and let me get aboard, out
of sight of the audience, and finish up as the “lady flyer” who had
piloted the plane to victory.

Another proposal I remember.

“How would you like to make some easy money?” I was asked.

“How?”

“Bringing some stuff across the border.”

Stuff—liquor, aliens or dope?

“Liquor?” I guessed.

My philanthropic friend shrugged his shoulders. “A woman can get by
where a man can’t. No one would ever suspect you. There’s not a thing
to be afraid of. You could do it easy.”

It was a pretty compliment, but I declined.

One day I went up with my plane to establish its ceiling—that is, to
see how high it would go.

There is a point in altitude beyond which, of course, a given plane
cannot climb, just as with automobiles, there is a limit to the grade
that can be negotiated and a speed that can be attained. In flying,
an added factor is entailed, in the rarification of atmosphere with
height, which affects plane, motor and personnel.

To make the record official I asked the representative of the Aero
Club of Southern California to seal my barograph. This instrument
records altitude in ink on a revolving drum. When sealed it is
impossible for the flyer to alter it.

It was a good day and I climbed easily for about 13,000 feet.
Thereafter I began to have trouble. My spark control lever became
disconnected and I could not regulate the spark in my engine. As a
result a terrific vibration and knocking started. I thought the engine
would jump out of its frame. There wasn’t anything to do but come down,
although I was still climbing fifty feet a minute.

As soon as the official read my barograph there was great rejoicing,
for apparently I had established a woman’s altitude record. The news
got in the papers. One clipping read:

 Miss Amelia Earhart, local aviatrix, established a new altitude record
 for women yesterday under the auspices of the Aero Club of Southern
 California.

 Flying her own Kinner Airster, containing a 60-foot power motor,
 she ascended more than 14,000 feet.

 Her sealed barograph registered little vibration until about 12,000
 feet, where Miss Earhart said something went wrong with the motor. At
 the time she was climbing easily, about 50 feet a minute, which would
 have continued perhaps for several thousand feet more if the engine
 difficulty had not arisen.

Although my figure of 14,000 feet was not extraordinary, the
performance of my engine was interesting. With the little Lawrence
power plant of less than 60 h.p. I had gone up much farther than some
of the higher powered planes which should have been more efficient.

A little while later I made another attempt. The weather was pretty
good at the start. At 10,000 feet I ran into clouds. At 11,000 feet
sleet, and at about 12,000 feet dense fog. This was an entirely new
experience, and very disquieting. For the first time in my life, I had
that strange feeling experienced by the flyer in fog.

Under such circumstances it is impossible to tell what the plane
is doing. It may be upside down or turning giant circles. Without
instruments the pilot simply does not know his position in space—there
are no outside landmarks with which to check. Of course, if one is
really upside down for any length of time one’s feet drop back from the
rudder and the safety belt tightens; or if in a skid a side blast of
wind gives a belated warning, etc.

It was extraordinarily confusing and, realizing I could not go farther,
I kicked the ship into a tail spin and came down to 3000 feet where I
emerged from the fog and landed.

I remembered one of the old-timers came up and looked at my barograph
record. His eyes fixed on a vertical line just before the record ended.
“What does that mean,” he asked. “Did you go to sleep along in there?”

I told him about getting out of the fog by way of a tail spin.

He certainly wasn’t impressed favorably. “Suppose the fog had lasted
all the way to the ground?” he asked.

I bring this experience up because of its important bearing both on
the training of pilots and on flying in general; especially schedule
flying. It is immensely important for a pilot to learn to fly by
instruments, as distinct from flying “by horizon.” The night flyer
or the avigator in fog must depend upon his instruments to keep his
course, equilibrium and altitude. It did not require the flight of the
Friendship through long hours of fog and cloud to teach me the profound
necessity of this.




                              CHAPTER IV

                            EAST TO BOSTON


Crashes were frequent enough in these earlier days. I had one myself,
during my instruction period. Owing to carelessness in not refuelling,
the motor cut out on the take-off, when the plane was about 40 or
50 feet in the air. Neta Snook was with me, but she couldn’t help
depositing us in a cabbage patch nearby. The propeller and landing gear
suffered and I bit my tongue.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide indoor shot of 8 individuals
                Stultz, Earhart, Gordon are seated; 5 are standing in
                back
   caption: FLYERS ALL EIELSON, WILKINS, BYRD, CHAMBERLIN, BALCHEN,
            STULTZ, EARHART, GORDON
            © _P. & A. Photos_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide overhead shot of crowded street ticker-tape
                parade
   caption: BOSTON, JUNE 9
  ]

The crash was an interesting experience. In such a crisis the passage
of time is very slow. I remember it seemed minutes while we were
approaching the inevitable cabbages, although of course it was only a
few seconds. I had leisure to reach over and turn off the switch
before we hit.

More than once I have nosed over. Whenever a plane is compelled to
stop suddenly there is danger of so doing. I have come down in a muddy
field where the wheels stuck. On one occasion I landed in a mattress of
dried weeds five or six feet high which stopped me so suddenly that the
plane went over on its back with enough force to break my safety belt
and throw me out. These are the flat tires of flying and are only as
incidental. But real trouble did come to my plane eventually.

I had decided to leave Los Angeles and to sell it, much as I disliked
the parting. A young man who had done some flying during the war liked
the little sandpiper and eventually purchased it.

After the new owner took possession the first thing he did was to
ask a friend to go up with him. At a few hundred feet he began some
figure eights, banking vertically and working between a gas station
and telegraph pole. All on the field stood rooted to the spot. They
knew what chances he was taking. As I remember it, Kinner sent for an
ambulance. Suddenly, on one vertical bank the plane slipped. That was
the end of it. Both men were killed. It was a sickening sort of thing
because it was so unnecessary.

I lingered on in California, another sunkist victim of inertia—or was
it the siren song of the realtors? I bought a new plane. Or rather I
collected it, because I found I could not buy it all together. At this
time there were few who believed that an air cooled motor for planes
would become practical. Human nature normally condemns anything new.
The complaint of many pilots was that a multiple cylinder radial motor
would be too clumsy to sit on the nose of a plane and would cause too
much “head resistance.” So why bother with one or two cylinder
motors which developed little power comparatively? Kinner had a dream.
He built one of his own. It had been bought by the man who financed one
of the first planes built, in the west, by Donald Douglas, designer of
the Round the World Cruisers. Mr. Davis and Mr. Douglas at the time
were planning a trans-continental non-stop hop, using a big Liberty
engine. But the P.2 flown by Macready and Kelly to San Diego, in the
first coast to coast flight, got across first. I bought the Kinner
engine from Davis, who was not ready to use it just then. It was the
first engine that Kinner turned out.

Of course it was full of “bugs”—no degree of mechanical perfection
is ever attained without successive stages of development. Each
improvement is a result of many practical working tests. Human
intelligence seems to grasp ideas in steps and must work through
complicated details to efficient simplicity. The first automobiles had
whip holders on the dash, remember. The planes and motors which we
see today are the results of evolution. There was a preliminary design
of the now famous Wright Whirlwind motor as early as 1917 and it, in
turn, had grown from models of air-cooled radials begun by Mr. Lawrence
in 1914.

The greatest pleasure I found in my experience with Kinner’s motor was
that of perhaps having a small part in its development. Its many little
ailments had to be diagnosed and cured later. It smoked and spattered
oil. Adjustment of a proper propeller was difficult. One of its
eccentricities was an excessive vibration which tickled the soles of
the feet when they rested on the rudder bar, putting a new meaning into
joy ride. Such was the hilarious beginning of one of a group of motors
which are being developed in the United States.

The idea of returning to the east, and doing it by air, had been
simmering in my mind. Maps and data were all pretty well prepared. Then
the old infection, incurred in the Toronto Hospital work, returned,
and I was forced to abandon the hop, to the satisfaction of my parents.

My health was so precarious that, disappointed in my intention to fly,
I exchanged my plane for a car and drove across the continent. Mother
went with me to remind me I was too ill to fly, and together we covered
more than 7000 miles before we reached Boston.

I enjoyed three days in Boston before entering Massachusetts General
Hospital for a short stay. After convalescing a while I set off for New
York, to re-enter Columbia. The next summer was spent at Harvard and
the following autumn I began to look about for a job. My sister was
teaching, so I indulged in it too. Teaching and settlement work filled
the following years—filled them very full, for both occupations require
much of one’s life. All these other activities allowed little or no
time for aviation.

Inevitably certain contacts had persisted from the California days
so it was no surprise to hear from Mr. Kinner. He asked me whether I
knew anyone in Boston who would take the agency for his planes and
motors. I dropped in on the Chamber of Commerce for information. It was
evident from the facts gathered from Bernard Wiesman, secretary of the
committee on aviation, that the town could struggle along for a while
without the additional luxury of a new plane. The air-mail industry
seemed to be as strong a dose of aviation as Boston could stand at the
time, and Sumner Sewall was having to hold her nose while he spooned
that in.

I joined the Boston chapter of the National Aeronautic Association as
a reawakening of my active interest in aviation. Ultimately I was made
Vice-President (perhaps to get rid of me) serving under Mr. Sewall.
Subsequently his activities took him to New York and when I returned
from the trans-Atlantic flight I found myself the first woman
President of a body of the N. A. A.

Several months later Mr. Kinner wrote again and said he himself had
found an agent, who would communicate with me. The hand of Allah had
thrown Harold T. Dennison, a young architect of Quincy, in Mr. Kinner’s
way in California. Mr. Dennison came home determined to build an
airport. He owned enough land for an emergency field on the marshes
from which Beachey flew to Boston Light in 1910 to win $10,000.

I gathered a few dollars together and became one of five incorporators
of a commercial aeronautical concern. Today Dennison Aircraft
Corporation is working to create a commercial airport adjoining the
naval air base at Squantum.

There is so much to be done in aviation and so much fun to be got
from it, that I had become increasingly involved before the flight of
the Friendship. I was busy, too, with Miss Ruth Nichols of Rye
in trying to work out some means of gathering more women into the
fold. The National Playground Association had asked me to be on their
Boston committee and judge in the model airplane tournament they were
sponsoring in September, 1928. The tournament combined my two greatest
interests, aviation and social work, in an unusual way, and I was very
glad to serve. Unfortunately the social worker became submerged in the
aerial joy-rider and the latter has been too much occupied since her
return to be of any use whatsoever.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo medium shot outdoor of Earhart’s mother, Earhart,
                and Woolley; Earhart is holding large bouquet of
                flowers
   caption: AT BOSTON WITH HER MOTHER AND MAJOR WOOLLEY, WHOSE FLYING
            COAT MISS EARHART WORE ACROSS THE ATLANTIC
            © _Wide World Photos_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide profile shot outdoor of Earhart in car
                swarmed by children
   caption: “THE YELLOW PERIL” AND HER DRIVER BACK IN BOSTON, BEFORE
             DENISON HOUSE
            © _International Photos_
  ]




                               CHAPTER V

                             PREPARATIONS


When it was all over I read in the papers that I had been planning a
trans-Atlantic flight for a year. I read much else that was equally
imaginative. In fact, the press introduced me to an entirely new
person. It appeared that I was a demi-orphan; my father, I learned,
had been dead four years—I saved that clipping for him. One day I read
that I was wealthy, the next that the sole purpose of my flight was to
lift the mortgage from the old homestead—which there isn’t any—I mean
homestead.

The truth about the chance to fly was as amusing as the journalistic
scenarios. The opportunity came as casually as an invitation to a
matinee, and it came by telephone. As a matter of fact, the three
of us who made the Atlantic crossing together all were similarly
collected by telephone.

Commander Byrd telephoned Stultz, suggesting the possibility. Stultz
then communicated, by telephone again, with those organizing the
flight. Tentative arrangements were made as regarded himself. They
asked him to choose his flying mechanic. On April 7, via long distance
telephone, he reached Slim Gordon, then at Monroe, La., with the “Voice
of the Sky” Corporation. “Meet me at the Cadillac Hotel in Detroit on
the 9th, if you want to fly the Atlantic.” “Sure,” said Gordon.

So next morning Slim serviced his ship; told the boys he wasn’t taking
off with them that day and left to keep his appointment.

It was settled in no time at all—certainly within the limits of the
conventional three minute telephone conversation.

As for me, I was working as usual around Denison House. The
neighborhood was just piling in for games and classes and I was as busy
as could be. I remember when called to the phone I replied I couldn’t
answer unless the message was more important than entertaining many
little Chinese and Syrian children. The word came assuring me it was.

I excused myself and went to listen to a man’s voice ask me whether I
was interested in doing something aeronautic which might be hazardous.
At first I thought the conversation was a joke, and told the gentleman
so. At least twice before I had been approached by bootleggers who
promised rich reward and no danger—“absolutely no danger to you, Leddy.”

The frank admission of risk piqued my curiosity and I enquired how and
why I had been called.

I demanded references and got them. They were good references, too.
After checking up, I made an appointment for late the same day.

“Should you like to fly the Atlantic?”

Such was the greeting when I met Hilton H. Railey who had done the
telephoning.

He told me, without mentioning specific names, that Commander
Byrd’s tri-motored Fokker had been purchased and was destined for
trans-Atlantic flight. He asked me if I would make the flight if
opportunity offered. Then he told me that a woman owned the plane, and
had intended flying it herself. Circumstances had just arisen which
made it impossible for her to go but there was a chance that another
woman might be selected in her place; and Mr. Railey had been asked by
George Palmer Putnam, New York publisher, to help find such a person.

Then followed the first period of waiting. I did not know whether or
not I was going. I didn’t know whether the flight really would come
off. I didn’t know whether I should be selected if it did. And in the
meanwhile I was asked to clear the decks so I could get off if the
opportunity actually arose.

At Denison House we were just working out our summer plans, with me
in charge of the summer school. If I actually was to leave, Marion
Perkins, our head worker, must get someone for my place. So the chaos
of uncertainties spread in ripples out from me as a center.

I think what troubled me most just then was the difficulty of my
relations, under the circumstances, with all these people whose plans
were so much dependent upon my own. Yet I was pledged to secrecy and
could not say a word to them. And of course, it is rather disconcerting
to carry on a job at a desk, or with settlement children, with the
probability of a trans-Atlantic flight pending.

In ten days or so I was asked to go to New York. There I met David T.
Layman, Jr., who, with Mr. John S. Phipps, talked things over with me.
I realized, of course, that I was being weighed. It should have
been slightly embarrassing, for if I were found wanting on too many
counts I should be deprived of a trip. On the other hand, if I were
just too fascinating the gallant gentlemen might be loath to drown me.
Anyone can see the meeting was a crisis.

I learned that the Fokker had been bought from Commander Byrd by the
Honorable Mrs. Frederick Guest, of London, whose husband had been in
the Air Ministry of Lloyd George and is prominently associated with
aviation in Great Britain. Mrs. Guest, formerly Miss Amy Phipps of
Pittsburgh, financed the expedition from first to last, and it was due
entirely to her generosity and sportsmanship that opportunity to go was
given me.

The transfer of ownership of the plane from Commander Byrd to Mrs.
Guest had been kept secret. It had been her desire to hop off for the
Atlantic crossing without attracting any advance attention. When
subsequently, for personal reasons, Mrs. Guest herself abandoned the
flight she was still eager to have the plans consummated, if possible,
with an American woman on board.

A few days later I was told the flight actually would be made and
that I could go—if I wished. Under the circumstances there was only
one answer. I couldn’t say no. For here was fate holding out the best
in the way of flying ability in the person of Wilmer Stultz, pilot,
aided by Lou Gordon as flight mechanic; and a beautiful ship admirably
equipped for the test before it.

When I first saw Friendship she was jacked-up in the shadows of a
hangar at East Boston. Mechanics and welders worked nearby on the
struts for the pontoons that were shortly to replace the wheels. The
ship’s golden wings, with their spread of seventy two feet, were strong
and exquisitely fashioned. The red orange of the fuselage, though
blending with the gold, was chosen not for artistry but for practical
use. If we had come down orange could have been seen further than
any other color.

The plane just then was being equipped, presumably for its use on
Byrd’s forthcoming Antarctic trip. Stultz and Gordon were supposed to
be in Byrd’s employ, and Commander Robert Elmer, U.S.N. retired, was
directing technical activities.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide overhead shot of Earhart in flight
                gear escorted by police through a crowd
   caption: WELCOMED BY THE SOUTHAMPTON CROW
            © _Wide World Photos_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full shot Earhart laying wreath at the base of
                the Medford, Massachusetts Honor Roll Memorial
   image text: ... IN THE ARMY, THE NAVY, AND THE MARINE CORPS.
               AND IN MEMORY OF THOSE WHO MADE THE SUPREME SACRIFICE
               IN THE WORLD WAR. MCMXX
   caption: AT MEDFORD, MASSACHUSETTS
  ]

Our purpose was to keep the plans secret. Once the world knew, we
should be submerged in a deluge of curiosity making it impossible to
continue the preparations in orderly fashion. Then, too, it would do no
good to aviation to invite discussion of a project which some accident
might delay. Actually the pontoon equipment on this type of plane was
experimental, and no one definitely could tell in advance whether or
not it would prove practicable. Another objection was the possibility
of instigating a “race,” which no one wanted. Mrs. Guest proposed that
the Friendship, as she afterwards named the plane, should cross
the Atlantic irrespective of the action of others. By our example we
did not want to risk hurrying ill-prepared aspirants into the field
with possible tragic results.

Only twice did I actually see the Friendship during all this time. I
was pretty well known at the landing fields and obviously it might
provoke comment if I seemed too interested in the plane. For this
reason I had no chance to take part in any of the test flying. Actually
the first time I was off the water in the Friendship was the Sunday
morning when we finally got under way.

The preparation of a large plane for a long flight is a complex task.
It is one that cannot—or at least should not—be rushed. Especially is
that fact true where, as in the case of the Friendship, the equipment
was of a somewhat experimental nature.

Throughout the operations Commander Byrd kept in close touch with what
was being done, with Stultz and Gordon, and with Commander Elmer,
who was overseeing the technical detail. Necessary instruments were
installed and gradually tried out; while varying load tests, countless
take-offs from the bay, and brief flights around Boston were made. The
radio was tested and the inevitable last minute changes and adjustments
arranged.

With the radio, we were particularly fortunate because Stultz is a
skilful operator. It is unusual to find a man who is a great pilot, an
instrument flyer, navigator, and a really good radio operator all in
one.

Finally the ship itself was ready to go, and our problems focussed on
the weather. At this stage weather is an important factor in all plans
of trans-oceanic flying.

Supplementing the meagre reports available from ships to the Weather
Bureau, the Friendship’s backers arranged a service of their own.
Special digests of the British reports were cabled to New York each
morning, and meteorological data were radioed in from the ships
at sea. All this information, supplementing that already at hand, was
then coordinated and plotted out in the New York office of the United
States Weather Bureau. There we came to feel that no flight could have
a better friend than Dr. James H. Kimball, whose interest and unfailing
helpfulness were indispensable.

The weather service for a flight such as ours must be largely planned
and entirely underwritten by the backers of the flight itself. And,
like so much else, it is an expensive undertaking.

Nearly three weeks dragged by in Boston. Sometimes Mr. and Mrs. Layman
were there, hoping for an immediate take-off, sometimes Mrs. Putnam.
Commander Elmer and Mr. Putnam were on hand constantly. Mrs. Guest’s
sons, Winston and Raymond, followed the preparations as closely as they
dared without risking disclosure of the ownership.

It was during this period that I had the pleasure of seeing
something of Commander and Mrs. Byrd, at their Brimmer Street home,
just then bursting with the preparations for his Antarctic expedition—a
place of tents and furs, specially devised instruments, concentrated
foodstuffs, and all the rest of the paraphernalia which makes the
practical, and sometimes the picturesque, background of a great
expedition. There I met “Scotty” Allan, famous Alaskan dog driver, who
was advising Byrd as to canine preparations.

The weather remained persistently unfavorable. When it was right in
Boston, the mid-Atlantic was forbidding. I have a memory of long grey
days which had a way of dampening our spirits against our best efforts
to be cheerful. We tried to be casual by keeping occupied. On fair days
my battered Kissel roadster, dubbed “Yellow Peril,” was a means for
sightseeing. On rainy days the top leaked too much for comfort, so we
walked. We tried restaurants of all nationalities for variety and
went, I think, to all the theatres.

One of the last plays we saw, I remember, was “The Good Hope,” with
the charming Eva LeGallienne. The story is a tragedy; all the hopeful
characters drown while the most tragic one survives to carry out a cold
lamb chop in the last act. A recurring line is “The fish are dearly
paid for,” and our crew adopted that as a heraldic motto, emblazoned
under a goldfish rampant. I had the opportunity of thanking Miss
LeGallienne for her cheering sendoff when I met her on returning to
New York. She helped Charles Winninger auction off one of the flags we
carried on the flight, at a theatrical performance for the benefit of
the Olympic team which was about to sail for Europe on the ship which
had brought us back, the President Roosevelt. Anyway, that evening she
got us on the stage before 17,280,891 people, so we have two grievances
against her.

As I look back on the flight I think two questions have been asked
me most frequently. First: Was I afraid? Secondly: What did I wear?

I’m sorry to be a disappointment in answering the first query. It
would sound more exciting if I only could admit having been shockingly
frightened. But I honestly wasn’t. Of course I realized there was a
measure of danger. Obviously I faced the possibility of not returning
when first I considered going. Once faced and settled there really
wasn’t any good reason to refer to it again. After all, even when
driving one admits tacitly there is danger, but one doesn’t dwell on
the result of losing the front wheels or having the rear end fall out
on a mountain.

Perhaps the second question may be thought feminine, but I have had as
many men as women appear interested.

Remember the early stages of automobiling? In those days an “auto”
ride was a rare experience, made rarer by the clothes one wore. A linen
duster, gauntlets and a veil were the requisites of touring in 1907.

Fashions in air clothing are emerging from the same sort of chrysalis
stage. For routine short flights I wear every-day clothes—what one
would use for street wear or sports. But obviously the Friendship
flight was different. Compare it, perhaps, to a strenuous camping
trip. One couldn’t tell what might happen. Serviceability was the prime
requirement. I had to wear breeks because of the jump from the pontoon
to the door and also because of the necessity of slipping on and off
the flying suit which is worn outside one’s other clothing.

In Boston I remember a solicitous friend wished to give me a bag for
extra clothing.

“There isn’t going to be any,” I explained.

That appeared to concern him somewhat—certainly much more than it did
me. There seems to be a feeling that a woman preparing to drop in
on England, so to speak, ought to have something of a wardrobe.

However, I chose to take with me only what I had on. The men on the
Friendship took no “extras.” Pounds—even ounces—can count desperately.
Obviously I should not load up with unessentials if they didn’t.

I’m told it’s interesting to know exactly what the outfit included.
Just my old flying clothes, comfortably, if not elegantly, battered and
worn. High laced boots, brown broadcloth breeks, white silk blouse with
a red necktie (rather antiquated!) and a companionably ancient leather
coat, rather long, with plenty of pockets and a snug buttoning collar.
A homely brown sweater accompanied it. A light leather flying helmet
and goggles completed the picture, such as it was. A single elegance
was a brown and white silk scarf.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo closeup of Earhart strapping on a leather helmet
   caption: READY TO GO
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide shot of flying tri-motor plane with
                autographs by Byrd, Stultz, Gordon, and Earhart below
   image text: R E Byrd
               W. L. Stultz
               Lou Gordon
               Amelia M. Earhart
   caption: A PICTURE OF THE “FRIENDSHIP” OVER BOSTON, AUTOGRAPHED
            BEFORE THE FLIGHT STARTED
  ]

When it was cold I wore—as did the men—a heavy fur-lined flying
suit which covers one completely from head to toe, shoes and all. Mine
was lent to me by my friend Major Charles H. Woolley of Boston, who,
by the way, had no idea when he lent it what it was to be used for. He
suspected, I think, that I intended to do some high flying.

Toilet articles began with a toothbrush and ended with a comb. The
only extras were some fresh handkerchiefs and a tube of cold cream. My
“vanity case” was a small army knapsack.

Equipment was simple, too. Mr. Layman let me take his camera and Mrs.
Layman her wrist watch. Field glasses, with plenty of use in the Arctic
behind them, were lent me by G. P. P., and I was given a compact log
book.

Besides toothbrushes—generic term—and food, our “baggage” was a book
and a packet of messages which some of those associated with the
enterprise asked to have carried across to friends on the other side.

The book—perhaps the only one to have crossed the Atlantic by air
route—is Skyward, written by Commander Richard Evelyn Byrd. He sent it
to Mrs. Guest. Commander Byrd, of course, had owned the Friendship and
has outstandingly sponsored the wisdom of utilizing tri-motored ships
equipped with pontoons, for long-distance over-water flying. So it was
appropriate that his book should be taken to the woman who bought his
plane and made the trans-Atlantic flight possible.

This copy of his book which I delivered bears the following
inscription: “I am sending you this copy of my first book by the first
girl to cross the Atlantic Ocean by air—the very brave Miss Earhart.
But for circumstances I well know that it would have been you who would
have crossed first. I send you my heartiest congratulations and good
wishes. I admire your determination and courage.”




                              CHAPTER VI

                         OFF FOR NEWFOUNDLAND


Twice, when the weather eastward seemed right, we tried to take off.
And twice we failed because of too much fog or too little wind.

Three thirty!

Another day. Another start. Would it flatten out into failure like its
predecessors?

Out of the hotel we trooped in the greyness of before-dawn. Another
breakfast at an all-night eating place—Stultz and his wife, Gordon, his
fiancee, Mrs. Layman, Lou and Mrs. Gower, Commander and Mrs. Elmer,
George Palmer Putnam, “Jake” Coolidge, and a few others. An hour
earlier the sandwiches had been made, the patient big thermos bottle
again filled with coffee for the boys, the little one with cocoa
for me.

We drove through deserted streets to T Wharf and at once boarded the
tugboat Sadie Ross. The plane, as before, lay moored off the Jeffrey
Yacht Club in East Boston. Stultz, Gordon, Gower, and I climbed in. We
said no “good-byes”—too many of them already, and too little going!

Slim uncovered the motors. Bill tinkered a bit with his radio and in
the cockpit. Slim dropped down from the fuselage to the starboard
pontoon, hopped over to the other, and cranked the port motor. Soon all
three were turning over and Friendship taxied down the harbor, with the
tug, carrying our friends, trailing us.

And then, suddenly, the adventure began—the dream became actuality.

_We were off!_

But let me tell the story here as I wrote it that very morning, in
the little notebook that went with me across the Atlantic. Here is that
record, exactly as it was set down (often none too legibly!) in my log
book, penciled as we in the Friendship flew northeastward, with Boston
behind and Newfoundland ahead:

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 7 o’clock, June 3. Slim has the controls and Bill is tuning in. He has
 been getting our position. I squat on the floor next the m.p. [motion
 picture] camera with my feet on a dunnage bag. There is one man’s shoe
 in the passageway between the gas tanks. It looks odd, but no one
 cares about its out-of-placeness.

 We are flying at about 2,000 feet. There is a light haze and the ocean
 is smooth, with little color. From a height it looks quiet, almost
 like ice with flecks in it.

 Boston is lost to view and has been for minutes. I tried to get
 a picture of the tugboats and harbor as we left, but just before
 starting the spring lock of the cabin door broke off, and I had
 to hold the door shut until Slim could get back to repair it. It was
 at first anchored to a gasoline can, but I saw the can being slowly
 pulled out, so anchored myself to it instead.

                              * * * *

So, a few minutes after the take-off we nearly lost two of our crew.
That would have been a jolly beginning! Actually Slim came within
inches of falling out when the door suddenly slid open. And when I
dived for that gasoline can, edging towards the opening door, I, too,
had a narrow escape. However, a string tied through the leather thong
in the door itself and fastened to a brace inside the cabin held it
shut fairly securely.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 The take-off was an eventful period. The wind was fair and the water
 slightly ruffled. When we started from the tug the sun was just
 coming over the rim of the harbor. A few dawn clouds hung about
 in the pink glow. The camera men and small group who came to see the
 departure were in a happy mood. For the third time they had assembled.
 Twice before the weather had prevented a getaway. The rehearsals had
 made all familiar with the process of arising at 3:30 and boarding a
 tug at 4:30 for a “fishing trip.” Twice the thermos bottles had been
 filled and dumped and twice sandwiches had been replaced. This morning
 the whole thing was an old act. There were not so many present, as
 I had told the four friends of mine who knew of the flight, not to
 come. I didn’t fancy another farewell and return a short while later.
 However, when we got out into the harbor, a small launch came chugging
 up and in it were my banished friends.

 We were taxiing along toward open water and wind. A few craft were
 stirring, but Sunday morning does not bring out the usual activity.
 Before, in trying to get off we passed many small fishing dories and
 even had to avoid the New York boat which was just coming in.

 This time all I could see was the silhouette of the various
 landmarks in the harbor. In the early morning light it was impossible
 to distinguish colors.

 Bill headed the plane into the wind and gave her everything she had.
 We flew over the water, but the drag of the pontoons held us down.
 We tried again from a greater distance and still the water wouldn’t
 let us go. Out went six five-gallon cans of gasoline— we had only
 eight—for another try.

                              * * * *

Ordinarily a ship of this type is equipped with two wing tanks,
which carry 95 gallons of gasoline. We had four. Many people don’t
realize, when they see a monoplane in the air, the thickness of the
wings. From bottom to top the wing of Friendship measured about
twenty-eight inches in some places; but after all this, in comparison
with the great wing spread of seventy-two feet, gives an appearance
of slightness. For a long cruise extra gasoline carrying capacity is
needed, so Friendship was equipped with two special tanks, elliptical
affairs, which bulged into the space just aft of the cockpit
usually occupied by passengers.

  [Illustration:
   description: Drawing 3 vertical panel comic of 2 boys gazing out at
                ocean
   image text:
     Comic panel #1 Boy: IT TOOK SOME NOIVE FOR AMELIA EARHART TO FLY
                         OVER THE OCEAN.
     Comic panel #2 Skippy: OH, I DON’T KNOW.
     Comic panel #3 Skippy: SHE MIGHT O’ BEEN AFRAID TO GO ON A BOAT
                            ’CAUSE SHE WAS SCARED O’ GETTING SEASICK.
     Copyright 1928, Percy I. Crosby, Coastal Press Assn, Inc.
   caption: PERCY CROSBY’S SKIPPY HAS HIS OWN IDEAS ABOUT FLYING THE
            ATLANTIC
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo overhead shot of ocean ship
   caption: THE AMERICA AS PHOTOGRAPHED THROUGH THE OPEN HATCH IN THE
            BOTTOM OF THE FRIENDSHIP’S FUSELAGE
  ]

There was room between these tanks to squeeze through. Fortunately
the physical architecture of all three members of the Friendship’s
crew was distinctly Gothic. But even at that the two boys had to turn
sidewise to get through, while I, most Gothic of all, could contrive
a straight-away entrance. It was between these two tanks that I
spent many hours of the voyage, because into this space there wafted
back some of the warmth from the heater in the cockpit. The after
part of the cabin was unheated and often reached uncomfortably low
temperatures.

In addition to the gas carried in the wing and these supplementary
tanks, we had on board a limited amount in five-gallon tins. This was
not only a supplementary supply, but was carried in this form for
quick dumping in case of emergency. It was advantageous, too, to have
the weight distributed well astern. In taking off, all of us,
except Bill, crowded as far aft as we could.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 Mr. Gower came back into the hold in order to force the nose up as
 far as possible. To no avail.

                              * * * *

Lou Gower is an expert pilot, with much big-ship experience, who had
been retained as a sort of understudy for Stultz in case of sickness
or accident. It was hoped he could go as far as Trepassey, there to
share the work of the two men who actually would carry through on the
Atlantic flight.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 As Bill turned the ship’s nose around, Gower began pulling his flying
 suit from the bag. His shoes and a small personal package were all
 he had in addition. Slim called for a boat from the tug and G. bade
 us adieu very quietly. I didn’t want him to go, but of course
 realized he was the only one to leave and a sacrifice of something
 was necessary to be able to get off. He is a dependable person, a
 true sport who appreciates a situation very quickly, and an excellent
 pilot. As soon as the little boat came from the tug with R. E. and
 G. P. P. aboard, Gower left us.

 For the first time then I felt the Friendship really lighten on the
 water and knew the difference of a few pounds had made her a bird.

 67 seconds to get off. We bank, swoop down and with gathering speed
 zoom over the tug. I hope the cameras [those on the tug] registered,
 for the ship looks beautiful in flight.

                              * * * *

All that was written in the first part of the journey after leaving
Boston. It was less than an hour out when the next entry in the diary
is recorded.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 I can see fifteen little fishing vessels. Probably they can’t see
 each other.

 96 miles out (1 hour). 7:30. 2500 ft. Bill shows me on the map
 that we are near Cash’s Ledge. We cannot see anything (if there is
 anything to see), as the haze makes visibility poor. The sun is
 blinding in the cockpit and will be, for a couple of hours. Bill is
 crouching by the hatchway, taking sights.

                              * * * *

The drift indicator was on the floor by the hatchway which had to be
opened each time speed and drift calculations were made.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 Hooray! Nova Scotia at 8:55. Fear Island. We are flying at 2000. I
 can look down and see many white gulls flying over the green land.
 A few houses are clustered together, and a dory is pulled up on
 the shore. There is a rocky ledge around the islands which makes a
 ruffle. They look very flat and the trees are foreshortened.

 We are making good time with the wind’s help.

 I have in my ears some little rubber ear stops which Mrs. Byrd sent.
 She said Commander B. had used them in his trans-Atlantic
 flight, and was the only one who could hear when the plane reached
 the other side. I am eager to see whether they work, as both the men
 are without them.

 Pubnico Harbor is below. Bill figures 114 m.p.h. since we left Boston.

 What a jagged coast. There are few roads. Many little houses nestle
 in the woods seemingly out of communication with anything for miles.

 One can see deeply into the water and mark shoals and currents. What
 an easy way to see what are bugaboos for surface craft.

 The haze is not so marked now and the wind is rougher. This ship
 flies smoothly, but I know a smaller one would be tossed about.

 The color of the sand about the edges of the water differs; some is
 white, some rusty. I cannot see any breakers, except far out—the sea
 is calm with sparking ripples.

 Our shadow skims over the treetops. The people whom I cannot see are
 probably used to the sight and sound of strange planes.

                              * * * *

During the last two years this remote country has had many
visitors from the air. These people, I think, have come to feel a
real intimacy with the flyers. There have been Lindbergh and Byrd, de
Pinedo, Mrs. Grayson, possibly Old Glory, and in the old days, the
N. C. 4’s, disregarding the incidental flights which doubtless have
winged over this territory.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 What makes people live on little jets of land like this one?

 White, white sand and curving wrinkled water, windswept and barren.

 I have changed my seat to a gas can, one of the two saved this
 morning.

 A green mottled shore line comes into view. We are running into
 clouds and haze again. The former are scudding fast, but we
 outdistance them.

 The motors are humming sweetly.

                               * * *

 Continued. I have dozed off and awake to find us flying at 2000 above
 a sea of fog. The wind is rough and Bill is shutting off the motors.
 I suppose we shall go down through it to see where we are. As far
 as one can see there are swirls of white cloud.

 Oh, the weather! The sun is shining above here, but the haze is
 becoming greater. We are now about 500 feet over the water. Land is to
 our left.

 Since I wrote the last we have circled the harbor of Halifax twice and
 slipped to a landing. Bill went 30 miles beyond and found fog to the
 treetops, so came back to the clearing here.

 The natives are swarming to the shore and several dories are coming
 out.

 Bill and Slim are going over to the land to get reports with the hope
 we can go on later. I am to stay aboard now, as we all are, later, if
 there is chance of continuing.

 The mournful sound of the fog horn disturbs my peace and hope. I
 hardly think we could take off here even without fog, as there is no
 wind at all. Well, anyway, I’d rather visit Halifax this way than any
 other I can think of.

 An orange, carefully provided by G. P. P., tastes good. ’Tis my first
 food.

 Bill and Slim have returned with news of rain and clouds ahead.

 A light wind is springing up which may help the situation.

 We are half-way to Trepassey. The coastline will help us in navigating
 for a while unless the fog cuts off the view.

 Bill says he’ll try to make T., so Slim is cranking up. A broken
 primer is found, but we start without soldering it, as time is
 precious. We have already lost an hour by change of time.

 The fog and clouds look pretty bad. The Flight Sergeant at Halifax
 says we may return, and we agree. Bill says the Newfoundland coast is
 bad enough, but in a fog won’t be tried.

 We are flying blind on the right side, but can see a little on the
 left. Probably rain ahead.

 I tried to take a m. p. of our leaving Halifax. I had to take it
 through the glass, and don’t imagine it will be worth much.

 Time of leaving H. about 2:30.

 Slim comes back to pump gas into the right tank from the small cans.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide shot of tri-motor airplane taking off from
                water
   caption: ON THE STEP
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide outdoor shot of 6 standing people
   caption: FLYING TO BOSTON—GORDON, A. E., STULTZ, MRS. GORDON,
            MRS. STULTZ, MRS. PUTNAM
            © _International Newsreel_
  ]

 We are turning back. The fog spreads out ahead of us like a great
 fuzz.

 Into the clear again. What luck to have the fog block us!

 Bill slips her into Halifax for a perfect landing just behind a
 Canadian Fairchild pontoon job. The Flight Sergeant comes over and
 helps to anchor her. After consultation we invite him in and put the
 situation of my retiring disposition before him.

                              * * * *

When we were forced down in Halifax our difficulties of maintaining
secrecy increased. Publicity, we feared, was probably unescapable. But
at all events, escape seemed worth an effort. And especially, so far
as possible, we thought it wise to conceal the presence of a woman on
the Friendship. The Sergeant had the surprise of his life when he came
aboard the plane to look over the equipment and found me part of it.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 He thinks a government official will take me in while the boys go to a
 hotel. Consequently I stay on the plane while the others go back
 to find out. They’ll pick me up later.

 In the meantime a ham sandwich is food. I don’t dare take pictures
 lest the people see I am present.

 The plane rides at her moorings and the waves of passing launches
 knock the pontoons with hammer blows. Water is very hard.

 At last the gang comes for me. It is decided to go to a small hotel
 in Dartmouth. It is Sunday, and Orchard Day, besides being the King’s
 birthday. Consequently, no one much is at home. We have difficulty
 finding the proprietor of the hotel even. He has no rooms in the main
 building and we are shown to the Annex. It is very informal. The key
 hangs behind the door for all who know where to find it. A strange
 billiard table rests in the main hall. Our rooms are on the third
 floor.

 This country would be grand for camping. Real solitude with lovely
 little lakes and bays. The pine trees don’t look attractive as landing
 fields, but do for outings. Slim says in this connection that he was
 glad of pontoons for the first time, as he looked over the landscape.

 12 P.M. Two reporters and camera men are in the next room trying
 to persuade Stultz and G. to dress and have a flashlight picture
 taken. I am displeased with their thoughtlessness in keeping the men
 (Bill and Slim) awake. I don’t know whether the newspaper men know I
 am here so I am not shouting my sentiments.

 It is now 9:45. We are out of Halifax about 15 minutes. The take-off
 took one minute in a perfectly calm sea. We loaded 100 gals. of gas
 after we had waited since about 7 A.M. until 9 for its arrival. Any
 other day in the year, I suppose, would have been better to get it. I
 wandered around and looked over the station, stopping a few minutes
 in what I was told was Commander Byrd’s home when he was in charge
 of the station during the war. Major Harrup is there now and while
 the station is not active just now, is going to be soon, with several
 seaplanes assigned to it.

 We had many encounters with newspaper men this morning. We were
 called at 5:30, and the hotel served us a little after six—unusual
 service for a holiday. Slim is feeling ill still, but managed to eat
 something. We had two pictures taken before breakfast; interviews
 at, and pictures and interviews afterward. When we arrived at the
 station we met more camera men and reporters.

 We went over to the plane in the tug which carried the gas. I chatted
 with the men who handled it and was assured that rubbing gas and oil
 on one’s hair made it grow and was good for it every day. We spilled
 some fuel on the water and I thought of the accident to De Pinedo’s
 ship caused by throwing a cigarette on the water afterward.

 The air is exceedingly rough today. We are flying at 2000. The land
 which was covered with fog yesterday is sparklingly clear today. The
 sea is beautifully blue and there are a few light clouds.

 We have a sheaf of Halifax newspapers with strange assertions about us
 all. They will make strange reading matter if we ever have opportunity
 to re-read them.

 Bill is trying to get some one to answer his signals. He can hear
 others and apparently can send. The radio man at Halifax said he’d
 listen and answer.

 We are flying along the coast. The water appears shallow, as I
 can see the bottom in many places. A flock of birds rise from the
 water at our shadow. They resemble in movement and shape the spreading
 out of the little stars in a skyrocket.

 The inhabitants who come to look at us wear red shirts or skirts. Red
 seems to be a favorite rural color. Cows and horses don’t like us.

 What cruel rocks these ledges are. Sharp and narrow, they look like
 sharks.

 I move to sit on a gas can by the window. What a comfortable passenger
 plane this would be with the gas tanks removed and windows made in the
 sides. There is a small steamer to the right. I wonder if she knows
 who we are. I wonder if we know.

                                * *

 There is more sea than land now and we fly at 1800.

 In a way, I am glad of the stop at Halifax, for I always think it
 better for a motor to run gradually to long grinds.

 We can see a haze. Reports last night said 200 miles of fog. I hope
 all 200 miles of it have gone away. (Temperature outside: 52°.
 Inside 58°.♦)

 ♦ “)” added

 Bill shows me where we are. 11:55 and the plane is off Cape Canso. He
 is trying radio again and has hooked up the other set.

 The wind is steadier over the sea.

 Slim comes back for a sandwich. We seem to have endless ham
 sandwiches. Coffee and cocoa will be taken on at Trepassey and a few
 fresh things.

                              * * * *

This plethora of ham sandwiches, it developed, was our own fault. We
simply didn’t explore far enough. Three generous lunches had been
prepared for us by the Copley Plaza Hotel, arranged for a “fishing
trip.” The tactical error was putting all the ham sandwiches on the top
layer. We never got beyond them. Later, to our chagrin, we discovered
that below there were similar layers of delicious chicken and tongue
sandwiches, hard boiled eggs and much beside. We never had the courage
to determine exactly what else there might have been.

The gastronomic adventures of trans-oceanic flying really deserve
a record of their own. Our own highlights were varied. Ham sandwiches
seemed to predominate en route. At Trepassey it was canned rabbit,
in London the desserts were strawberries, and home again in America
chicken appeared invariably on all state occasions.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 Bill has been flying. G. now has controls. The sea looks like the back
 of an elephant, the same kind of wrinkles.

 Nothing but blue sea. A low rim of fog far to the right.

 Hooray! Bill has picked up a station. 12:15. He is taking something.

 We are flying at 3200 ft. Temperature down to 53° inside.

 The fog bank is nearer and looks pretty thick. It shadows the water.
 We are nosing down and the air is rougher. The motors are racing, and
 the a.s.i. [air speed indicator] registers 100 m.p.h. It has been
 about 86.

 12:50. Newfoundland sighted to the left. More fog to the rt.
 than in direction we wish. I notice the motors synchronize every five
 seconds at the speed they are running.

 Change of time 2:00 p.m. Bill says we are making in actual speed 115
 m.p.h.

 2:20. A steamer sighted to the left. We are too far from it for me to
 take a picture. Anyway we are running with considerable haze.

 2:35. We have left the sun behind and are just under a bank of clouds.
 Alt. 3000.

 St. Mary’s Bay in sight. 2:50. Visibility better. Clear toward sea.
 The fog hangs in white curly masses over the land.

 We are near Trepassey. What is in store for us?

                              * * * *

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo
   caption: STULTZ IN THE COCKPIT OF THE FRIENDSHIP LOOKING AFT
            BETWEEN THE GASOLINE TANKS
            © _P & A Photos_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo medium shot of Stultz, Earhart, and Gordon with
                arms interlinked
   caption: TWO MUSKETEERS AND—WHAT IS A FEMININE MUSKETEER?
  ]

[Illustration: TWO MUSKETEERS AND—WHAT IS A FEMININE MUSKETEER?]

We had expected a pretty routine landing and so I crawled into the
cockpit to take pictures of the reception committee. But as a matter
of fact Friendship’s arrival resembled a rodeo. At once a dozen small
boats began to circle madly about us, the local motto seeming to be
that the early boat catches the plane. It happened that we had
arranged for a mooring of our own to which we wished to be directed.
But each local optimist felt that if he contrived to get us in tow
first he could take the prize to his own mooring and reap appropriate
reward.

Poised in the bows of the launches each maritime cowboy whirled aloft
a coil of rope, attempting to cast it at us. Slim, out on the pontoon,
was doing his best to keep clear and yelled frantically to ward them
off. The noise of the idling motors, augmented by the racket of the
small boats, made hearing difficult. I was convulsed with laughter. In
the cockpit, Bill, I fear, was talking to God about it. What concerned
him most was the risk of ropes becoming entangled in the propellers,
and especially the danger to the visitors themselves in getting too
close to whirling props. At the height of the excitement enthusiasm
completely overcame one would-be welcomer. He hurled his rope and
landed a bull’s eye on Slim, nearly knocking him into the water.
Fortunately I couldn’t hear what Slim said; at best his enthusiasm for
marine affairs was never notable.

The tempo of the maritime merry-go-round was extraordinary. Truly, I’ve
never had a more entertaining half hour.

Finally we contrived to get the thought across that the most we wanted
was to be guided to our own mooring, which we could reach under our own
power. Andy Fulgoni, Paramount camera man, finally caught the idea and
circling around in his own launch contrived to clear the way for us. In
due course, Bill sailed to the mooring and made fast.




                              CHAPTER VII

                             AT TREPASSEY


_Log Book:_

 June 5,—2:45. There is a howling gale outside. The wind has blown
 steadily since we arrived and is getting worse now. Bill says it would
 be grand if we were in the air, but we can’t take off against the hill
 across the bay. We’d have to turn and turning would mean a slide into
 the water, with a heavily loaded plane and side wind.

 Slim is aboard now repairing a crack in oil tank with cement and
 adhesive tape. It was thought first that the case would have to be
 taken off—an impossible job in the wind.

 Everything is being done for a possible departure. The radio was
 cutting out yesterday but today Bill says he found the trouble in a
 loose connection.

 We are lodged in one of the mansions of the town.

 It is difficult to raise anything here but “badadoes,” “tornips” and
 cabbage. Each family has a garden, a few sheep and usually a cow.

 The stove here is a three-decker, with the oven on top. Heavy iron
 kettles and pots are used for cooking. Tea and coffee only are known.
 Houses are clean and fences white-washed.

 I could enjoy myself were it not for anxiety about a take-off today,
 and the disgusting news of publicity. Every few minutes a telegraph
 operator patters over and hands me a telegram from some one. Some are
 lovely, and others disturb me greatly. The latest says B. papers carry
 a story I went to recoup fallen fortunes of family.

 A photographer is on the way. The train has just pulled in—it comes
 twice a week, and the town watches to see who gets off.

 (Continued after tea.) The boys have come. All are cheerful. One by
 one the natives drop in to see us.

 I was welcomed at the landing as the first woman to come to
 Newfoundland. I didn’t get the point. Perhaps the agent mean flyin’. I
 dunno. I said I was honored. He said Nfld. was. La de da.

 School had been let out early and I have a vision of many white
 pinafores and aprons on the dock. As soon as we stepped ashore we were
 given three cheers and the (aforementioned) government agent rushed
 up. Also the telegraph operator with three telegrams for me. We were
 led to a dinner of chicken and dandelions and “badadoes.”

 Mrs. Deveraux (at the home of whom we are lodged) was quite overcome,
 and felt me to be sure I was present in the flesh.

 We may not get off tomorrow as the wind is as violent as ever; which
 means the expected storm is coming nearer.

                              * * * *

The wind held the key to our problems. For three days it blew briskly
from the northwest. This was ideal for the flight itself, but far from
ideal locally, as it stirred up such sea it was impossible to load the
gasoline with safety. What’s more, Bill feared that the heavy weight
of the load left on board the Friendship might seriously injure
her as she was buffeted about in the rough water.

The necessity of landing at all at Trepassey was a tragedy for us,
the extent of which became apparent during the fortnight of delay
which followed. Had we been able to carry enough gas from Halifax we
certainly would have kept on eastward as the flying conditions on
the day of our arrival appeared ideal. But once in Trepassey we were
trapped.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 (Next morning.) The wind is changing though still stormy. The
 additional gas is being put aboard and Bill, after looking over the
 situation, is snoozing. The wind is veering back and forth, now from
 S. now from N.? The old-timers say a S.W. wind is due. We hope so!!!!!

 After supper, June 6. Bill has just been flying the kite and trying
 out the emergency radio. Andy Fulgoni, Claud Frazer and I went
 into the doctor’s and heard his signals very plainly. He was trying
 to reach Cape Race. Just now the gang has gone to W.U., and I haven’t
 heard whether they were successful.

 We have spent one indolent day. After the excitement of the morning,
 when the wind seemed to be shifting permanently, all of us had a
 sleep. Bill chopped a little wood. Slim and I played “rummy.” I read
 one of the six books here, “The Story of the Titanic Disaster.” We
 have read telegrams and scanned maps and weather reports. I took a
 walk with Andy and Claud Frazer.

 For supper we had canned rabbit. Bill’s comment when he first tasted
 it was: “Here’s something they caught last year—something that
 couldn’t get away.”

 We had fish today for the first time—canned last year in Newfoundland.
 Slim hates fish, and had been told that was all there was to eat. Also
 that even eggs would taste of fish because hens were fed on fish. He
 has been eating chocolates by the package and seems to thrive.

                              * * * *

Slim hails from Texas. Geographically and temperamentally he is
no sailor. Even the word “pontoon” made him stutter a bit, and neither
salt water nor its products held any joy for him. Consequently he had
been plentifully stuffed with stories of what life meant in a fishing
village by the sea. To make matters worse he had had a severe attack of
ptomaine poisoning from eating clams in Boston just before we started.
The only escape led to the little local store and its limited supply of
candy. Before we left we had completely absorbed its entire stock.

                              * * * *

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide shot of 2 story house
   caption: “X MARKS THE SPOT”—OUR HOME IN TREPASSEY
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo of sparse dirt road
   caption: MAIN STREET, TREPASSEY
  ]

_Log Book:_

 Bill has just come in, with weather reports. He has wired Byrd for
 confirmation of plans and advice. If the wind holds as now (from
 north) we can get away. The old codgers talking here, told me the
 wind calms down about 4 a.m., so I suggested we get out of this
 trap and into the next harbor. The change in the wind may make this
 unnecessary. The boys have retired in the hope the wind stays as
 is, or moves north.

 Funny spelling in the paper from St. John’s. “D’oyleys” meaning little
 paper mats. The language is peculiar. There are too many “r’s.” And
 often an “oi” sound where one doesn’t belong. “Poilet” for pilot.

 I investigated hooked rugs today. Mrs. D. has them all over the house;
 some made from cotton washed ashore twenty years ago from a wreck. By
 the way, much of the silver and some furniture is from wrecks which
 ground on this “Graveyard of the Atlantic.”

                              * * * *

The cruelty of country and climate is surely a contrast to the kind
hearts of the people of Newfoundland. They were untiringly good to us.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 June 7, 1928.

 After an early rise to get the ship ready, the wind calmed, and we
 waited for it to freshen and also for weather reports. After getting
 favorable ones we thought about noon we would be able to get off,
 as the wind changed and water grew rough.

 In vain we tried three times and had to give up. Slim had cemented a
 pontoon which had sprung a leak and is now soldering the cracked oil
 tank which the cement and adhesive tape didn’t repair.

 Just now Bill is playing on a strange instrument with Andy. They
 are trying to learn it from directions given. The fence is lined
 with listeners who are starved for music. The only music here is
 two “Gramophones”—this instrument, a “guitar harp”—and a piano. The
 fence is lined with men as soon as any music is started. Though the
 people crave it, they don’t try to have any. How different from the
 expressive South! Here emotions are as unexpressed as nature is barren.

 Friday. Is it possible we have been here so long? I didn’t get up very
 early ce matin as I depended upon being waked. The thing which did get
 me up was the strain of “Jingle Bells” played by Wilmer Stultz on the
 strange instrument described before. Just now Slim is asleep.

 Bill and Andy and Frazer out in a dory with a sail. Bill has my
 leather coat as neither of the boys brought anything but ordinary
 coats.

 They played at tying knots all the morning, and Slim and I had “rummy”
 games. I have been having a terrific run of luck—winning every game
 nearly, at a cent a point. We played until after ten last night—very
 late hour for us.

 The men are simply great under the strain. Our hopes are high today
 as the barometer is rising and everything points to favorable weather
 soon.

 I went out in a launch yesterday and was run on the rocks. The leak
 made was so bad that the boat had to be beached this morning for
 repairs. The water is shallow along the shore, and, as I have said
 before, the rocks are cruel.

 The men from here go fishing next week and will be gone five weeks.
 They are preparing for their voyages now. I should think they’d get
 out of the habit of working. I am sure they would if living didn’t
 have to be scratched for so hard.

 Compared with Tyler St. the children here seem very quiet. I
 think they are unusually so anyway. I just heard two make some noise
 and it sounded very strange. Of course, they are shy, too.

                              * * * *

For two years I have been associated with Denison House, Boston’s
old settlement center on Tyler Street, where the children are
anything but quiet. There they are mostly Chinese and Syrians. All
city children somehow seem noisy. Perhaps that is because of their
cramped surroundings. And especially, of course, the urban child is
boldly independent, while the children of remote communities have so
little contact with the outer world that they are self-conscious with
strangers.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 June 9, 1928.

 The evening of the day is here. The boys and I played “rummy” all the
 morning and I lost for a change. At luncheon we had lamb stew.
 Apparently no one knows about cooking lamb except by boiling. I should
 love to have a chop. At supper we had fresh salmon. It was delicious.
 Slim and I sat and talked over the meal while Bill went to W.U. The
 boys had been out fishing in the afternoon. They started to explore
 a cave but found the water too rough. There are two good caves here
 which have never been explored. How I’d like to explore them. There
 might be buried treasure—in fact, there have been several attempts
 to dig up some at the other end of the bay. I don’t know who the
 “buriers” are supposed to be.

 Mr. Deveraux has just come in and suggested we go eeling. I have just
 returned from a walk and the boys from Fulgoni’s. Eeling is off. The
 gang is going down on a gasoline rail car for a ride. They have wired
 the Supt. for permission to use it and are off to Biscay Bay. They
 wear their flying suits, as the wind is really cold.

 Our telegrams decreased today. I had time to wash my hair. I wish I
 had manicuring facilities and a bath tub.

 June 10.

 The indefatigable Bill insisted on going eeling or trouting or
 exploring. Slim refused to get up and slept until five. Bill dragged
 the other two, and two natives, with him to the other end of the bay.
 They constructed an eel trap before they left but took poles too.
 At six they returned with some beautiful speckled trout, nearly all
 caught by B. S. He hiked back into the woods to a stream while the
 others sat and caught one sea trout from the boat.

 Fog has come in thick and woolly and rain is now accompanying. The
 weather reports sound favorable but there is no chance of our getting
 out of this fog I fear. Job had nothing on us. We are just managing to
 keep from suicide.

 June 11.

 The fog has cleared and I think a wind is coming. Bill has a hunch we
 move soon. I hope he is right. We have not yet received G.P.’s report.

 10:35 p.m. I have never been so faithful to a diary. No luck today.
 We could have got off here but the Atlantic wasn’t inviting. Reports
 today say mayhap tomorrow noon will be propitious.

 The gang went to see the old spiked cannon on the hill at the mouth of
 the bay. They are overgrown and are at least 200 yrs. old. They bear
 G.R. on them. We all came home and tried to work puzzles the whole
 evening.

 Andy has a passion for stuffing the town gossip here, so slipped out
 to tell him the usual string of stories for the day. This morning he
 had him [the t.g.] up at five for the take-off which he promised rain
 or shine.

 Oh, if only we can get away soon. It is hard indeed to remain sans
 books, sans contact with one’s interests and withal on a terrific
 strain.

 The wind is chill tonight and even with a flannel nightgown I know I
 shall shiver.

                              * * * *

The flannel nightgown referred to was borrowed and I began to feel that
even its sturdy fabric would be worn out before we ever got away from
Trepassey—although I didn’t know about the wearing qualities of flannel
gowns, never having had one before. Incidentally its warmth was
supplemented by the down beds upon which we slept and into which we
sank luxuriously.

I have said my outfit consisted of a toothbrush and two handkerchiefs
when we shoved off from Boston. The toothbrush was holding out, which
is more than I can say for some of the rest of my personal equipment.

After a week of waiting, a telegram came from G. P. P. in New York.

“Suggest you turn in and have your laundering done.”

To which I dispatched this reply:

  [Illustration:
   description: Western Union telegram with message
   image text:
               WESTERN UNION
               NEWCOMB CARLTON, PRESIDENT
               J.C. WILLEVER, FIRST VICE-PRESIDENT

               CLASS OF SERVICE
               This is a full-rate Telegram or Cablegram unless its
               character is indicated by a symbol in the check or in
               the address.

               Form 1201 S
               SYMBOLS
               BLUE | Day Letter
               NITE | Message
               NL   | Night Letter
               LCO  | Deferred
               CLT  | Cable Letter
               WLT  | Week End Letter

               The filing time as shown in the date line on full-rate
               telegrams and day letters, and the time of receipt at
               destination as shown on all messages is STANDARD TIME.

               Received at
               445 West 13th Street, New York

               145NP AJO 18 COLLECT

               TREPASSEY, NF JUNE 9---1928

               G. P. PUTNAM

               NEWYORK

               THANKS FATHERLY TELEGRAM
               NO WASHING NECESSARY
               SOCKS UNDERWEAR WORN OUT
               SHIRT LOST TO SLIM AT RUMMY
               CHEERIO

               A E

               910PM
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full shot of Slim Gordon working on airplane
                struts
   caption: SLIM ON THE JOB
            © _International Photos_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full of man standing in front of very tall
                woodpile
   caption: THE INEVITABLE WINTER WOODPILE
  ]

It is a long time since I have bought hose at 35c a pair. That was
top-price in Trepassey. A khaki shirt was another purchase. With
a safety pin taking a tuck in the back of the collar, it fitted
reasonably well.

Bill and I wore the same size shirt. An echo of its tailoring came
later when Mrs. Stultz confessed to me that on first seeing Bill’s
Trepassey purchase she had asked him what it was.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 June 12.

 This has been the worst day.

 We tried for four hours to get away in a wind we had been praying
 for. The most unexpected and disappointing circumstance ruined the
 take-off. The receding tide made the sea so heavy that the spray was
 thrown so high that it drowned the outboard motors. As we gathered
 speed, the motors would cut and we’d lose the precious pull necessary.

 The ship seemed so loggy that Bill felt there must be water in the
 pontoons. So Slim stayed on the job and opened every hatch to see. He
 found only about a gallon and swears he’ll never open another one.

 We unloaded every ounce of stuff from the plane—camera, my coat, bags,
 cushions, etc.

 She would have gone but for the motors. There was salt water above the
 prop. hubs.

 I received some letters today and Andy brought over some “day after
 the take-off” papers in Boston. I couldn’t read them under the
 circumstances of this day. We were all too disappointed to talk. The
 boys are in bed and I am going soon. We rise at six.

 Wednesday Evening.

 The days grow worse. I think each time we have reached the low, but
 find we haven’t.

 Vainly we tried to rise today with our load.

 Today Bill and Slim tried to take her off after she had been
 “degassed” by 300 lbs. The left motor cut and they couldn’t get her
 off light. While working with it they set some yokel to watch the
 tide, but he forgot, and it ran out leaving them on a sandy ledge.
 They got the motor repaired and will have to go out at midnight to
 float her down to the buoy. We may try for the Azores tomorrow, if
 possible at dawn.

 I went to the Catholic School for maps but found nothing
 helpful but a huge globe. I promised to write the sisters if we hit
 land anywhere. I am going to bed as I can’t help and none of us are
 sleeping much any more and we need all we can get. We are on the
 ragged edge.

 Bill is getting ship reports at midnight tonight and will make his
 own weather map from them.

                              * * * *

The next log book entry emphasizes our isolation. The only newspapers
we’d seen had been a stray batch from Boston, describing the take-off.
By then that seemed in the dark ages. So far as we knew we were
comfortably forgotten by the world. Echoes only came to us in personal
messages, and at that time it was impossible to realize that any
general interest remained.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 Apparently from the telegrams to me today our troubles are painted
 heavily for they all say—“stick to it,” “we’re for you,” etc.
 One inventor has written he will install his invention gratuitously
 and guarantee we can get off with maximum load. Our efficiency will
 be increased 35% etc. It will take only a month to get the apparatus
 here, and twelve hours to install. We all wish we had a dozen with us.

 I saw an interesting stunt. There are wells here and all water has to
 be carried to the houses. A little girl—a really little girl—put two
 buckets of H2O on a stick and then separated the buckets by a barrel
 hoop and stepped inside. Thus she could carry the two without having
 them hit her legs.

 The evening of the 15th day. We have had a musical evening again
 tonight. The old harp was bro’t forth and Bill and Andy played. It is
 very funny to see two able-bodied men picking out “Jingle Bells.” Two
 are required for the feat and I am terribly amused. Bill has a good
 deal of music in him and knows some Spanish stuff of which I am very
 fond.

 Today has been happier as a whole. We all appeared this morning vowing
 to change clothes and clean up. I bought a 90c green checked Mother
 Hubbard, the best in stock and a pair of tan hose. With borrowed
 shoes, skirt and slip, I pitched in and washed everything else. Bill
 borrowed trousers, and had his suit cleaned and pressed and his shirts
 laundered. He purchased a new tie as the one he had was fast “going to
 the devil” and some Trepassey socks. Slim also is spic and span. All
 we need are baths, manicures and haircuts—none of which are obtainable
 here.

                              * * * *

In those last days at Trepassey, one bit of news that did filter in
from the outside world cheered us mightily. That was word of the
successful flight of the Southern Cross from San Francisco across the
Pacific. She was a tri-motor Fokker, engined with Wright Whirlwind
motors, practically identical with the Friendship except that she was
not equipped with pontoons.

They made it; so could we. Their accomplishment was a challenge.




                             CHAPTER VIII

                                ACROSS


_Log Book:_

 SUNDAY—At the present time we have been out an hour. Land has gone
 in the haze and we are almost into the fog bank which hangs always
 off the coast of Newfoundland. We have 1500 ft. and both boys are in
 the cockpit. Me, I am holding down a pile of flying suits, as we left
 every ounce we could spare at Trepassey and the three cushions were
 among the things discarded.

 We made three tries before we got off and went up from a heavy sea
 with one motor so wet it has just come in full recently. We had to
 throw out all our canned gas. We have only 700 gals, with us now.

                              * * * *

That was the first entry in the log book following the actual take-off
from Trepassey. We left the harbor about 11:15 in the morning,
having waited until then for final weather reports. The villagers had
seen us “start” so often they had lost faith, so there were only a few
on shore to see the Friendship take the air.

I had left a telegram to be sent half an hour after we had gone.

“Violet. Cheerio.

“A. E.”

That was the message. The code word “Violet” meant “We are just hopping
off.” That was our official good-bye to America.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 A motion picture camera and the boys’ thermos bottle left. We have
 only the small thermos filled with coffee for the boys. I shan’t drink
 anything probably unless we come down.

                              * * * *

By the way, our rations might be considered eccentric. About half of
the five gallons of mineral water put on at Boston remained. There
were three elephantine egg sandwiches. (Trepassey bread is
home-made in round loaves.) Eight or nine oranges survived from the
original supply. A couple of tins of Drake’s oatmeal cookies were
luxury. For emergency ration, we had a few tins of pemmican, a bottle
of Horlick’s Malted Milk tablets, and some Hershey’s chocolate. And
that, I think, completed the larder.

                              * * * *

 This ship takes off better in a fairly smooth sea, it seems. I have
 learned a lot and designers of pontoons have something to learn too.

 We are skimming the fluffy top of the fog now, having wobbled through
 to 2500 feet. Bill is at the controls until we get out of it. He
 thinks we shall pass through alternate storm areas and clears the
 whole distance. Wisps of cloud flit past the windows of the cabin.
 Sometimes the fog obscures everything.

 We are climbing fast to crawl over now. Almost 3000 ft.!

 There is very blue sky above and when last I saw H2O it was also
 brilliant.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide shot of tri-motor airplane floating on
                water
   caption: THE FRIENDSHIP OFF TREPASSEY
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo of 2 sheep grazing in rock field
   caption: B-A-A-A! A FRONT LAWN AT TREPASSEY
  ]

 As we left Newfoundland we flew about 1000 ft. over the land. I
 watch the shapes of the many lakes, large and small, which cover the
 terrain. Two are gigantic footprints; another a buffalo—another a
 prehistoric animal.

  [Illustration:
   description: Drawing of dinosaur with cursive handwritten text
   image text: is this a pleseosaurus?
  ]

 There were many “things” depicted with lumpy paws and flat head and
 the usual accumulation of abnormalities belonging to the genus Thing.
 3300 ft. Over an extensive cushion of fleecy fog.

 Bill has been at radio and writes CEV to me. I grab call book and find
 SS. Elmworth is calling.

 Soon Cape Race asks how things are going.

 We are at 5000 now getting out of fog, but into a storm. A flurry of
 snow just passed below. I can see clear weather to right, but not
 ahead. Temperature back here 42 degrees. I am not cold, as I got used
 to cold in Trepassey.

 Speaking of Fog again, I know Dunsany would like to see the world
 above the earth. Irish fogs have been described in detail, and
 their bilious effect, and their fairies and their little people.
 But no one has written of a bird’s-eye view of one from an imaginative
 eye.

 I may not be cold, but my coat will make me more comfortable.

 4000 ft. More than three tons of us hurtling through the air. We are
 in the storm now. 3 tons is shaken considerably.

                              * * * *

People are so likely to think of planes as frail craft that I draw
attention to this entry. Friendship weighs 6000 pounds empty, and on
the flight she carried about her own weight again.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 Bill is nosing her down, all motors wide.

 We are bucking a head wind and rain. Heaviest storm I have ever been
 in, in the air, and had to go through. The sea below looks fairly
 placid, but of course the surface appears flat from 3000.

                              * * * *

A surprising element of flying, at first, is the flatness of the
earth’s contours as seen from above—even sizeable hills dwarf. This
tendency gives one a feeling of security and a comfortable belief that
a safe landing can be made almost anywhere.

“The higher the safer” is a good adage. The air itself isn’t dangerous,
as I have said before. The greater the altitude, the larger the pilot’s
choice in picking and being able to reach a landing field in an
emergency.

Don’t ask a pilot to stay close to the ground, unless he is flying over
geographical billiard tables.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 I see some clear sea ahead and the air is getting bumpy, as one would
 expect between areas of cloud and sun. Slim comes back to say snow is
 in the air. I know it.

 I have just come back from sitting up front. Slim at the controls with
 Bill advising him. Bill has homing pigeon sense of direction.... He
 tells Slim to keep at 106.

 We have been out of snow a long while now and the sun is shining
 and the water blue as far as one can see. There are some clouds
 ahead—what, I don’t know. They look high and white.

                              * * * *

Those clouds ahead continued from there on. Not again on the flight did
we see the ocean. Skippy was right—it was no sea voyage.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 140 m.p.h. now. Wonderful time. Temp. 52. The heater from cockpit
 warms the cabin too.

 Bill says radio is cuckoo. He is calling now.

 There is so much to write. I wonder whether ol’ diary will hold out.

 I see clouds coming. They lie on the horizon like a long shore line.

 I have just uncurled from lying on Major Woolley’s suit for half an
 hour. I came off this morn with such a headache that I could hardly
 see. I thought if I put it to sleep it might get lost in the
 billows of fog we are flying over.

 There is nothing to see but churned mist, very white in the afternoon
 sun. I can’t see an end to it. 3600 ft. temp. 52, 45 degrees outside.
 I have et a orange, one of the originals. At T. our infrequent oranges
 came from Spain, under-nourished little bloods.

                              * * * *

Very “original” those oranges, almost historic! They were purchased
in Boston in the dark ages of the Friendship’s take-offs. In the
three unsuccessful efforts during that fortnight of disappointments,
they went out to the ship with us each morning and came back again to
the hotel. But sturdy oranges they proved to be, and nearly a month
later were still in good form when they finally found a place on our
mid-Atlantic menu.

On the trans-Atlantic flight three oranges, appropriately from
California, comprised my full bill-of-fare with the exception of
probably a dozen malted milk tablets. The sandwiches and the
coffee I left to the boys. Somehow I wasn’t hungry and, curiously, at
the end of the trip there still wasn’t any particular desire for food.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 4:15. Bill has just opened the motor to climb over this fog. We are
 3800 and climbing.

 Creatures of fog rear their heads above the surroundings. And what a
 wallop we get as we go through them.

 Bill has just picked up XHY British Ship Rexmore, which gives us
 bearing. 48 no. 39 west 20:45 GMT. The fog is growing patchy and great
 holes of ocean can be seen. XHY will inform NY of our position.

 As I look out of the window I see a true rainbow—I mean the famous
 circle. It is of course moving at our speed and is on our right, sun
 being to port a trifle. I have heard of color circles in Hawaii.

 The sun is sinking behind a limitless sea of fog and we have a bright
 rainbow, a fainter ring and, if I am not seeing things, a third
 suggestion on the edge. The middle is predominately yellow with a
 round grey shadow in the center. Is it caused from us or our props?

                              * * * *

This is not an unknown phenomenon. Subsequently I learned the rainbows
were caused by our propellers.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 I do believe we are getting out of fog. Marvellous shapes in white
 stand out, some trailing shimmering veils. The clouds look like
 icebergs in the distance. It seemed almost impossible to believe that
 one couldn’t bounce forever on the packed fog we are leaving. The
 highest peaks of the fog mountains, (oh, we didn’t get out) are tinted
 pink, with the setting sun. The hollows are grey and shadowy. Bill
 just got the time. O. K. sez he. 10:20 London time my watch. Pemmican
 is being passed or just has been. What stuff!

 The pink vastness reminds me of the Mojave Desert. Also:

                    J’ai miré dans ma prunel
                    Petite minute éblouie
                    La grande lumière éternele.

 (Bill gets position. We are out 1096 miles at 10:30 London time,)—and
 having done so he is content to die. I wish I had that poem here.

 One of the greatest sights is the sun splashing to oblivion behind the
 fog, but showing pink glows through apertures in the fog. I wish the
 sun would linger longer. We shall soon be grey-sheathed.

 We are sinking in the fog.

 4000 ft.

 The light of the exhausts is beginning to show as pink as the last
 glow of the sky. Endless foggies. The view is too vast and lovely
 for words. I think I am happy—sad admission of scant intellectual
 equipment.

 I am getting housemaid’s knee kneeling here at the table gulping
 beauty.

                              * * * *

  [Illustration:
   description: Drawing of “Lady Lindy” (Earhart) with angel wings
                flying over ocean and holding hands with “Lady Luck”
   caption: Rollin Kirby in the _New York World_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide shot of wingtip above and cloud deck below
   caption:     FOR NINETEEN HOURS ONLY A SEA OF CLOUDS
            © _Wide World Photos_
  ]

I was kneeling beside the chart table, which was in front of the
window on the port side. Through it I looked northward. It was at this
time that I took several photographs.

On the starboard side of the plane was another window. The table
itself, a folding device, was Bill’s chart table on which he made his
calculations. Close by was the radio. Even though one could stand up
in the cabin, the height of the table was such that to see out of the
window one had to lean on the table or kneel beside it. There was
nothing to sit on, as sitting equipment had been jettisoned to save
weight.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 The sea for a space. Hooray. Slim has just hung a flashlight up for
 illuminating the compass. This light makes the radium impossible to
 see. Soon it will be dark enough without the flash.

                              * * * *

The faint light of the radium instruments is almost impossible to
see in dawn or twilight, when it is neither dark enough for the
contrast of the radium to show nor light enough to see the numerals
themselves.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 It is about 10. I write without light. Readable?[1]

[1] For reproduction of log book see page 305.

                              * * * *

Have you tried to write in the dark? I remember sitting up in bed
at school composing themes after lights. During those night hours
on the Friendship the log was written with the help of my good left
thumb. I would not turn on the electric light in the after cabin
lest it blind Bill at the controls. And so I pencilled my way across
the page of the diary thankful for that early training with those
better-late-than-never themes. The thumb of my left hand was used
to mark the starting point of one line. The problem of this kind of
blind stenography is knowing where to start the next line. It didn’t
always work. Too often lines piled up one on the other and
legibility suffered.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 The sea was only a respite. Fog has followed us since. We are above it
 now. A night of stars. North the horizon is clear cut. To the south it
 is a smudge.

 The exhausts send out glowing meteors.

 How marvellous is a machine and the mind that made it. I am thoroughly
 occidental in this worship.

 Bill sits up alone. Every muscle and nerve alert. Many hours to go.
 Marvellous also. I’ve driven all day and all night and know what
 staying alert means.

 We have to climb to get over fog and roughness.

 Bill gives her all she has. 5000 ft. Golly how we climb. A mountain of
 fog. The north star on our wing tip.

 My watch says 3:15. I can see dawn to the left and still a sea of fog.
 We are 6000 ft. high and more. Can’t read dial.

 Slim and I exchange places for a while. All the dragons and sea
 serpents and monstrosities are silhouetted against the dawn.

 9000 ft. to get over them.

 The two outboard motors picked up some water a while ago. Much fuss.

 At least 10,000 ft. 13 hrs. 15 min. on way.

 I lose this book in Major Woolley’s pockets.

 There are too many.

                              * * * *

Big enough, that suit to lose myself in it. Size 40, and fur lined. It
is returned now, appropriately autographed. The Major has threatened to
stuff and place it in a museum.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 Still climbing. I wish the sun would climb up and melt these
 homogeneous teddy-bears.

                              * * * *

Beside these grotesques in the fog, which we all remarked, there were
recurrent mountains and valleys and countless landscapes amazingly
realistic. Actually when land itself did appear we could not be sure
that it was not an illusion too. It really took some moments to
become convinced that it was reality.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 Slim has just changed bats in the flashlight hanging over the compass.

                              * * * *

The compass was hung rather low, so far from Bill’s eye that it was
difficult to read its illuminated face. So Slim arranged a flash light
focussed on it.

                              * * * *

_Log Book:_

 We are going down. Probably Bill is going through. Fog is lower here
 too. Haven’t hit it yet, but soon will so far as I can see from back
 window.... Everything shut out.

 Instrument flying. Slow descent, first. Going down fast. It takes a
 lot to make my ears hurt. 5000 now. Awfully wet. Water dripping in
 window. Port motor coughing. Sounds as if all motors were cutting.
 Bill opens her wide to try to clear. Sounds rotten on the right.

 3000 ft. Ears not so painful. Fog awful.

 Motors better, but not so good.

 It is getting lighter and lighter as day dawns. We are not seeing it
 dawn, however. I wish I knew radio. I could help a lot.

 We are over stratum now.[2] At 3000. Bill comes back to radio to find
 it on the blink.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo close medium shot outdoor portrait of Wilmur
                Stultz wearing flight gear
   caption: [2] That is the way it is written in the log book. So far
                no one can make out that word before “stratum.” Can
                you? A.E.
  ]

 We are running between the clouds still, but they are coming together.
 Many clouds all about ... shouldn’t bother. Port motor coughing a bit.
 Sounds like water. We are going to go into, under or over a storm. I
 don’t like to, with one motor acting the way it is.

 How grey it is before; and behind, the mass of soggy cloud we came
 through, is pink with dawn. Dawn “the rosy fingered,” as the Odyssey
 has it.

 Himmel! The sea! We are 3000. Patchy clouds. We have been jazzing from
 1000 to 5000 where we now are, to get out of clouds. At present there
 are sights of blue and sunshine, but everlasting clouds always in
 the offing. The radio is dead.

 The sea for a while. Clouds ahead. We ought to be coming somewhat in
 the range of our destination if we are on the course. Port motor off
 again. 3000 ft. 7 o’clock London.

 Can’t use radio at all. Coming down now in a rather clear spot. 2500
 ft. Everything sliding forward.

 8:50. 2 Boats!!!!

 Trans steamer.

 Try to get bearing. Radio won’t. One hr’s gas. Mess. All craft cutting
 our course. Why?

                              * * * *

So the log ends.

Its last page records that we had but one hour’s supply of gas left;
that the time for reaching Ireland had passed; that the course of the
vessel sighted perplexed us; that our radio was useless.

Where were we? Should we keep faith with our course and continue?

“Mess” epitomized the blackness of the moment. Were we beaten?

We all favored sticking to the course. We had to. With faith lost in
that, it was hopeless to carry on. Besides, when last we checked it,
before the radio went dead, the plane had been holding true.

We circled the America, although having no idea of her identity at the
time. With the radio crippled, in an effort to get our position, Bill
scribbled a note. The note and an orange to weight it, I tied in a bag
with an absurd piece of silver cord. As we circled the America, the
bag was dropped through the hatch. But the combination of our speed,
the movement of the vessel, the wind and the lightness of the missile
was too much for our marksmanship. We tried another shot, using our
remaining orange. No luck.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo of airplane silhouette taken from ship deck
   caption: THE FRIENDSHIP “BOMBING” THE AMERICA
            _U. S. Shipping Board_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo of scribbled notebook page
   caption: THE LAST PAGE IN THE LOG BOOK
  ]

Should we seek safety and try to come down beside the steamer? Perhaps
one reason the attempt was never attempted was the roughness of the sea
which not only made a landing difficult but a take-off impossible.

Bill leaped to the radio with the hope of at least receiving a message.
At some moment in the excitement, before I closed the hatch which opens
in the bottom of the fuselage I lay flat and took a photograph. This,
I am told, is the first one made of a vessel at sea from a plane in
trans-Atlantic flight.

Then we turned back to the original course, retracing the twelve
mile detour made to circle the steamer. In a way we were pooling all
our chances and placing everything in a final wager on our original
judgment.

Quaintly, it was this moment of lowest ebb that Slim chose to
breakfast. Nonchalantly he hauled forth a sandwich.

We could see only a few miles of water, which melted into the greyness
on all sides. The ceiling was so low we could fly at an altitude of
only 500 feet. As we moved, our miniature world of visibility,
bounded by its walls of mist, moved with us. Half an hour later into
it suddenly swam a fishing vessel. In a matter of minutes a fleet of
small craft, probably fishing vessels, were almost below us. Happily
their course paralleled ours. Although the gasoline in the tanks was
vanishing fast, we began to feel land—some land—must be near. It might
not be Ireland, but any land would do just then.

Bill, of course, was at the controls. Slim, gnawing a sandwich,
sat beside him, when out of the mists there grew a blue shadow, in
appearance no more solid than hundreds of other nebulous “landscapes”
we had sighted before. For a while Slim studied it, then turned and
called Bill’s attention to it.

_It was land!_

I think Slim yelled. I know the sandwich went flying out the window.
Bill permitted himself a smile.

Soon several islands came into view, and then a coast line. From
it we could not determine our position, the visibility was so poor.
For some time we cruised along the edge of what we thought was typical
English countryside.

With the gas remaining, we worked along as far as safety allowed.
Bill decided to land. After circling a factory town he picked out the
likeliest looking stretch and brought the Friendship down in it. The
only thing to tie to was a buoy some distance away and to it we taxied.




                              CHAPTER IX

                             JOURNEY’S END


There at Burry Port, Wales—we learned its name later—on the morning of
June 18, we opened the door of the fuselage and looked out upon what
we could see of the British Isles through the rain. For Bill and Slim
and me it was an introduction to the Old World. Curiously, the first
crossing of the Atlantic for all of us was in the Friendship. None that
may follow can have the quality of this initial voyage. Although we all
hope to be able to cross by plane again, we have visions of doing so in
a trans-Atlantic plane liner.

Slim dropped down upon the starboard pontoon and made fast to the buoy
with the length of rope we had on board for just such a purpose—or,
had affairs gone less well, for use with a sea anchor. We didn’t
doubt that tying to the buoy in such a way was against official
etiquette and that shortly we should be reprimanded by some marine
traffic cop. But the buoy was the only mooring available and as we’d
come rather a long way, we risked offending.

We could see factories in the distance and hear the hum of activity.
Houses dotted the green hillside. We were some distance off shore but
the beach looked muddy and barren. The only people in sight were three
men working on a railroad track at the base of the hill. To them we
waved, and Slim yelled lustily for service.

Finally they noticed us, straightened up and even went so far as to
walk down to the shore and look us over. Then their animation died
out and they went back to their work. The Friendship simply wasn’t
interesting. An itinerant trans-Atlantic plane meant nothing.

In the meantime three or four more people had gathered to look
at us. To Slim’s call for a boat we had no answer. I waved a towel
desperately out the front windows and one friendly soul pulled off his
coat and waved back.

It must have been nearly an hour before the first boats came out.
Our first visitor was Norman Fisher who arrived in a dory. Bill went
ashore with him and telephoned our friends at Southampton while Slim
and I remained on the Friendship. A vigorous ferry service was soon
instituted and many small boats began to swarm about us. While we
waited Slim contrived a nap. I recall I seriously considered the
problem of a sandwich and decided food was not interesting just then.

Late in the afternoon Captain Railey, whom I had last seen in Boston,
arrived by seaplane with Captain Bailey of the Imperial Airways and
Allen Raymond of the New York Times.

Owing to the racing tide, it was decided not to try to take off but to
leave the plane at Burry Port and stay at a nearby hotel for the
night. Bill made a skilful mooring in a protected harbor and we were
rowed ashore. There were six policemen to handle the crowd. That they
got us through was remarkable. In the enthusiasm of their greeting
those hospitable Welsh people nearly tore our clothes off.

Finally we reached the shelter of the Frickers Metal Company office
where we remained until police reinforcements arrived. In the meantime
we had tea and I knew I was in Britain.

Twice, before the crowd would let us get away, we had to go to an upper
balcony and wave. They just wanted to see us. I tried to make them
realize that all the credit belonged to the boys, who did the work. But
from the beginning it was evident the accident of sex—the fact that I
happened to be the first woman to have made the Atlantic flight—made me
the chief performer in our particular sideshow.

With the descent of reporters one of the first questions I was
asked was whether I knew Colonel Lindbergh and whether I thought I
looked like him. Gleefully they informed me I had been dubbed “Lady
Lindy.” I explained that I had never had the honor of meeting Colonel
Lindbergh, that I was sure I looked like no one (and, just then,
nothing) in the world, and that I would grasp the first opportunity to
apologize to him for innocently inflicting the idiotic comparison. (The
idiotic part is all mine, of course.)

The celebration began with interviews and photographs. We managed to
have dinner and what was most comforting of all, hot baths. The latter
were high-lights of our reception, being the first experience of the
kind since leaving Boston weeks—or was it months?—previously.

Sleep that night was welcome. In all, we had five or six hours. We
could not rest the next day, because an early start was necessary in
order to reach Southampton on schedule.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide shot of airplane tied to bouy
   caption: WE DIDN’T DOUBT THAT TYING TO THE BUOY WAS AGAINST OFFICIAL
            ETIQUETTE
            © _Topical Press Agency_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide shot of person looking out open door of
                airplane
   caption: WE OPENED THE DOOR OF THE FUSELAGE AND LOOKED OUT UPON
            WHAT WE COULD SEE OF THE BRITISH ISLES
            © _International Newsreel_
  ]

Rain and mist in the morning, that finally cleared somewhat,
allowed us to take off. We skimmed over Bristol Channel and the green
hills of Devonshire, which were as beautiful as we had imagined. In the
plane with the crew were Captain Railey and Mr. Raymond of the Times.

When we set out from Burry Port on this last lap of the journey,
Captain Bailey of the Imperial Airways had expected to guide us.
Unfortunately at the last moment he was unable to start his engine and
Bill decided to hop for Southampton unescorted.

As we approached, a seaplane came out to meet us, and we presumed it
was to guide us to the landing place. As Bill prepared to follow,
Captain Railey discovered that we were not being guided. In the
uncertainty of landing amid berthed steamers in a strange place, Bill
finally picked up the green lights of a signal gun which marked the
official launch coming to greet us. Mrs. Guest, owner of the
Friendship, and sponsor of the flight, was there, her son Raymond, and
Hubert Scott Payne of the Imperial Airways. My first meeting with the
generous woman who permitted me so much, was there in Southampton. It
was a rather exciting moment despite the fatigue which was creeping
upon all of us. On shore we were welcomed by Mrs. Foster Welch, the
Mayor of Southampton. She wore her official necklace in honor of the
occasion and we were impressed with her graciousness. Though a woman
may hold such office in Great Britain, the fact isn’t acknowledged, for
she is still addressed as if she were a man.

With the crowd behind, I drove to London with Mr. and Mrs. Scott Payne.
The whole ride seemed a dream. I remember stopping to see Winchester
Cathedral and hearing that Southampton was the only seaplane base in
England and being made to feel really at home by Mrs. Payne, who
sat next to me.

London gave us so much to do and see that I hardly had time to think.
One impression lingers,—that of warm hospitality which was given
without stint. I stayed with Mrs. Guest at Park Lane. Lady Astor
permitted me a glance of beautiful country when she invited me to
Cliveden. Lord Lonsdale was host at the Olympic Horse Show, which
happened to be in action during our stay. The British Air League were
hosts at a large luncheon primarily organized by the women’s division
at which I was particularly glad to meet Madame de Landa and Lady
Heath. From the latter I bought the historic little Avro with which
she had flown alone from Cape Town to London. I was guest, too, at a
luncheon of Mrs. Houghton’s, wife of the American Ambassador—and many
other people lavished undeserved hospitality upon us.

Being a social worker I had of course to see Toynbee Hall, dean
of settlement houses, on which our own Denison House in Boston is
patterned. Nothing in England will interest me more than to revisit
Toynbee Hall and the settlement houses that I did not see.

But this can be no catalogue of what that brief time in London meant
to us. To attempt to say “thank you” adequately would take a book in
itself—and this little volume is to concern the flight and whatever
I may be able to add about aviation in general. Altogether it was an
alluring introduction to England, enough to make me wish to return and
explore, what this time, I merely touched.

Before we left, the American correspondents invited me to a
luncheon—another of the pleasant memories of our visit. It was “not
for publication.” And although I was the only woman present we talked
things over, I think, on a real man-to-man basis. From first to last my
contact with the press has been thoroughly enjoyable; in England
and in America I could not possibly ask for greater cooperation,
sincerity, and genuine friendliness.

On June 28 we began our first ocean voyage, embarking on the S.S.
President Roosevelt of the United States Lines, commanded by Captain
Harry Manning. It really was our _first_ ocean voyage and it was then
that we came to realize how much water we had passed over in the
Friendship. Eastbound the mileage had been measured over clouds, not
water. There never had been adequate comprehension of the Atlantic
below us.

A curious connection exists between the Roosevelt and the America. Not
only had the Roosevelt relayed some of our radio messages, but Captain
Fried of the America had formerly been skipper of the Roosevelt. It
was Captain Fried who figured so finely in the heroic rescue of the
sinking freighter Antinöe a couple of years ago. Captain Fried, I was
told, is interested in trans-Atlantic flight projects. On the
America he makes it a practice, when he knows a flight is in progress,
to have painted periodically the ship’s position on the hatches in such
a way that the information may be read by a plane passing overhead. On
the day when we saw the America he had received no news of our flight
so that preparations had not been made for the usual hatch-painting.
Actually, however, if we had remained above the America perhaps a few
more minutes the information we sought would have been painted on
her decks, ending our uncertainties at once. As it was, Capt. Fried
cabled us on board the Roosevelt that the operator had called “plane,
plane”—not knowing our letters, in an effort to give us our bearings.
But Bill could not pick up the word.

When the Roosevelt reached quarantine in New York, she was held there
several hours until the Mayor’s yacht Macon arrived with its officials,
its bands, and our friends. I was sorry to delay other passengers
in the Roosevelt who had breakfasted at six and who were forced to wait
while we were welcomed.

Then up the bay, to the City Hall and to the Biltmore. Interviews,
photographs, and medals, and best of all, friends.

We were home again, with one adventure behind and, as always in this
life, others ahead.




                               CHAPTER X

                           AVIATION INVITES


The reception given us—and accorded the flyers who preceded
us—indicates, it seems to me, the increasing air-mindedness of America.
And it is not only air-expeditions, pioneer explorations and “stunts”
which command attention.

The air mail, perhaps more than any other branch of aeronautics, has
brought home to the average man realization of the possibilities of
aviation. Its regularity and dependability are taken for granted by
many. While our development of this phase of air transport is notable,
the United States is somewhat backward in other branches, compared
with the European nations. We lag behind the procession in passenger
carrying and the number of privately owned planes, in proportion
to our size.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full shot of sitting Earhart signing a book
   caption: LANDING AT BURRY PORT—THE UBIQUITOUS AUTOGRAPH SEEKER
            © _Wide World Photos_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full shot of man helping Earhart off a boat
   caption: THE FIRST STEP IN ENGLAND. HUBERT SCOTT PAYNE HELPS ME
            ASHORE
            © _International Photos_
  ]

Abroad, the entire industry is generously subsidized by the various
governments. Of course, aviation here knows no such support, a fact
which means that, so far as we have gone, our industry is on a sound
basis economically.

Although air transport in the U. S. A. has had to pay its own way,
and is behind somewhat, slightly over 2000 commercial airplanes were
constructed in 1927, and operations in the field of mail and transport
flying approximated 6,000,000 miles flown. Nearly nine thousand
passengers were carried, and two and a half million pounds of freight
transported.

Impressive as are these figures, they are not comparable to the volume
inevitable.

When I am asked what individuals can do to aid aviation my reply is, to
those who haven’t flown: “Fly.” For, whether or not aviation will be
found useful in their lives, or whether they find flying pleasant,
at least they will have some understanding of what it is, if they go
up. Every day all of us have opportunity to do our bit—and to get our
bit—by using the air for our long-distance mail, and at least some of
our express and freight. And perhaps some who come to touch aviation in
these ways, will find an interest which will carry them into the ranks
of plane owners.

Most people have quite incorrect ideas about the sensation of flying.
Their mental picture of how it feels to go up in a plane is based on
the way the plane looks when it takes off and flies, or upon their
amusement-park experience in a roller-coaster. Some of the uninitiated
compare flying to the memory of the last time they peered over the edge
of a high building. The sensation of such moments is almost entirely
lacking in a plane. Flying is so matter-of-fact that probably the
passenger taking off for the first time will not know when he has left
the ground.

I heard a man say as he left a plane after his first trip, “Well,
the most remarkable thing about flying is that it isn’t remarkable.”

The sensation which accompanies height, for instance, so much feared by
the prospective air passenger, is seldom present. There is no tangible
connection between the plane and the earth, as there is in the case of
a high building. To look at the street from a height of twenty stories
gives some an impulse to jump. In the air, the passenger hasn’t that
feeling of absolute height, and he can look with perfect equanimity at
the earth below. An explanation is that with the high building there
is an actual contact between the body of the observer and the ground,
creating a feeling of height. The plane passenger has no longer any
vertical solid connecting him with the ground—and the atmosphere which
fills the space between the bottom of the plane and the earth doesn’t
have the same effect.

Many people seem to think that going up in the air will have some
ill effect on their hearts. I know a woman who was determined to die of
heart failure if she made a flight. She isn’t logical, for she rolls
lazily through life encased in 100 lbs. of extra avoirdupois, which
surely adds a greater strain on her heart—besides not giving it any
fun, at all.

Seriously, of course a person with a chronically weak heart, who is
affected by altitude, should not invite trouble by flying. A lame man
should exercise special care in crossing a street with crowded traffic,
and one with weak lungs should not attempt swimming a long distance
unaccompanied.

Consciousness of speed in the air is surprisingly absent. Thirty miles
an hour in an automobile, or fifty in a railroad train, gives one
greater sensation of speed than moving one hundred miles an hour in a
large plane. On the highway every pebble passed is a speedometer for
one’s eye, while the ties and track whirling backward from an
observation car register the train’s motion.

In the air there are no stones or trees or telegraph poles—no
milestones for the eye, to act as speed indicators. Only a somewhat
flattened countryside below, placidly slipping away or spreading out.
Even when the plane’s velocity is greatly altered no noticeable change
in the whole situation ensues—80 miles an hour at several thousand feet
is substantially the same as 140, so far as the sensations of sight and
feeling are concerned.

Piloting differs from driving a car in that there is an added necessity
for lateral control. An automobile runs up and down hill, and turns
left or right. A plane climbs or dives, turns, and in addition, tips
from one side to another. There is no worry in a car about whether
the two left wheels are on the road or not; but a pilot must normally
keep his wings level. Of course doing so becomes as automatic as
driving straight, but is, nevertheless, dependent upon senses ever
alert.

One of the first things a student learns in flying, is that he turns by
pushing a rudder bar _the way he wants to go_. (The little wagons of
our youth turned opposite the push, remember?)

When he turns he must bank or tip the wings at the same time. Why?
Because the plane would skid in exactly the same way a car does if it
whirls around a level corner.

The inside of an automobile race track is like a bowl, with the sides
growing steeper toward the top. The cars climb toward the outer edge
in proportion to their speed, and it is quite impossible to force a
slow car up the steep side of the bowl. The faster it goes the steeper
the bank must be and the sharper the turn. A pilot must make his own
“bowl” and learn to tip his plane the right degree relative to the
sharpness of his turn and his speed. A skid means lack of control,
for a while, either on the ground or in the air, and of course is to be
avoided. By the way, compensating for skidding is the same with a car
or plane—one turns either craft in the direction of the skid.

Besides skidding, a plane can stall exactly as a car does on a hill.
The motor is overtaxed and stops. The plane motor doesn’t stop, but
just as a stalled car starts to roll backwards down the hill, so the
stalled plane begins to drop. Recovery of control with an automobile is
simple; only a matter of jamming on the brakes and getting the engine
started again. With the plane there is similarly little difficulty;
it falls for a moment until it attains enough forward speed to make
the rudder and elevators again effective. This is comparable to the
ineffectiveness of a rudder on a too slow-moving boat. If a plane stall
with out motor occurs so close to the earth that there isn’t time to
recover control, a hard landing results.

But in the air, as with automobiles, most accidents are due to
the human equation. The careful driver, either below or aloft, barring
the hard luck of mechanical failure, has remarkably little trouble,
considering what he has to contend with.

I think it is a fair statement that for the average landing, the
descent of the plane is less noticeable than the dropping of the modern
high-speed elevator. It comes down in a gentle glide at an angle often
much less than that of a country hill. As a result, unless a passenger
is actually watching for the landing, he is aware he is approaching the
ground only when the motors are idled.

“I would gladly fly if we could stay very close to the ground,” is a
statement that I have heard often in one way or another. As a matter of
fact, a plane 100 feet off the earth is in infinitely more danger than
one 3600 feet aloft.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full outdoor shot of Earhart in dress clothes
                standing next to a door
   caption: IN LONDON (MISS EARHART)
            © _Topical Press Agency_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo high over shoulder shot of crew facing crowd
                of photographers
   caption: “A BIG SMILE, PLEASE!”
            © _Paramount News Photos_
  ]

Trouble in the air is very rare. It is hitting the ground that
causes it. Obviously the higher one happens to be, the more time there
is to select a safe landing place in case of difficulty. For a ship
doesn’t fall like a plummet, even if the engine goes dead. It assumes
a natural gliding angle which sometimes is as great as eight to one.
That is, a plane 5000 feet in the air can travel in any direction eight
times its altitude (40,000 feet) or practically eight miles. Thus it
has a potential landing radius of 16 miles.

Sometimes, a cautious pilot elects to come down at once to make a minor
engine adjustment. Something is wrong and he, properly, is unwilling to
risk flying further, even though probably able to do so. Just so the
automobile driver, instead of limping on with, say, worn distributor
points, or a foul spark plug, would do well to stop at once at a garage
and get his engine back into efficient working order.

All of which obviously points the necessity of providing frequent
landing places along all airways. Few things, I think, would do more
to eliminate accidents in the air. With perfected motors the dread of
forced landings will be forgotten, and with more fields, at least in
the populous areas, “repair” landings would be safe and easy.

Eliminating many of the expected sensations of flying doesn’t mean that
none are to be anticipated or that those left are only pleasant. There
are poor days for flying as well as good ones. Just as in yachting,
weather plays an important part, and sometimes entirely prevents a
trip. Even ocean liners are occasionally held over in port to avoid
a storm, or are prevented from making a scheduled landing because
of adverse conditions. In due time a plane will probably become as
reliable as these ocean vessels of today, because although a severe
storm will wreck it, its greater speed will permit it to fly around the
storm area—to escape dangers rather than battle through them as a
ship must do.

The choppy days at sea have a counterpart in what fliers call “bumpy”
conditions over land. Air is liquid flow and where obstructions occur
there will be eddies. For instance, imagine wind blowing directly
toward a clump of trees, or coming in sudden contact with a cliff or
steep mountain. Water is thrown up when it strikes against a rock
and just so is a stream of air broken on the object in its way, and
diverted upward in atmospheric gusts which correspond to the spray of
the seaside. Encountering such a condition a plane gets a “wallop”—is
tossed up and buffeted as it rolls over the wave.

There are bumps, too, from sources other than these land shoals.
Areas of cool air and warm disturb the flow of aerial rivers through
which the plane moves. The “highs” and “lows” familiar to the
meteorologists—the areas of high and low barometric pressure—are
forever playing tag with each other, the air from one area flowing
in upon the other much as water seeks its own level, creating fair
weather and foul, and offering interesting problems to the students of
avigation, not to mention variegated experiences to the flyer himself.

The nautical boys have an advantage over the avigators. Constant
things like the gulf stream can be labeled and put on charts and
shoals marked. But one can’t fasten buoys in the atmosphere. Flyers
can only plot topography. Air, like water, gives different effects
under different conditions. The pilot must learn that when the wind
blows over a hill from one direction, the result is not the same as
that when it blows from another. Water behaves similarly. The shoals of
the air seem a little more elusive, however, because their eddies are
invisible. If one could see a downward current of air or a rough patch
of it, avigating might be easier sometimes.

“Bumpiness” means discomfort, or a good time for strong stomachs, in
the air just as rough water does in ocean voyaging. There is no
reason to suppose, however, if one isn’t susceptible to seasickness or
car-sickness, that air travel will prove different.

Some of the air-sickness experienced is due to the lack of proper
ventilation in cabin planes. Many are not adequately ventilated for
with the opening of the windows, the heat and sometimes the fumes of
the motors are blown in. Adequate ventilation is one of the amenities
which the plane of the future will have to possess.

Perhaps the greatest joy of flying is the magnificent extent of the
view. If the visibility is good, the passenger seems to see the whole
world.

I have spoken of the effect of height in flattening the landscape,
always a phenomenon in the eyes of the air novitiate. Even mountains
grow humble and a really rough terrain appears comparatively smooth.
Trees look like bushes, and automobiles like flat-backed bugs. A second
plane which may be flying a few hundred feet above the ground, as
seen from a greater altitude looks as if it were just skimming the
surface. All vertical measurement is fore-shortened.

The world seen from the air is laid out in squares. Especially striking
is the checkerboard effect wherever one looks down on what his brother
man has done. Country or city, it is the same—only the rectangles are
of different sizes. The city plays its game of checkers in smaller
spaces than the country, and divides its area more minutely.

If one is fortunate enough to fly over clouds, another world is
entered. The clouds may be grey or white or tinted the exquisite
colors of sunset. Sometimes “holes” occur in them through which little
glimpses of the earth may be seen. It is possible to be lying in
sunshine and to look down on a piece of dull grey earth. There is sport
to be had playing hide-and-seek through the light fluffy clouds that
are not compact enough to be ominous. An instant of greyness is
followed by a flash of sunlight as one emerges into the clear air. By
the way, a flyer can dissipate a fairly small cloud by diving into it.

That is the fun of the clouds which look like “mashed potatoes.” The
big fellows can be much more serious. Once into them, and one has
the sensation of being surrounded by an everlasting mass of grey,
comparable, so far as visibility goes, with a heavy fog. In such clouds
one can find all varieties of weather—rain, snow, or sleet.

In the trans-Atlantic flight, we encountered both rain and snow. There
lies one of the greatest risks of long distance flying—I mean moisture
freezing upon the wings of the plane. The danger zone of temperature is
said to lie chiefly between twenty-four and thirty-eight degrees, when
slush begins to form. Once in trouble of that kind, the pilot does his
best to find warmer or colder temperature, normally by decreasing
or increasing his altitude.

As an example of the ice menace, I was told of a plane which after a
very few moments in the air was barely able to regain the field whence
it had taken off in a sleet storm, coming down with a coating of ice
which weighed at least five hundred pounds.

Speaking of ice, I am often asked about the temperatures in the air.
“Is it dreadfully cold up there?”

Recently a group flew from New York to Boston on one of the hottest
mornings of the summer. The temperatures at about 2000 feet were
probably some degrees lower than those prevailing on the ground. We all
know that unless one encounters a breeze, often the temperature on a
mountain 5000 feet high is no more agreeable than that at its base. In
a small open plane, as contrasted to the cabin ship, one would have a
pleasanter time on a summer day, and conversely more discomfort in
cold weather. It parallels the experience in an open car.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full outdoor shot of Earhart standing next to
                a police officer
   caption: THE BOBBY SAID: “IF MY WIFE SEES THIS!”
            © _Keystone Views_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full outdoor shot of Earhart standing next to a
                woman and two men who are in formal attire
   caption: OFF FOR ASCOT—MRS. GUEST AND HER SONS WINSTON AND
            RAYMOND
            © _Keystone Views_
  ]

In crossing the Atlantic I think the lowest temperature we had in the
unheated aft cabin of the Friendship was around forty. Our lowest
outside temperatures were only a few degrees below this. On the
Atlantic our maximum altitude was about 11,000 feet, with an average
far lower. Doubtless it would have been colder had we flown high more
of the distance.

In addition to the visual joys of airscapes, there is much else that
flying gives. Nothing, perhaps, is more appealing than the sense of
quick accomplishment—of getting somewhere, sooner. Aviation means an
approach to the elimination of time wastage, and seems to point the way
to further increase in the world’s leisure.

Humanity reaches for leisure—as time in which to do what it wants. The
Orient finds contemplation its pleasure, while the Occient is not
content without action. Of course, Americans are noted for the
work they do to play. Perhaps aviation will tend to make them enjoy
life a little more, by providing time to do something else.




                              CHAPTER XI

                           WOMEN IN AVIATION


While this chapter is called “Women in Aviation,” just as appropriate
a title might have been “Women Outside of Aviation.” For women really
to influence aviation development it is not essential that they be
flyers themselves, although the more who fly the better. When the women
of America are thoroughly “sold” on aviation, not only as a sporting
phenomenon but as an everyday utility, air transport will come into its
own.

Today we have planes for carrying passengers, mail, express and
freight. It is the modern note in transportation, comparable to the
electric refrigerator, vacuum devices and all the other leisure
making appliances of the household. Aviation is another time-saver
ready to be utilized.

Generally speaking, women control the purchasing power of the modern
economic world. It is a brave man who buys another make when his wife
wants a Chrysler! Woman’s influence primarily is responsible for the
rapid development of the American automobile’s beauty and comfort. A
similar influence inevitably will be exerted in connection with air
transport—_if women will fly_. As they became an important factor in
passenger revenue their requirements will be increasingly studied and
met.

Conversely, it is my opinion that if the show windows of aviation were
made more attractive women in far larger numbers would be lured into
the air. Specifically, I mean landing fields and their appurtenances.
The average field today is a comfortless place. Too often its
approaches and its equipment are uninviting. It attracts nobody
except people who have to go there.

The time is coming, I think, when all the fields will be attractive
and convenient. When they are, it will be easier to procure feminine
backing. As it is now, the only thing attractive to feminine eyes, in
many flying fields is the handsome collection of flyers.

Besides flying there is much that women can do in the various branches
of the industry. Many touch it now in factories, offices, fields,
service stations and the like. In such jobs it is ability, not sex,
which counts, in the final analysis.

There should be no line between men and women, so far as piloting is
concerned. Except when the muscular strength of men is a deciding
factor, it hardly seems possible great differences exist. Of course,
so few women have essayed flying that no comparison of ability can
justly be made yet. In them even the desire to learn to fly must
be cultivated so the only possible criterion is that of their driving.
Bring on the arguments.

Age and physical equipment determine the fitness to fly. While there
are many older people learning to fly today, and many excellent pilots
who are no longer young, still it is youth which has the advantage, as
in all physical activities.

I make no statement as to how young youth is. To soothe excitable
mothers, I should say, they needn’t worry yet about children under
seven adding to life’s complexities by trying to fly, and that pilots’
licenses can’t be obtained after fifty-two.

Today there are ample facilities for flying instruction throughout the
United States. It is, however, considerably more difficult for a woman
to procure it than it is for a man. A primary reason is the advantage
a man has through what the army and the navy offer. By enlisting in
either branch the beginner has not only free instruction but
actually receives a salary as well and in due course may emerge as a
competent pilot. There is no such opening for women. She must pay for
the instruction she gets.

And it is just a little harder, too, for the woman to get this
instruction at the average field than it is for the man. It is not
so much that there is any definite prejudice against the woman
beginner—the men are remarkably fair in their attitude—but that as
matters stand, it is pretty well a man-conducted business. Equipment
too is naturally designed for men—for instance, there is no parachute
really adequate for women. Woman is conscious that she is intruding—or
something akin to that—a feeling which causes hesitation. That same
sort of thing prevails in medicine, the law, and other professions, to
a certain degree. Gradually it is being overcome where ability has been
demonstrated. Too often, I think, sex has been used as a subterfuge by
the inefficient woman who likes to make herself and others believe
that it is not her incapability, but her womanhood, which is holding
her back.

Generally speaking, the average cost of ten hours in the air, as I have
said, is about $250. But ten hours in the air doesn’t make a finished
pilot. After such time the average person should be able to solo, but
it is experience which alone counts. A novice can learn to drive an
automobile in a way in a matter of a few hours, but only mileage makes
him competent.

New planes can be bought for a little more than $2000 and up. Hangar
space comes to from twenty-five to fifty dollars a month and up.
Obviously a very large plane will cost more to store and handle than
a small one. A plaything with a wing spread of seventy-two feet, such
as Friendship had, requires as much space as a whole fleet of trucks,
and specialized space at that. It is not simply a matter of a building
in which to house the plane. There should be a well equipped field
outside, with runways, lights, and facilities ranging all the
way from a filling station to a machine shop. And for all of this
overhead one naturally has to pay. The actual cost of plane maintenance
depends entirely upon the amount of use made of it, exactly as with
an automobile. I don’t believe any reliable estimates of up-keep are
available.

  [Illustration:
   description: Drawing of mermaids waving at Friendship airplane
   caption: BETWEEN US GIRLS
            Weed in _New York Evening World_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo close shot of Earhart looking out a window
   caption: FIRST LOOK AT BURRY PORT
            © _P. & A. Photos_
  ]

The number of hours a motor can run, without overhauling, depends not
only on the motor itself but the character of the attention given it.
Meticulous care of a plane’s power plant is vital. It is not that the
motors themselves are any more complicated than the engines of large
automobiles, but there simply aren’t any service stations 10,000 feet
in the air. An oversight on a highway means only inconvenience; one
aloft means inconvenience, too—the inconvenience of coming down where
there may be a landing field or there may not.

All of which information may sound indefinite. But I believe exactly
the same uncertainty applies to automobiling. Few people who have
one or two cars can say exactly what a year’s operation costs, when
depreciation, replacement and performance are figured. The cost of
upkeep of any machine depends in a great measure upon the amount of
time the owner himself devotes, or has devoted, to its care and the
degree of skill employed. Withal, I believe that the maintenance of a
plane is probably very little greater than that of a similarly priced
automobile.

There is a belief, I suppose (and perhaps it is well founded) that
women shrink more than do men from the alleged hazards of aviation.
Inheritance, training and environment seem to make women less
aggressive than men, although in real courage I think they are equals.
So much of woman’s excitement through the ages has been pushing the
men into adventure that they have the habit of hanging back a little.
We can’t infer Lady Macbeth lacked courage or ability because she
herself didn’t do the job she wanted Macbeth to do.

Regarding flying risks, as compared to others, there is an endless
field for discussion. Figures as to accidents and flying hours mileage
I have quoted elsewhere. I know the facts and the conclusions to be
drawn from them remain largely a matter of individual opinion. But
whether one feels flying fairly safe or not it must be admitted it is
safer than it was. Recent steps have been made in securing true safety
for the flyer in the last few years. Once attainment of something akin
to it was merely a vague hope. If one flew one took the risks. Selah.

The problems of safety are concerned with the engineering problem
of the motor and design of plane, the skill of the pilot and ground
technique. Probably improvements in the power units will always be
made. But it seems impossible that advances can go on so rapidly as
they have in the last few years. It has been well demonstrated
recently that the multiple engine plane has a factor of safety far
beyond what is possible with the single engine.

The Friendship is equipped with three. If one motor fails the other two
can carry on, even with the large gas supply for long-distance flying
aboard. At the end of a flight, when a minimum load weight has been
reached, it is possible with one motor to keep the plane in the air.
One engine can also greatly prolong the downward glide of the crippled
plane for a forced landing, if need be. For instance, in flying over
the ocean if two motors had cut out simultaneously (an unlikely
contingency), with the remaining one the plane could have continued
much farther than it could have, without any. The power of one motor
would have made possible a flatter, and thus more extensive, glide.
That long glide might enable one to reach a ship lane, or specifically,
come down in the vicinity of some particular vessel that had been
located by radio in the meantime.

The plane and the engine, of course, are no better than their pilot.
His reliability and skill are essential. There are fine men in the
game today and on their capable shoulders the success of flying leans
heavily.

Just as the railway accumulated air-brakes, automatic signals, etc.,
so is the aeroplane being improved with safety devices. Landing places
are included under this head. Their frequency is important, as well as
their conduct. Some fields are so congested that planes have to circle
about for minutes before rules of the air allow them to land. Terminal
operations will have to be worked out as thoroughly as they have been
by railroads and the safety devices of airways—lights, radio, signals,
etc.—be equally efficient.

Despite the fact that there are traffic laws to govern flying, and
inspectors to enforce them, many infringements occur. Bad manners
of the air exist, unfortunately, as they do on the automobile
highways or on the high seas. Any maneuver which endangers another’s
life needlessly, no matter where, seems to me bad manners. The pilot
who flies low over crowds or stunts near the ground, I fear, is not
quite playing the game. His misdemeanors can be reported to the police
and his license number given just as can be an offending automobile
driver.

Most pilots are careful of such breaches of etiquette for their
reputation counts. There are some who overstep, and there will be a few
accidents caused by them from time to time, until they gradually are
reformed.

Possibly that feature of aviation which may appeal most to thoughtful
women is its potentiality for peace. The term is not merely an airy
phrase.

Isolation breeds distrust and differences of outlook. Anything which
tends to annihilate distance destroys isolation, and brings the world
and its peoples closer together. I think aviation has a chance to
increase intimacy, understanding, and far-flung friendships thus.




                              CHAPTER XII

                         PROBLEMS AND PROGRESS


It would be wrong to attempt to lure people into the air with any
false assurances that everything connected with aviation runs like
clock-work. It doesn’t. Because the whole industry is so new it
probably has more difficulties proportionately than many others.
Growing pains are inevitable. Aviation is only now emerging into the
status of an industry. Hitherto it has been largely a jumble of gallant
individual efforts. Even today, there are more independent producers of
airplanes than there are automobile manufacturers. The survival of the
fittest, with accompanying combinations, will come just as they have
come in the motor industry.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo close shot of Earhart and Mrs. Putman jointly
                holding a large book being while Putman signs it
   caption: 2500 FEET UP—A.E. AND MRS. PUTMAN SIGN THE GUEST BOOK OF
            JAS. H. RAND’S TRIMOTERED FORD THE “REM-RAND”
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full outdoor shot of standing Earhart, Rasche,
                and Nichols
   caption: A. E., THEA RASCHE, RUTH NICHOLS, AT THE
            WESTCHESTER-BILTMORE
  ]

Most present-day manufacturers are swamped with orders. Eventually
the better products will survive. In plane buying the same sort
of selection as prevails with automobiles—that is, that based on
quality—will become effective.

No thoughtful person associated with aviation makes any claims as to
the infallibility of air equipment. Of course there are accidents. The
surprising part is not how many, but how few, there are.[3]

                     [3]ACCIDENTS AND THEIR CAUSES

                    _Planes Involved in Accidents_

      Licensed                                            34
      Unlicensed                                         166 200

                    _Pilots Involved in Accidents_

      Licensed pilots                                     35
      Unlicensed pilots                                  165 200

                    _Probable Causes of Accidents_

      Pilots                                             100
      Mechanical defects                                  43
      Structural failure                                  23
      Weather                                             12
      Other causes                                        14
      Unknown                                              8 200

                     _Kinds of Flying Engaged In_

      Miscellaneous                                      139
      Student                                             23
      Experimental (including trans-oceanic)              23
      Demonstration                                        3
      Air transport                                       12 200

                      _Fatalities—Various Causes_

      Pilots                                              79
      Mechanical defects                                  22
      Structural failure                                  22
      Weather                                              9
      Other causes                                        13
      Unknown                                             19 164


            _Fatalities in Post-Office Air Mail Operations_

       ==========================================================
      |          |             |     Fatalities      |
      | Calendar |   Miles     |---------------------| Miles per
      |   Year   |             | Pilots | Passengers | Fatality
      |----------+-------------+--------+------------+------------
      |  1927    |  1,413,381  |    1   |     0      |  1,413,381
      |  1926    |  2,583,056  |    1   |     0      |  2,583,056
      |  1925    |  2,521,758  |    1   |     0      |  2,521,758
      |  1924    |  2,161,077  |    3   |     0      |    720,359
      |  1923    |  1,870,422  |    5   |     1      |    374,084
      |  1922    |  1,756,803  |    1   |     0      |  1,756,803
      |  1921    |  1,912,733  |    7   |     2      |    273,248
      |  1920    |  1,048,444  |    8   |     6      |     74,886
      |  1919    |    461,295  |    4   |     0      |    115,324
      |  1918    |    102,548  |    1   |     0      |    102,548
       ----------+-------------+--------+------------+------------
      |  Total   | 15,831,517  |   32   |     9      |
       -----------------------------------------------------------

There is an element of unfairness in comparing mechanical
failures and human errors on the ground, with those in the air.
The results are so different—_as matters stand today_. An automobile
engine gives out. Normally the worst that happens is a stalled car,
and some resulting inconvenience. Even if a wheel comes off the
damage, and danger, is comparatively slight. But let an accident
of similar magnitude occur in the air, and the consequences may be
serious. Serious, that is, unless there is a landing field in reachable
distance. And therein lies an outstanding problem of American aviation
development.

During 1927 there were 482 municipal and commercial fields in the
United States, with 56 under construction. In addition there were
53 army and 8 navy fields. Taking the whole lot, and adding the
comparatively few in Canada and Mexico, it gives a pretty thin coverage
for the continent.

While it is true that in some parts of the country, notably in the
level areas of the west, one can land with safety almost anywhere,
it is necessary to have service as well as landing facilities.
Obviously adequately equipped fields will follow the economic
justification for them. And that justification is fast approaching.

Too often cities have delayed in purchasing land for air terminal
facilities. Acreage near a population center was either not available
or too expensive. Many landing fields, excellent in themselves, are
so remote that the primary appeal of flying, namely, its time-saving
element, is hopelessly offset by the waste of time in getting to and
from the airport.

Notable among the cities attacking the problem is Chicago. A five
million dollar bond issue is being put through there which will finance
the creation of a model airport. It will be situated close to the
very heart of the city itself, actually only ten or fifteen minutes
by automobile from Chicago’s business center. This is in contrast
to the forty or fifty minutes required to reach the present
municipal field. Chicago’s lead may well be followed by other American
cities—although, of course, a number are already well equipped.

Hind-sight is so easy—and so costly. If, for instance, in the
development of our larger cities, especially the comparatively new
towns of the middle western states, we had been able to visualize the
present day requirements of the automobile, how easily modern traffic
problems could have been prepared for. All our cities have faced the
experience and the expense of widening streets already built; and
all of them are shadow-boxing with the unsolvable puzzle of forcing
a thousand automobiles through inadequate thoroughfares designed to
handle perhaps a hundred facilely.

It is possible, of course, that long runways won’t be necessary for the
aircraft of the future. Science may teach us how to alight and take off
from very small areas, such as the tops of buildings. Even if such
events do eventually come to pass, there will be plenty of meantime for
the cities to reap reward for their investments in landing fields. At
the worst, in after years what a generous gesture it would be for the
municipalities to plan to turn these unused fields into playgrounds for
the derelicts whose mentality has finally snapped under the strain of a
too enthusiastic promotion of aviation!

Just another word about fields—a word of warning, if you will. A
great many communities, even really small ones, can support and will
be benefited by landing fields. But the smaller community should not
strain its resources trying to create elaborate airports, for which
economic support reasonably cannot be expected. After all, the field,
if adequate in area, can grow into an airport.

The activities of the Department of Commerce are admirably summarized
in the Air Craft Year Book published by the Aeronautical Chamber
of Commerce of America, from which the following paragraphs are
quoted:

“Civil aeronautics made great progress during the first year of
Federal cooperation and supervision under the Air Commerce Act
of 1926, efficiently administered by the Department of Commerce,
under the direction of Assistant Secretary William P. MacCracken.
New airways were laid out, lighted and mapped. Improved lighting
equipment was developed and installed. Many municipalities with Federal
encouragement and assistance other than monetary established adequate
airports. Airway bulletins containing airport maps and information
were published and distributed. Radio aids to avigation passed through
their laboratory tests and started on service tests. Plans for better
aeronautical weather service have been formulated and partially
installed.

“Undoubtedly the outstanding accomplishment of the year was the
promulgation and enforcement of the air commerce regulations with
practically no friction or upheavel, at a time when the industry itself
was undergoing tremendous expansion....

“One of the greatest problems confronting the Department of Commerce in
its aeronautical duties was to secure adequate appropriations. Civil
aeronautics in this country is being successfully developed without
Government subsidy, but this does not mean that the Federal Government
will not have to spend large sums of money for aids to avigation, and
to promote the use of aircraft in commerce....

“One of the most interesting problems has been that of organization.
The Air Commerce Act provided comprehensively for the promotion and
regulation of civil aeronautics, but it did not create a new bureau in
the Department of Commerce to perform the functions. The intention was
that so far as practicable, the duties imposed by the act should
be distributed among existing agencies of the department.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo medium outdoor shot of Earhart waving
   caption: GOODBYE
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full outdoor shot of smiling Earhart in a crowd
                of cheering children
   caption: AT TOYNBEE HALL, LONDON
            © _Wide World Photos_
  ]

“Accordingly, the task of establishing, maintaining and operating
aids to avigation along air routes was assigned to the Lighthouse
Service; the mapping of air routes, to the Coast and Geodetic Survey;
the scientific research for the improvement of air navigation aids, to
the Bureau of Standards; and the development of foreign market to the
Bureau of Foreign and Domestic Commerce.

“The department had no facilities for the examination and licensing of
aircraft and airmen, for the enforcement of air traffic rules, or for
the collection and dissemination of aeronautical information. It was
necessary to set up new instrumentalities to deal with these matters,
and two special divisions were accordingly established—the Division of
Air Regulations and the Division of Air Information. For convenience of
reference these two divisions, together with the Airways Division
of the Bureau of Lighthouses, the Airway Mapping Section of the Coast
and Geodetic Survey, and the Aeronautical Research Division of the
Bureau of Standards, are collectively referred to as the Aeronautics
Branch of the Department.

“The work of the Air Regulations Division includes the inspection of
aircraft for airworthiness and their registration as aircraft of the
United States; the examination and licensing of airmen serving in
connection with licensed aircraft; the identification by letter and
number of all aircraft, including those not licensed; the investigation
of accidents and the enforcement of air traffic rules....

“It is contemplated that practically all new production aircraft will
be manufactured under what is known as an approved type certificate.
In order to secure such a certificate the manufacturer submits to
the Air Regulation Division plans and specifications with a stress
analysis. This is checked by aeronautical engineers and if found
satisfactory an airplane built according to these specifications is
then given a thorough flight test. After this has been successfully
accomplished the certificate is issued. Thereafter planes manufactured
according to the approved plans and specifications will be licensed
upon the manufacturer’s affidavit to this effect and a short flight
test. The department’s aircraft inspectors and aeronautical engineers
visit the various factories from time to time to check up on materials
and workmanship, but Government inspectors are not stationed regularly
at any of the factories.

“To carry out the medical certification of applicants there have been
230 doctors appointed in various parts of the country, all of whom
operate under the medical director of the Aeronautics Branch.

“Pilots receive identification cards and licenses when they have
satisfactorily passed their medical, piloting and intelligence
tests. The license is renewable periodically, depending upon the class
in which it has been issued. These classes include the air transport,
limited commercial, industrial, private and student pilot licenses.
Each calls for different qualifications, all of which are explained in
the Air Commerce Regulations.

“Aircraft are registered in classes according to weight. All craft
which operate in interstate commerce or in the furtherance of a
business which includes interstate commerce are required to be
licensed. All aircraft whether operating in interstate commerce
non-commercially or solely within a State must bear identification
numbers issued by the department and must obey the air traffic rules
contained in the Air Commerce Regulations.

“The Department of Commerce keeps in touch constantly with activities
of the manufacturers and of the aerial service and transport
operators by means of periodical surveys. These surveys reveal
that during 1927 a total of 2,011 commercial airplanes were
constructed, with unfilled orders for 907 planes, representing a total
value of $12,502,405. The operations in the field by the commercial
flyers approximate 13,000,000 miles of flying; 500,000 passengers
carried, and 2,500,000 pounds of freight and express transported.

“The Airways Division selects and establishes intermediate landing
fields and installs and maintains lighting equipment and other aids to
avigation on established airways. In addition, it is charged with the
establishment of radio aids, maintenance of a weather reporting service
and a general communication system throughout the airways.

“The field service now consists of 20 airway extension superintendents,
all pilots, 11 inspectors, 6 engineers, 4 mechanics, and in addition,
numerous radio operators, caretakers and weather observers, at
intermediate fields and in some cases at beacon lights.”

The air problems of the army and navy are peculiar to themselves.
Governmental support is naturally important in the development of
planes and motors and in quickening production. Then, too, both
branches are turning out trained pilots, useful in national emergency,
many of whom will eventually find their way into the fields of
commercial aviation.

I can’t help expressing the wish that men already trained could have
more opportunity to fly. Many excellent flyers who served in the war,
and later, want to keep in practise. They can, of course, join the
reserves and fly Peteys (P.T.s), the training plane which replaced
the Jennys, recently condemned. But flying a P.T. doesn’t equip one
to pilot the modern pursuit and larger planes. Unless these men are
able to afford the luxuries of planes of their own, they can’t obtain
any adequate training and their great value in possible national
emergency is lessened. Could they be permitted to fly new type planes
that are in the army hangars, it would save all the lost motion of
retaining them in time of need, besides keeping them interested.

Probably no department of aviation touches the business people of the
country more closely than the air mail, which, by the way, includes
not only letters but express and freight as well. The Aircraft Year
Book analysis of the activities of the Post Office Department is so
admirable I again quote from it ♦verbatim:

“The Post Office Department, relieved of the details of the actual
operations of flying the mail through letting out this work at public
bidding to private operators, has been devoting its efforts exclusively
under the direction of Second Assistant Postmaster General W. Irving
Glover, to the building up of the network of privately operated air
mail lines and of bringing to the attention of the public the
value of the air mail service.

♦ “verbatum” replaced with “verbatim”

“One of the high lights in the operation of the air mail service in
1927 was the splendid demonstration by this service of the safety of
commercial operations with able pilots, good equipment and efficient
ground organization, under most trying flying conditions. This is
attested by the Post Office Department’s record last year of a single
fatality in 1,413,381 miles of day and night air transportation.

“Another achievement was the steady increase in the use of the air mail
by the public. This is shown by the fact that while the mileage flown
by private mail route operators was practically the same in June, 1926,
as in June, 1927, the amount of mail carried by these private lines
had increased from 29,673 pounds in June, 1926, to 55,026 pounds in
June, 1927. Another measure of the increase in the use of the air mail
service is found in the Government figures showing that while the
number of miles flown in carrying mail during the first half of 1927
was practically the same as the mileage flown in the last half of the
year, the compensation to the operators which is based on the poundage
carried, had increased nearly 50 per cent. The Government figures show
that while the average revenue per mile to operators during the first
half of 1927 was 58.4 cents, it had jumped to 76.9 cents during the
last half of the year.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide outdoor shot of Friendship airplane on
                airfield with a crowd of people
   caption: ARRIVING IN BOSTON BY PLANE, JULY 9
            © _P. & A. Photos_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide outdoor shot of elegantly-dressed woman
                along side an airplane
   caption: LADY HEATH AND THE HISTORIC AVRO AVIAN WHICH A. E.
            BOUGHT FROM HER
  ]

“A third notable accomplishment of the Post Office Department in 1927
was the success of its night flying, which has led it to authorize
a considerable additional mileage of night mail carrying by private
operators. The overnight operations now in effect and to be put into
effect as speedily as the additional air mail routes are lighted,
aggregate approximately 2,800,000 miles per year. The night flying
program includes the following services each night of the year:

                                       Miles
  Chicago, III., to Rock Springs, Wyo. 1,100
  Boston, Mass., to New York             192
  Chicago, Ill., to Dallas, Texas        987
  Cleveland, Ohio, to Louisville, Ky.    339
  New York to Atlanta                    773
                                       -----
                                       3,991

“This night flying, formerly done by the Post Office Department,
but now relinquished entirely to private mail transport companies,
aggregates more than a million and three-quarter miles of flying in the
year, and constitutes the greatest night air flying operation in the
world.”

In the development of aviation—especially long distance flying, and
pioneer over-water efforts—meteorological study is vital. In connection
with the Friendship flight I have told somewhat of how its backers
cooperated in supplementing the work of the Weather Bureau with
separately collected data. These efforts brought home to us all, I
am sure, a vivid realization of how much is to be done in that
field—a need understood better by no one than the weather experts
themselves.

Our knowledge of Atlantic weather is extraordinarily incomplete.
Generally speaking, the machinery for securing the requisite data
actually exists, but there are not funds to pay for its utilization.
The Weather Bureau has no appropriation to meet the costs of the
constant reports that should be radioed in by ships at sea, if
the Bureau is to be able to forecast with accuracy precise detail
conditions prevailing in various areas.

Meteorologists tell me, for instance, that if reports at intervals of
say every four hours could be secured from vessels between America and
Europe, much, if not all, of the uncertainty regarding trans-Atlantic
weather conditions as they affect air travel could be avoided. Shortly,
it seems probable, Congress will provide funds for such work. Possibly
even an international code will be created, with the cooperation
of the steamship companies themselves, so that supplying such data will
be automatic. At present, providing it is purely a matter of individual
accommodation, and the person getting it has to pay the transmission
bills which are likely to be heavy.

Reports six times daily, say from a hundred different vessels, would
permit experts on both sides of the Atlantic to lay out weather charts
of incalculable value. The information sent would primarily include
♦barometric pressure, temperature, wind direction and velocity and
visibility.

♦ “barometic” replaced with “barometric”

Ultimately the exact position of storms and their movements will be
determinable. With such information the fast-flying sturdy airships of
the future can set their courses so as to avoid these storms, and to
take advantage of favorable flying conditions.




                             CHAPTER XIII

                              RETROSPECT


Preparations ... the flight ... England ... our return ... the first
receptions ... photographs, interviews ... New York, Boston, Chicago
... the many invitations not accepted because of lack of time ...
mayors, celebrities, governors ... splendid flyers; Wilkins, Byrd,
Chamberlin, Thea Rasche, Balchen, Ruth Nichols, Reed Landis ...
speeches, lunches, radio microphones . . . acres of clippings (unread)
... editors, promoters ... settlement houses, aldermen’s offices
... gracious hostesses, camera-wise politicians ... private cars,
palatial planes ... and then my book ... hours of writing piled up in
the contented isolation (stoically maintained) of a hospitable
Rye home ... friends, a few parties ... swimming, riding, dancing,
in tantalizing driblets ... brief recesses from work ... Tunney vs.
Heeney, my first fight (a boxer’s career is measured by minutes in the
ring; an aviator’s by hours in the air) ... more writing—much more.

Such is my jumbled retrospect of the seven weeks which have crowded by
since we returned to America.

Finally the little book is done, such as it is. Tomorrow I am free to
fly.

Now, I have checked over, from first to last, this manuscript of mine.
Frankly, I’m far from confident of its air-worthiness, and don’t know
how to rate its literary horse-power or estimate its cruising radius
and climbing ability. Confidentially, it may never even make the
take-off.

If a crash comes, at least there’ll be no fatalities. No one can see
more comedy in the disaster than the author herself. Especially
because even the writing of the book, like so much else of the flight
and its aftermaths, has had its humor—some of it publishable!

I never knew that a “public character” (that, Heaven help me,
apparently is my fate since the flight) could be the target of so much
mail.

“Please send me $150; it will just pay for my divorce which I must
have....” So read one letter, plus details anent the necessity of the
proposed separation. Autographing, I discover, is a national mania.
Requests for photographs, freak suggestions, involved communications
from inventors, pathetic appeals, have been numerous.

Yes, the mail has brought diverse proposals of marriage, and
approximations thereof. Perhaps the widespread publication of my
photograph has kept the quantity down!

Best of all the letters are those from average people about the
country—mostly women—who have found some measure of satisfaction, or
perhaps a vicarious thrill, in the experiment of which I happened
to be a small part. For their congratulations and friendly messages I
find myself always deeply grateful.

A wave of invitations almost engulfed me, and offers of employment,
many of them bewilderingly generous, proved part of the harvest of
notoriety. The psychology of inferring that flying the Atlantic equips
one for an advertising managership or banking, leaves me puzzled.

However, the correspondence of a “goldfish” isn’t all bouquets, by any
means.

Cigarettes have nearly been my downfall. Not subjectively, understand,
for my indulgence is decently limited; the count, I think, shows the
restrained total of three for the current year. It’s not what I did,
but what I said, that caused trouble. I wickedly “endorsed” a certain
cigarette which was carried by the boys on the Friendship. This I
did to benefit three gallant gentlemen,—Commander Byrd, to whose
South Polar Expedition I turned over my own financial proceeds,
and the companions on my flight who benefited only if my name was
used. Among the immediate souvenirs of my viciousness is a copy of
the advertisement, torn from a newspaper and sent to me by an irate
commentator. On the margin she wrote: “I suppose you drink too!”

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo wide outdoor shot of Friendship waving from
                rear platform rail car; a sign saying “The Gilt Edge”
                hangs on railing
   caption: REAR PLATFORM STUFF
            © _Wide World Photos_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo medium shot of Earhart holding flowers and a
                model airplane
   caption: WITH A MODEL OF THE FRIENDSHIP PRESENTED BY A BOSTON
            SCHOOLBOY
  ]

It happens that I don’t—it just never seemed worth while. Anyway, the
incident struck some journalistic sparks. Amusing among them is this
from the “New Yorker”:

 One of the greatest personal sacrifices of all times, as we look
 at it, was the sacrifice Miss Earhart made in endorsing a brand of
 cigarettes so she could earn fifteen hundred dollars to contribute to
 Commander Byrd’s South Pole flight. She admitted in her letter that
 she “made the endorsement deliberately.” Commander Byrd, replying,
 said that it seemed to him “an act of astonishing generosity.”
 Pioneering must go on, whatever the toll; the waste places must be
 conquered. Since, however, the faculty of Reed University, in Oregon,
 declares that it is impossible for a person blindfolded to tell one
 cigarette from another, it seems to us that the only honorable course
 left for Commander Byrd, in order to vindicate science and validate
 Miss Earhart’s gift, is to fly to the South Pole blindfolded.

  [Illustration:
   description: Drawing of airplane in clouds
  ]

Photographers, too, are innocent (sometimes) instruments of a
critical fate. (I’ve never fathomed why photographers always want
“a-great-big-smile-please”; and prefer their victims waving.) I
did contrive to resist the blandishments of one who would have had
me pictured blowing a kiss to Pittsburgh. But in Chicago, when the
boys and girls of the Hyde Park High School turned out to see their
Atlantic-flying Alumna, the picture men asked me to step forward from
the stage upon a grand piano backed up to its edge, so as to include
the youngsters as well as myself. Picture taken, picture published.

Promptly arrived an acid letter from a friend: “_How_ did you get
on the piano?”

Doubtless she visualized me in scandalizing progress through the west,
leaping from piano to piano.

The school incident reminds me of my peripatetic education. My father
was a railroad claim agent and attorney, his work seldom keeping
him long in one place. As a result I graced the high schools of six
different communities, and happened to be in Chicago when graduation
day rolled around. During the first turmoil after our London arrival,
cablegrams came from at least four communities, each one doing me the
honor of claiming me as its very own. Beyond proclaiming the fact that
I spent more time in Atchison, Kansas, than anywhere else, discretion,
it seems to me, dictates silence as to other comparative allegiances.

A considerable crop of poetry, verse, and rhyme is chargeable to our
flight, some of it far more meritorious than the subject sung.
From the direct-by-mail offering, with which friendly souls seem wont
to deluge those whose names appear in print, I garner the following
excerpts:

  The men were anxious, Amelia was too,
  Still they never lost hope, just flew and flew.
  It took great courage, for a flight like that,
  And to the girl Amelia, we take off our hat.

  She’s my Amelia, the darling of the air,
  She sailed for Europe without a thought or a care,
  Just to let the world know that a girl could bring
  To the U. S. A. fame and most every other thing.

Two experiences which were privileges, too, of the busy weeks, stand
out oddly in my memory.

Shamelessly I confess my admiration for motorcycle policemen. Though
they have spoken harshly to me on occasion they are so good to look at,
I’ve quite forgiven—most of them. Gallant figures cycle cops, weaving
through traffic, provoking drivers to follow suit—and get a ticket.

In the autocratic days of our post-flight glory we were whirled
about with motorcycle escort, unmindful of traffic lights and speed
ordinances. Of an afternoon I motored to New York’s new Medical Center,
with one of the escorts driving a side-car. On the way back to the
Biltmore I transferred from the limousine to that side-car.... There
wasn’t a speedometer so I don’t know exactly, but I suspect that fifty
m.p.h. doesn’t tell the story.

That was one of the cherished experiences. The second found me in a
locomotive cab of the Pennsylvania Railroad, bedecked in overalls,
goggles and cap. The ride from Pittsburgh to Altoona, round the
Horseshoe Bend, was not so fast as flying, about as noisy, and much
dirtier. Also far more hot. If and when my feminine readers take
up locomotive travel, let them wear heavily soled shoes. Mine were
fairly thin—and the fire box heated the floor below where I sat when
I couldn’t stand and stood when I couldn’t sit. Even the photographs,
incidental to these experiences, did not detract from my
enjoyment. However, some of them clipped subsequently from newspapers,
arrived thoughtfully labelled _bologna_.

There were many editorials in both England and America. Some appraised
the technical accomplishments of the flight generously. But more
interesting than the bouquets were the brickbats, especially when shied
directly at me—as they often were.

As to the part I personally played in the flight I have tried to be
entirely frank always. The credit belongs to the boys, to the ship
and to its backer. I was a passenger. The fact that I happen to be a
small-ship pilot, reasonably experienced in the air, didn’t affect the
situation other than having contributed to my selection.

Said the “New York World”:

 Using Newfoundland and Ireland, and possibly the Azores, as fuel
 stops, commercial airplaning between the Old World and the
 New appears likely to become feasible within the not very distant
 future. To have shared with her skilled companions in bringing that
 development a step nearer is higher honor for Miss Earhart than the
 sporting record of the first air crossing accomplished by a woman.

Not only “honor,” but satisfaction—the joy of a share, however small,
in a great adventure.

When we were in London a clipping from “The Church Times” came to me.
The envelope was addressed in the shaky handwriting of an elderly
person. There was no letter and no signature, but certain sentences in
the article were underlined.

Here is that clipping as it greeted me, the underlined sentences
printed in italics:

 _Read Mark Learn_

 A young American woman has crossed the Atlantic in an aeroplane
 and has arrived safely on the shore of Wales. Within the past
 few months three other women have lost their lives in attempting
 the same feat, and Miss Earhart is to be congratulated on escaping
 their fate. The voyage itself, for nearly all the way through fog,
 _is a remarkable achievement made possible by the skill and courage
 of the pilot. But his anxiety must have been vastly increased_ by the
 fact that he was carrying a woman passenger, and, as the “Evening
 Standard” has properly pointed out, _her presence added no more to
 the achievement than if the passenger had been a sheep_. [This is
 the zoological last straw! After two weeks of mutton at Trepassey
 I’m sure the boys could not have endured the proximity of a sheep as
 cargo on the Friendship.] Miss Earhart has been acclaimed by Welsh
 villagers, congratulated by Mr. Coolidge, lionized in London, and she
 is offered large sums of money to appear in the films. For us, it is
 all a rather pitiful commentary on “so-called civilization.” Society
 cannot profit directly or indirectly from Miss Earhart’s journey.
 _She is an international heroine simply and solely because, owing to
 good luck and an airman’s efficiency_, she is the first woman
 to travel from America to Europe by air. A scientist has died after
 many years of agony because of his devotion to the work of healing,
 and for him there are only brief paragraphs in the newspapers, while
 Miss Earhart has columns. Women suffer constant discomfort and risk
 infection from loathsome diseases, working for the unhappy in slums,
 in leper colonies, in the fetid tropics, and their names remain
 unknown. _Certainly, the sense of values in the modern world is sadly
 distorted._

  [Illustration:
   description: Montage of 3 photos with flight crew in unflattering
                poses
   caption: THE CAMERA, TOO, HANDED US BRICKBATS—THESE ARE CULLED
            FROM OUR LESS (OH, FAR!) FLATTERING PHOTOGRAPHIC SOUVENIRS
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Drawing with 2 vertical panels. Panel 1 shows waving
                man in car pulled by horses. Panel 2 shows waving
                woman in motor car.
   caption: YESTERDAY’S HERO, AND TODAY’S
            John T. McCutcheon in _The Chicago Tribune_
  ]

For compensation, here is another clipping, a chuckling commentary upon
back-seat driving, of course utterly unfair to my sex:

AS A BACK SEAT DRIVER WOULD HAVE MADE THAT FLIGHT

(_Two Hundred Miles Off Trepassey._)

The Woman: Where are we now?

Pilot: I can’t quite make out.

The Woman: There must be some way of telling.

Pilot: I just don’t seem to recognize anything.

The Woman: Are you sure that place we left was Trepassey?

Pilot: That’s what it was called on the map.

The Woman: Well, maybe the map was wrong. I don’t feel as if we were
headed for Europe. Hadn’t we better stop and make certain?

                                * * *

(_One Thousand Miles Out._)

The Woman: Are we on the right route now?

Navigator: I’m pretty certain, but I wouldn’t swear to it.

The Woman: I’ll bet we’re miles off going ahead blindly if we’re not
certain!

Pilot: We may be a little off the course.

The Woman: I’ll bet we’re miles off it. I could have told you 600 miles
back we weren’t going the right way. Can’t you straighten things
out by looking at the map?

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo of Earhart looking out window of a locomotive
   caption: FROM PITTSBURGH TO ALTOONA
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo full shot Earhart and Putman standing against
                block wall
   caption: BEFORE THE FLIGHT IN BOSTON—A. E. AND G. P. P.
  ]
[Illustration: FROM PITTSBURG TO ALTOONA]

[Illustration: BEFORE THE FLIGHT IN BOSTON—A. E. AND G. P. P.]

Navigator: The map won’t do us any good just now.

The Woman: What’s a map for, then? I’ll bet if I had a map I could tell
where I was.

                                * * *

(_Twelve Hundred Miles Out._)

The Woman: Why do we have to keep flying in this awful fog? It’s
perfectly terrible!

Pilot: There’s no way of avoiding it.

The Woman: That’s a perfectly silly thing to say. When you sail right
into a fog and stay in it for hours I should think you’d admit you’d
made a mistake and not drive calmly on, pretending it was necessary.

Pilot: We’ve flown way up in the air to get out of it and we’ve flown
close to the ocean to escape it, but it’s no use.

The Woman: I’ll bet if you’d turn a sharp right you’d get out of
it in no time. I told you to take a sharp right five hours ago.

Pilot: We can’t take any sharp right turns and reach Europe, my dear.

The Woman: How do you know without trying?

                                * * *

(_Fifteen Hundred Miles Out._)

The Woman: Well, I just know we’re lost and it’s all your fault.

Navigator: Please have a heart. Everything’ll come out okay if you have
patience.

The Woman: I’ve had patience for hours, and for all I know may be right
back where I started. If you don’t know exactly where you are why don’t
you STOP AND ASK SOMEBODY?

                                * * *

(Over South Wales.)

The Woman: Look! It’s land! What place is it?

Pilot: The British Isles.

The Woman: Isn’t it just splendid? Here we are across the Atlantic
in no time just as we had planned. And you boys were so NERVOUS AND
UNCERTAIN ABOUT IT ALL THE WAY OVER!

H. I. Phillips added that to the gaiety of aviation, in the Sun Dial of
the “New York Sun.” By the way, at the N. A. A. luncheon at the Boston
reception I was introduced as the most famous b. s. d. in the world.

One of the largest organizations connected with the Friendship flight
was the I-knew-all-about-it-beforehand-club. Most of them contrived
to get into the papers pretty promptly. Some charter members recorded
that they turned down tempting offers to pilot the ship, actuated by an
exuberant loyalty to Uncle Sam.

Here, in conclusion of this hodge-podge are three more ♦extracts
from the press, random examples of what men do and say.

♦ “extacts” replaced with “extracts”

The first is from the “English Review,” evidence that the world is
far from any universal air-mindedness:

 The Latest Atlantic Flight

 The Atlantic has been flown again, and no one will grudge Miss Earhart
 her triumph. The achievement has, however, produced the usual crop of
 inspired paragraphs on the future of aviation, and the usual failure
 to face the fact that air transport is the most unreliable and the
 most expensive form of transport available. No amount of Atlantic
 flights will alter these facts, because they happen, as things are,
 to be inherent in the nature of men and things. Absurd parallels are
 drawn between people who talk sense about the air today, and people
 who preferred stage-coaches to railways. The only parallel would be,
 of course, between such people and any who insist today in flying
 to Paris by balloon instead of by aeroplane. Everyone wants to see
 better, safer and cheaper aeroplanes. If the Air League can offer us a
 service which will take us to Paris in half-an-hour for half-a-crown,
 I would even guarantee that Neon would be the first season-ticket
 holder. But all this has nothing to do with the essential fact that
 not a single aeroplane would be flying commercially today without the
 Government subsidy, for the simple reason that by comparison with
 other forms of transport air transport is uneconomic. To talk vaguely
 of the great developments which will occur in the future is no answer,
 unless you can show that the defects of air transport are technical
 defects which can be overcome by mechanical means. A few of them, of
 course, are, but the overwhelming defects are due to the nature of the
 air itself. It is very unfortunate, but we fail to see how it can be
 helped.

After all, the “Review” may be right; but somehow its viewpoint is
reminiscent of certain comment when the Wrights were experimenting
at Kitty Hawk. Also of the mathematical deductions which proved
beyond doubt that flight in a heavier than air machine was impossible.

  [Illustration:
   description: Photos of 2 scribbled pages from log book
   caption: TWO CHARACTERISTIC PAGES FROM THE TRANS-ATLANTIC LOG
            BOOK. THE DIFFICULTY OF WRITING IN THE DARK IS EXEMPLIFIED
            BY THE PENMANSHIP OF THE SECOND PAGE
            © _International Newsreel_
  ]

  [Illustration:
   description: Photo medium profile shot of Earhart wearing flight
                gear outside a block building
   caption: BOSTON, 1928
  ]

To balance the pessimism here is an editorial from this morning’s “New
York Times”—current commentary upon characteristic news of the day:

 Steamship and Plane

 In the world of commerce a gain of fifteen hours in the receipt of
 letters from Europe may have important consequences. The experiment of
 the French Line was to be only a beginning in speeding Atlantic mails.
 It is yet planned to launch planes when steamships are 800 miles from
 the port of destination. With a following wind the amphibian plane
 piloted by Commander Demougeot flew at the rate of 130 miles an hour
 and made the distance of over 400 miles to Quarantine in three hours
 and seventeen minutes. In such weather as prevailed it could have been
 catapulted from the Ile de France with no more hazard when she
 was 800 miles away, or about one-fourth of the distance between Havre
 and New York.

 Ten years ago the experiment of hurrying mail to shore in a plane from
 a surface ship 400 miles out at sea would not have been attempted.
 So great has been the improvement in airplane design that what the
 Ile de France has done will soon become the regular order. It is not
 wildly speculative to think of dispatching a plane after a liner on a
 well-traveled route in these days of excellent radio communication. It
 would be well to use for that purpose amphibian or seaplanes carrying
 fuel enough to take them all the way across the Atlantic if necessary.

 It is conceivable that ocean flight between Europe and the United
 States will be the sequel to a ship-and-plane system of mail delivery,
 the distances covered by the plane becoming longer and longer until
 the steamship can be dispensed with altogether.

And last, just an item of news, gleaned from “Time”:

 Broker’s Amphibian

 Between his summer home on Buzzard’s Bay, Mass., and his brokerage
 offices in Manhattan, Richard F. Hoyt commutes at 100 miles an hour.
 He uses a Loening amphibian biplane, sits lazily in a cabin finished
 in dark brown broadcloth and saddle leather, with built-in lockers
 containing pigskin picnic cases. Pilot Robert E. Ellis occupies a
 forward cockpit, exposed to the breezes. But occasionally Broker Hoyt
 wishes to pilot himself. When this happens he pulls a folding seat out
 of the cabin ceiling, reveals a sliding hatch. Broker Hoyt mounts to
 the seat, opens the hatch, inserts a removable joystick in a socket
 between his feet. Rudder pedals are already installed in front of the
 folding seat. He has thus created a rear cockpit, with a full set of
 controls. Broker Hoyt becomes Pilot Hoyt.

With such excerpts, from the newspapers and the magazines of every day,
one could go on endlessly, for aviation is woven ever closer into the
warp of the world’s news. Ours is the commencement of a flying age, and
I am happy to have popped into existence at a period so interesting.

WILMER STULTZ—Pilot

Born April 11, 1900.

He enlisted in 1917 for duration of the war. Joined the 634th Aero
Squadron at San Antonio, Texas, and later served at Middletown, Pa.
Discharged March, 1919.

On August 4, 1919, married Mildred Potts, of Middletown.

December 2, 1919, Stultz joined the Navy, being stationed at Hampton
Roads, Virginia, until July, 1920. Then he went to Pensacola, Florida,
to the flight school, where he received training with seaplanes, in
the ground school, and in navigation, aerology, meteorology, radio,
etc. Thereafter he returned to Hampton Roads until December 2, 1922,
securing his discharge.

In February, 1923, Stultz took a position with Curtiss Export Company,
being sent to Rio de Janeiro to oversee the setting up of forty F5L and
other types of planes. He also instructed Brazilians in flying.
That autumn he returned to New York, working with the Curtiss Company
at Curtiss Field. Later for the Fokker Company he tested the “Josephine
Ford” used by Commander Byrd.

Among those for whom he flew subsequently were Al Pack, President of
the Hubbard Steel Foundries, for the Gates Flying Circus, and the
Reynolds Airways.

In August Stultz joined Mrs. Grayson, testing her plane “The Dawn.”
From Old Orchard, Maine, in October he made three take-off attempts
with Mrs. Grayson. A flight of about 500 miles was terminated by engine
trouble. Lacking confidence in the “Dawn’s” equipment, he severed his
connection with Mrs. Grayson.

In November, 1927, Stultz took a position with Arrow Airways, Paterson,
N. J., which he left to make flights with Charles Levine to Havana, etc.

Thereafter he became associated with the Friendship flight.

LOUIS EDWARD GORDON—Flight Mechanic

Born March 4, 1901, San Antonio, Texas.

Gordon enlisted in the Army Air Service at Ellington Field, Houston,
Texas, July 15, 1919.

Later he was transferred to the 20th Bombing Squadron and went to Kelly
Field, San Antonio, Texas, where he had six months in the aircraft
motor school. Rejoining his organization in New York, he was assigned
as mechanic to two tri-motored Caproni and one Handley Page plane.
In May, 1921, he was with the Handley Page bombers during operations
against obsolete battleships off the Virginia Capes.

Subsequently Gordon became Chief Mechanic at the proving grounds,
Aberdeen, Maryland. Then until 1926 he served with bombers at Mitchel
Field, where he was throughout the International Air Races. In May,
1926, after seven years and nine days in the service, he received his
honorable discharge as Staff Sergeant.

Gordon next was with the Philadelphia Rapid Transit Air Service,
operating Fokker tri-motors between Philadelphia, Washington, and
Norfolk.

In June, 1927, R. J. Reynolds bought the ships. Gordon was working on a
tri-motor at Monroe, Louisiana, when Stultz, telephoning from New York,
asked him if he would like to join up on the Friendship project. The
next day he met Stultz in Detroit and joined the Friendship.

On July 20, 1928, married Ann Bruce of Brookline, Mass.




                        Transcriber’s Notes


 1. Misspelled words have been corrected. Obsolete and alternative
    spellings have been left unchanged (e.g. avigator, avigation).
    Spelling and hyphenation have otherwise not been standardised.
    Grammar has not been corrected.

 2. Punctuation has been silently corrected.

 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

 4. Footnotes have been renumbered and moved to after the paragraph.

 5. Illustrations are indicated by: [Illustration: caption and/or
    descriptive text]. They have been moved to be outside of text
    paragraphs.

 6. “Edit Distance” in Corrections table below refers to the
    Levenshtein Distance.

  Corrections:

      pg(s)          Source               Correction           Edit
                                                               Distance

           25    flattering-ing         flattering                 4
          140    (not in source)        )                          1
          271    verbatum               verbatim                   1
          278    barometic              barometric                 1
          302    extacts                extracts                   1