On a cold wet morning, May 20,
1927 a 25 yr.old kid climbed aboard an airplane at Roosevelt airfield on Long
Island and took off for Paris. There was
a $25000 prize for the first person to do it.
Two well-financed teams had already come to tragic watery catastrophes
in the Atlantic already that year.
Charles Lindbergh had 4 sandwiches, 2 canteens of water, and 451 gallons
of gasoline aboard the Spirit of St.
Louis, named in honor of his backers. No radio, no parachute to conserve
weight.
When we say air field, that’s what it was and Roosevelt
airfield was so muddy that Lindbergh barely cleared the telephone lines at the
end of the field. Though 500
well-wishers had seen him off, major newpapers scoffed at his effort and
homemade plane. For the next 33 ½ hours, Lindbergh bounced through storms and
over icebergs. He flew into fog for
awhile, bitter cold and his wings iced badly.
Finally he spotted fishing boats.
Was he close to land? Flying low,
about 200 feet, he cut the engine and yelled, “Which way to Ireland?” The fishermen pointed to the east. He battled fatigue, holding his eyes open
with his fingers. From Ireland he
crossed England and found Cherbourg and the Seine River. Finally the lights of Paris came into view about
10 pm. There were no lights at the
airfield and Lindbergh said this made him extremely cautious, overshooting the
field by 3 miles before he turned around and headed back. But you see, the news of the crazy American
kid heading for Paris had traveled to the city by that time and 100,000
motorists had cranked their cars and lined both sides of the runway with their lights
on, cheering wildly as he touched down. He had done what no one else had done—solo
flight, New York to Paris.
The French saw in Lindbergh
their heroic American. He had quiet integrity and courage, and an indifference
to honor they loved in the Yanks. It
seemed everybody in America saw themselves in him, an adventurer, an achiever,
full of hope. He was given the largest
ticker tape parade in New York in history.
President Coolidge presented him with the Congressional Medal of Honor.
But the real effect of Lindbergh’s
flight was more mundane. Up until then
aviation was thought to be the realm of dare-devils and barnstormers. It was nothing for a prudent person to engage
in. But, heck, if some kid could climb
into a plane and fly to Paris, maybe this aviation wasn’t so nutty after
all. Commercial aviation blossomed. The Military and the Postal Service began to
pursue flying full tilt. Going into the
sky quickly became accepted. And France
had finally passed the torch. Ever since
the Reformation, France had been the country of new technology, and in the 19th
century, even without stable government, French engineers and scientists had
stunned the world with their discoveries, buildings and feats. But with Lindbergh, it was now America’s
turn.
