The Spirit of ST Louis Read Online Free PDF Page A

and forth. Members of the crew were quickly changed.
    Think of the weight those wings were asked to lift—more than 28,000 pounds. But the big Sikorsky had taken off beautifully on its lighter load tests. There was good reason to believe it could carry enough fuel for the Paris flight. Probably the auxiliary landing gear dragging was what held it on the ground. I should think Fonck would have cut his switches the moment the gear broke loose. But who am I to judge his crisis-action while I lie snugly here in bed? Fonck had to decide in seconds what his critics have had days to talk about. And what pilot is immune to errors? We all commit them, as every honest man will say. Usually our errors don't end in a crash. But when a man is unlucky, does that make him more to blame?
    There's another thing I don't understand about the Fonck project. A plane that's got to break the world's record for nonstop flying should be stripped of every excess ounce of weight. But descriptions of the great biplane said that its cabin had been luxuriously finished in red leather, and that it even contained a bed. There were long-wave and short-wave radio sets, and special bags for flotation in case of a landing at sea. Four men were in the crew. It certainly doesn't take four men to fly a plane across the ocean. The newspapers said-that presents were being carried for friends in Europe, and a hot dinner to be eaten in celebration after the landing in Paris. One of the last things to be placed on board before the attempted take-off was a gift of buns—French croissants.
    Well, if I can get a Bellanca, I'll fly alone. That will cut out the need for any selection of crew, or quarreling. If there's upholstery in the cabin, I'll tear it out for the flight. I'll take only the food I need to eat and a few concentrated rations. I'll carry a rubber boat for emergency, and a little extra water.
    Now I've got to stop thinking about it. I must get a few hours' sleep.
     
    3
     
    The alarm clock's shattering ring seems to reach down through a dozen layers of blankets. It's a drugged awakening. This is the worst part of the air mail—getting up before daybreak. For a few moments I almost believe that flying isn't worth such a terrific effort to overcome bodily desire. If I reset the clock, maybe I could sleep for ten minutes more. I reach out for it. But this morning there's something of exceptional importance, something that should make me jump quickly out of bed to start the day. It's not like other mornings. Consciousness wakes first, then memory. Oh, yes, this is the dawn of a new lfie, a life in which I'm going to fly across the ocean to Europe!
    While I'm dressing, on the drive to the mail field, and all during my southbound flight to St. Louis, I turn over one plan after another in my. mind. Where can I get a modern airplane? How can I get accurate figures on cruising speed, take-off run, and fuel consumption? Who can give me information about the Wright-Bellanca—how soon can one be bought, how much will it cost, how many gallons of gasoline can it lift?
    I probably won't be very successful if I simply go to the Wright Corporation and say that I want to use a Bellanca airplane for a flight to Paris. They'd ask immediately what references I could furnish. Without either cash in hand or well-established references to show, they'd have little interest in my ideas. Aviation is full of promoters and people looking for a job. Ideas are free for the taking, and almost every pilot has some plane he'd like to carry out—if someone else will furnish the money. An aviation executive has to look at banking references. If he doesn't, his company will soon go broke. Even if I could persuade the Wright Corporation that the value of a New York-to-Paris flight would justify taking the chance involved, they'd probably want to have their Bellanca flown by a better-known pilot. After all, there are lots of pilots much more experienced than I.
    No, I’ll have to present