Charles Lindbergh (Famous Flyers)

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Claire Chennault Amelia Earhart Charles Lindbergh Eddie Rickenbacker Manfred von Richthofen Chuck Yeager

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Charles Lindbergh

Heather Lehr Wagner

Philadelphia

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Frontis: Charles Lindbergh sits in the cockpit of the Spirit of St. Louis before his historic transatlantic flight.

CHELSEA HOUSE PUBLISHERS

VP, NEW PRODUCT DEVELOPMENT Sally Cheney DIRECTOR OF PRODUCTION Kim Shinners CREATIVE MANAGER Takeshi Takahashi MANUFACTURING MANAGER Diann Grasse Staff for CHARLES LINDBERGH

EXECUTIVE EDITOR Lee Marcott ASSOCIATE EDITOR Bill Conn PRODUCTION EDITOR Jaimie Winkler PICTURE RESEARCHER Sarah Bloom SERIES DESIGNER Keith Trego COVER DESIGNER Keith Trego LAYOUT 21st Century Publishing and Communications, Inc. ©2003 by Chelsea House Publishers, a subsidiary of Haights Cross Communications. All rights reserved. Printed and bound in the United States of America.

http://www.chelseahouse.com First Printing 1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Wagner, Heather Lehr. Charles Lindbergh / Heather Lehr Wagner. p. cm.—(Famous flyers) Summary: A biography of the American aviator who, in 1927, became the first person to fly non-stop across the Atlantic Ocean. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-7910-7212-6 HC 0-7910-7497-8 PB 1. Lindbergh, Charles A. (Charles Augustus), 1902–1974—Juvenile literature. 2. Air pilots—United States—Biography—Juvenile literature. [1. Lindbergh, Charles A. (Charles Augustus), 1902–1974. 2. Air pilots.] I. Title. II. Series. TL540.L5 W34 2002 629.13'092—dc21 2002015389

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CONTENTS

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Spirit of St. Louis

6

Early Memories

18

Life as an Aviator

32

Hero of Aviation

44

Family Man

60

An Aviator’s Travels

78

A Hero Once More

90

CHRONOLOGY

100

BIBLIOGRAPHY

102

FURTHER READING

103

INDEX

104

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1

Spirit of St. Louis t 2:30 A.M. on May 20, 1927, a 25-year-old aviator walked briskly through the lobby of a New York hotel. He was dressed for flying, wearing a light jacket, breeches, boots, and a blue-and-redstriped tie. Within a half hour, he was at Roosevelt Field on Long Island as rain dripped down steadily. It was still dark, but more than 500 people had gathered at the airfield. The crowd watched as the young aviator made final preparations for his flight and waited for the rain to end. The runway was muddy from the rain, there was little to see in the dark, and the spectators were soaked. But still they waited, knowing that early that morning they might have a chance to glimpse history being made. Just slightly past 4 A.M. the rain began to slow. Weather reports from points along the route had indicated clearing skies. The young aviator ate a sandwich and then indicated he was ready. His plane, a single-engine, 2,150-pound (975-kilogram) aircraft

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Spirit of St. Louis named Spirit of St. Louis was wheeled out from the hangar. It was 9 feet, 8 inches (3 meters) high, stretched out 27 feet, 8 inches (8.5 meters) long, and had a wingspan of 46 feet (14 meters). It had been built specifically for this historic journey, and when the waiting crowd saw the plane and the tall, slim pilot they cheered. Fuel was carefully poured into the plane’s five engines until

Aviator Charles Lindbergh is shown at Roosevelt Field on Long Island, New York, preparing the Spirit of St. Louis for the first flight across the Atlantic Ocean. The plane was built to his specifications by Ryan Airlines Corporation.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH 451 gallons (1,707 liters) of gasoline had been emptied from 5-gallon (19-liter) cans. The main fuel tank of the Spirit of St. Louis had been placed in front of, rather than behind, the pilot’s seat. This innovative design had been installed to prevent the pilot from being caught between the engine and tank if the plane was forced to make an emergency landing. But the fuel tank in front blocked the pilot from being able to see directly ahead as he flew. Instead, he used windows on his left and right side to navigate. By 7:30 A.M., the pilot made his final preparations, checking his equipment and examining the conditions. They were not particularly favorable for flying. A mist still hid parts of the horizon, the sky was overcast, the wind was moving in the wrong direction, and the muddy runway would make liftoff difficult. His plane was carrying more weight than it ever had before under previous tests, and there were several obstructions near the runway that would make the timing of his liftoff critical. Finally, with his seat belt fastened and his ears stuffed with cotton to block out the engine’s roar, he pulled on his goggles and helmet. At 7:52 A.M. the Spirit of St. Louis began rolling down the runway. Assistants under both wings pushed the plane forward, starting the heavy plane on its course. It rolled slowly along, bounced once, then again, and finally, with less than 1,000 feet (305 meters) of runway ahead, it lifted off. Flying low in the misty sky, the pilot steered the plane up, passing over a tractor by only 15 feet (4.5 meters) and skimming above telephone wires only 20 feet (6 meters) below. The spectators below cheered loudly. The Spirit of St. Louis was on its way. Its young pilot, Charles Lindbergh, was attempting something no one had ever done before—to fly nonstop across the Atlantic Ocean.

SPIRIT OF FLYING When Charles Lindbergh set out across the ocean on that May morning, he was marking the beginning of a new era for

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Spirit of St. Louis

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aviation. It had been little more than 23 years earlier that Orville and Wilbur Wright had made the very first flight—at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina—and flying was still considered a

Timeline Across the Atlantic

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n May 20, 1927, Charles Lindbergh took off from Roosevelt Field on Long Island. For 33 hours and 30 minutes he battled fatigue and the elements, testing his skills as he flew across the Atlantic: 7:52 A.M. 10:52 A.M. 12:52 P.M. 3:52 P.M. 7:52 P.M. 10:52 P.M.

1:52 A.M. 2:52 A.M. 4:52 A.M. 9:52 A.M. 10:52 A.M. 2:52 P.M. 4:22 P.M.

The Spirit of St. Louis begins its flight. Lindbergh feels tired. He brings the plane down and flies only 10 feet (3 meters) above the water to help keep him focused. A storm front appears. Thick clouds surround the plane. The Spirit of St. Louis flies over the eastern edge of Nova Scotia. Lindbergh struggles to stay awake as he heads out over the water. Night begins to fall and stars are visible. Fog below prevents Lindbergh from seeing the sea. The pilot fights exhaustion and cold. He considers closing the plane’s windows to warm the plane, but then keeps them open so that the cold will keep him awake. He is now halfway to Paris. Still 18 hours to go. Traveling through several time zones, Lindbergh now sees the dawn. He finds himself sleeping with his eyes open. The skies grow clearer. Lindbergh spots fishing boats below. Lindbergh spots land—the southern tip of Ireland. He is less than 3 miles (5 kilometers) off course. The sun begins to set as Lindbergh flies over Cherbourg in France. The Spirit of St. Louis lands at Le Bourget Aerodrome in Paris.

Source: “Lindbergh: The American Experience” — www.pbs.org

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CHARLES LINDBERGH risky and dangerous stunt. Aircraft had been used in battle in World War I, but planes were still used more for daredevil exhibitions than for transportation. However, some men and women believed that aviation held commercial possibilities—that planes could be used for something other than stunt flying. One of those visionaries was Raymond Ortieg, a Frenchman who owned two hotels in New York and understood that the new field of aviation could link the world in ways never before dreamed possible. In 1919, Ortieg announced that he would pay $25,000 to the first aviator to fly nonstop from New York to Paris or from Paris to New York. For five years, the prize waited to be claimed. In 1926, Ortieg announced that he was extending his offer for another five years, and this time, several men seriously began to consider the prize—and what would be required to win it. The most serious challenge lay in the design of the plane. Planes were not built to travel long distances in those days— their fuel capacity, weight, and air speed prohibited it. Navigational tools were very basic—pilots generally flew their planes low, using landmarks and roads to guide their course. But a trip across the ocean would offer the challenge of an absence of any kind of landmarks to ensure that pilots were following the correct route. Fatigue would be a factor—planes were heavier and flew much slower. A transatlantic flight would require continuous flying for 35 to 40 hours, experts estimated. But the prize and the opportunity to make history tempted several pilots. Charles Lindbergh was one of them. He had flown aircraft for several years, trained with the military’s Air Service and worked as a daredevil stunt pilot and airmail courier. It was while flying one of his airmail routes on a fall evening in 1926 that the possibility of making the transatlantic flight first occurred to him. The key, Lindbergh felt, lay not in the additional power of a multiengine plane (as many pilots were using), but instead in weight. The lightest possible load, Lindbergh felt, plus a single-engine plane (offering less possibility

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Spirit of St. Louis of engine failure than a multiengine plane) would make the trip more likely to succeed. The cost of building such a plane was out of reach for the young aviator, but he was ultimately able to persuade several wealthy investors to support his campaign. Having raised enough cash to cover the cost of the flight, Lindbergh’s next challenge lay in finding someone willing to build the plane according to his specifications. Few aircraft builders were interested in seeing their name attached to what they felt was a highly risky mission, most likely doomed to failure. Ultimately, Ryan Airlines Corporation in San Diego, California, agreed to build the plane Lindbergh wanted—without the engine— for $6,000. Lindbergh was not impressed by his first visit to Ryan Airlines. It was a small company located in a rundown building that smelled strongly of rotten fish (the building had previously served as a fish cannery). But the team that had agreed to build the plane proved much more impressive than their location, and they were willing to attempt the construction within Lindbergh’s tight deadline of two months. Other teams were being assembled to try for the prize. Lindbergh knew there was little time to lose. The Spirit of St. Louis was created to cross the Atlantic Ocean. While others hoping to win the prize had assembled teams of pilots to battle the inevitable fatigue that would occur, Lindbergh decided that he would prefer to take his chances alone, eliminating the weight of another pilot. In fact, any possible sources of unnecessary weight were considered and discarded as the Spirit of St. Louis was being built. Instead of the standard pilot’s chair, the plane contained a special, light wicker chair. Gas gauges, navigation lights, radios, and parachutes were all eliminated, considered to be unnecessary weight. Lindbergh even went through his books of maps—the maps that he would use to steer during his flight—and cut out any pages that he did not plan to use.

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French hotel owner Raymond Ortieg (right) understood the benefits of being able to transport people from the United States to France. In June 1927 Charles (left) received a $25,000 check from the businessman for making the first transatlantic flight.

As Lindbergh prepared to leave San Diego for New York, it seemed that the hard work might have been in vain. On May 8, 1927, a team of two Frenchmen—François Coli and Charles Nungesser—took off from Paris, heading for New York and the Ortieg prize. But after the team took off, they were never seen again.

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Spirit of St. Louis The disappearance of the French team added to the drama surrounding Lindbergh’s flight. As the silver Spirit of St. Louis headed up into the skies over Long Island, as newspapers and radios blared the news that Charles was on his way, an anxious public—on both sides of the Atlantic—watched and waited.

ALONE OVER THE ATLANTIC As Lindbergh headed north, he learned that the weather reports he had received were correct. The skies had cleared and weather and visibility were good over Cape Cod and on to Nova Scotia. The heavy plane was still flying low, and Lindbergh could clearly see fishing boats sailing in the water below. Flying further north, the weather grew hazier. The Spirit of St. Louis flew through several storms and soon Lindbergh could see snow on the ground below and, when he flew over water, ice on the ocean. Lindbergh had carefully mapped out the most direct route between New York and Paris, but he chose to fly first past St. John’s, in Newfoundland, so that observers below could track his progress and know that he had at least made it that far, should the plane disappear somewhere in the Atlantic. Then, he headed out over the ocean. Shortly after 8:00 P.M. the sky became dark, and he could see icebergs but no ships in the water below. There was no moon. When the plane passed through clouds, sleet quickly formed on the wings. Lacking deicing equipment, Lindbergh was forced to either pass above the storm clouds or fly around them. Lindbergh had slept only an hour or two the day before, and in the darkness, with the continuous sight of waves below him and little else visible, exhaustion began to creep in. To help himself stay awake, he eased the plane up higher, to 5,000 feet (1,524 meters), so that he could see the stars. He flew into another storm, where cold winds battered the

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CHARLES LINDBERGH plane. His flashlight revealed some ice forming on the plane. He continued on, worrying that the ice might clog his instruments but also concerned that a detour around the storm would cost him precious fuel. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the clouds cleared and the moon appeared. But now fatigue began to creep up on him again. He had been flying for nearly 17 hours, and had been awake for nearly 40 hours. The plane did not fly smoothly, and its jerking motion helped keep the pilot awake. Gradually, light began to tinge the horizon. Thick clouds of fog filled the sky. Lindbergh relied on the instruments to help guide the plane. At times, the patches of fog on the horizon would trick him into believing he had sighted land, only to have them fade back into fog as his plane neared. After 22 hours of flying, Lindbergh’s eyes burned from the effort of staying open, and his back and shoulders ached. Holes in the fog gradually became clear as the sky began to lighten. At one point, desperate to keep alert, he dropped the plane down through one of these breaks in the fog until he was less than 100 feet (30 meters) above the ocean. A strong wind was blowing across the white caps of the ocean, and the spray splattered his face and helped keep him awake. As the fog gradually cleared, Lindbergh flew lower, sometimes as close as 10 feet (3 meters) above the water. He saw porpoises in the ocean and birds around him, but no ships —no other sign of human beings. He was not sure where he was—at certain points he had detoured around storm clouds, at others his compasses had malfunctioned because of the cold. He only knew that he had been flying for more than a day.

THE END OF THE JOURNEY And then on the horizon he saw a dot, and then another and another. He flew closer and realized that the dots were fishing boats. He had reached Europe at last. But where, exactly, in Europe?

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Spirit of St. Louis Lindbergh circled one of the fishing boats and saw a man’s face below, looking out the cabin window. He dropped the plane low, throttled the engine, leaned out the window, and shouted, “Which way is Ireland?” The fisherman, perhaps startled by the sudden appearance of the plane or unable to understand the question, did not respond and Lindbergh flew on. Less than an hour later, he spotted the welcome sign of a rugged coastline in the northeast. Lindbergh hoped that he had stayed on his planned course and reached the southwestern end of Ireland, but he changed direction and headed for the nearest point of land to make sure. Spotting the distinctive outlines of Cape Valentia and Dingle Bay, he knew that he was on course, and so headed on for Paris, immensely relived that the longest and most hazardous part of the journey was behind him. He flew over southern England, then over the English Channel and on to France. The visibility was good, and he could see small English farms and then the countryside around Cherbourg, France. The sun began to set, and at 10 P.M. Paris time—5:00 P.M. New York time, some 33 hours after his takeoff from Long Island—Lindbergh could see bright beacons marking the approach to Paris. He circled the Eiffel Tower, then looked for the field at Le Bourget, where he was supposed to land. He finally located what he believed was the airfield, but the lighting confused him. An airfield should be surrounded by regularly spaced lighting, but this patch of darkness was washed with floodlights in one corner, and he could see another stretch of lights that seemed to head back to Paris. The lights that confused the exhausted pilot were the headlights of thousands of automobiles, some parked near the airfield, others stuck in traffic in an attempt to welcome the American flyer to France. After circling down closer to the field, Lindbergh finally found a place to land. It was 10:24 P.M. Paris time, May 21, 1927, 33 hours and 30 minutes since Lindbergh had left New York. He had flown 3,614 miles (5,816 kilometers). When the Spirit of St. Louis stopped rolling, he tried to turn

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An enormous crowd gathered around the Spirit of St. Louis and its famous pilot. The flight ended at Le Bourget Airport in Paris, France, after more than 33 hours in the air.

the plane around to head back for the lights. But instead he saw that the field ahead was full of people, more than 150,000 people, all running toward him. They had come to see history being made. They had come to see the first man to fly across the Atlantic Ocean. They had come to see the young American who had dared to do something many believed was impossible. For the cheering crowds, that May night marked the glorious end of an amazing adventure. Lindbergh, too, believed that the landing in the airfield outside Paris marked an ending, but it would prove to be merely a beginning—a single event that would transform aviation and, more importantly, drastically change the life of the aviator who had made the journey. The triumph of his flight would lead to later tragedy; the fame that

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Spirit of St. Louis would result would become a heavy burden, stripping him of the privacy he so craved. The young man who was celebrated for his flying skills would be despised for his political views. And in the end, the hero who was swept up in the adoring crowds would come to believe that his flight—a flight that linked the world in ways it had never before known—was more of a curse than a blessing. But all of this was well in the future. On that May night in 1927, Charles Lindbergh stepped out of his plane to the sound of thousands of voices calling out his name. In 33 and one-half hours, the man who had become known as “Lucky Lindy” forever changed what the world believed about flying.

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Early Memories arly on the cold morning of February 4, 1902, a baby was born to a successful Minnesota lawyer and a former science teacher from Detroit, Michigan. The baby was born at the home of his maternal grandparents—an impressive Detroit mansion—but when he was only five weeks old he set out on the first of what would become a lifetime of travels. The baby, who was named Charles Augustus Lindbergh Jr., and his mother made an 800-mile (1,287kilometer) journey to their new home, in Little Falls, Minnesota. The home where Charles Lindbergh would spend his earliest years was large. His father had built it on 120 acres (49 hectares) of farmland, 2.5 miles (4 kilometers) south of Little Falls on the bank of the Mississippi River. The home—a three-story house made of cedar and pine—was built on the very edge of a cliff, and Charles as an adult would hold onto memories of sitting in his crib looking out at the river flowing below.

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Early Memories But the happy memories would not last long. At the age of three, Charles and his family watched their family home burn to ashes. The house would be replaced—by something smaller and more modest—but the loss of his family home would soon be followed by the loss of another, more important source of security—his family, itself. Charles’s parents had been mismatched from the start. His mother, Evangeline Land Lodge, was the daughter and granddaughter of two of the most prominent families in Detroit— the Lodges and the Lands. An interest in science ran in the family. Many of Evangeline’s uncles were doctors, and her

Charles’s father, C.A. Lindbergh, built a successful law practice and eventually served as a congressman representing Minnesota.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH father, Dr. Charles Land, was a dentist who spent much of his career pioneering the use of porcelain in dentistry—an approach that brought him criticism and even lawsuits. He also believed strongly that women should be educated— an uncommon opinion in the late 19th century, and so his daughter Evangeline went to the University of Michigan. She graduated in 1899 with a degree in chemistry. For educated women in those days, there were few career options. Evangeline chose teaching, but rather than settling comfortably into a teaching position in familiar Detroit, she decided to go west, to teach under more primitive conditions and to have some adventures along the way. The 24-year-old teacher was offered a job in a one-room schoolhouse in Little Falls, Minnesota—the pay was $55 a month. Evangeline had read about travel along the Mississippi and thought that the small town of Little Falls would provide the kind of adventure she was seeking. The town would prove a disappointment to this well-educated, wealthy young woman, but her disappointment faded when she met another resident in the hotel where she was living, a successful lawyer named Charles August Lindbergh. C.A. Lindbergh, as he was known, was 18 years older than Evangeline. His first wife had died two years earlier, leaving him alone with two young daughters. The girls were living with relatives in Minneapolis while C.A. continued to build his legal practice.

A PIONEERING FAMILY C.A.’s family lacked the wealth and prestige of Evangeline’s family. Even after Charles made his famous flight across the Atlantic, certain parts of his family background would be glossed over. For the true Lindbergh story begins with Charles’s grandfather, who was a disgraced Swedish politician and a fugitive from the law—and from his wife. Charges of illegal

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Early Memories banking activities brought him before Sweden’s Supreme Court, but just before the verdict was delivered, the Swede— Ola Mansson—disappeared. When Mansson had sensed that the verdict would not be in his favor, he had begun taking English lessons and then obtained a passport. He had heard stories of Swedes who had immigrated to the United States—and he needed a place where he could begin a new life. In 1859, Mansson informed his wife that he was slipping away to America. He offered to take her and their eight children with him, but she refused. It is probably just as well. For traveling on the boat to America with Mansson was another woman, a 21-year-old former seamstress who had become Mansson’s mistress, and their one-year-old son. The journey to America was long and difficult. They traveled for three days by boat to England’s eastern coast, then took a seven-hour train ride across England to Liverpool. After waiting in England for a few weeks, they next boarded a boat for the one-month trip to Quebec in Canada. It was in Canada that Ola Mansson decided to mark the start of his new life by choosing new names for himself and his new family. He became August Lindbergh, and his baby son became Charles August Lindbergh. The Lindberghs traveled by train to Ontario before crossing the Detroit River into the United States. To find the place where they would settle, they traveled across the Midwest by train, then boat, then ox-cart and prairie schooner deeper and deeper into the wilderness. They finally settled on the very frontier of civilization, building a sod house near Melrose, Minnesota. There were only two other families living in the entire town. Only two years after arriving in Minnesota, August Lindbergh suffered a terrible sawmill accident while cutting wood for the big, new home he was building. The saw caught on to his clothing and dragged him into the blade. The blade

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August Lindbergh (left), Charles’s grandfather, was actually born Ola Mansson in Sweden. August posed with his family in America, about 15 years after he left Sweden to avoid a possible conviction on illegal banking activities.

sliced off part of his left arm and then cut into his back. The mill workers pulled the bits of clothes and sawdust from the wound and then wrapped it in towels soaked in cold water, while someone went for a doctor. But the nearest doctor was 60 miles (97 kilometers) away, and it was three days before the doctor could reach the wounded man. By then, the only option was to amputate the arm.

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Early Memories Once he had recovered from the operation, August Lindbergh asked for his amputated arm to be brought to him. He solemnly thanked his arm for its years of good service and told it goodbye before burying it in his garden. The loss of his arm did not slow August. He created a special harness so that he could continue to use his scythe and so keep on working. He and his growing family of nine farmed their 200 hundred acres (81 hectares), battling Sioux Indians, swarms of grasshoppers that devoured their crops, and disease (whooping cough) that would kill three of the Lindbergh children. But the others would thrive, and the oldest, who became known by his initials, “C.A.,” relished the solitude and independence that life on the frontier brought. He became a successful young lawyer—successful enough to win the heart of Evangeline Land Lodge and persuade her to become his wife.

A LONELY CHILDHOOD Charles’s earliest memories were of his home in Little Falls, overlooking the river, but later memories were less happy. His parents’ marriage collapsed soon after the fire gutted the family home. His father, who had long enjoyed a reputation for honesty and fairness in the community, was encouraged to run for political office by civic leaders in Little Falls. In September 1906, C.A. was nominated by the Republican party to run for Minnesota’s Sixth congressional district. He won the election easily and hastily set off for Washington, D.C. His wife, two daughters, and young son moved to Detroit to live with the Land family. Young Charles would spend much of his childhood moving from one home to another. He would look back fondly on his life “growing up on the Mississippi,” but in reality he would spend only brief periods each year there. Much of his time

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CHARLES LINDBERGH was spent alone, playing with toy soldiers and collecting things. It was a rootless time, traveling between his grandparents’ home in Detroit, spending time with his father in Washington, D.C., and then, when Congress recessed for the summer, traveling back to Little Falls for a few months before beginning the cycle over again. But it was on the family farm in Little Falls that Charles would have his first glimpse of an invention that would change his life. He was playing upstairs, in the unfinished top floor of the family home where he was allowed to keep his toys and collections, when he heard the noise of an engine in the distance. There were a few cars in those days, but this engine sound was clearly different from that of an automobile. Charles ran to a window and then climbed out on to the roof to see where the noise was coming from. About 200 yards (183 meters) in the distance, not much higher than his home, he saw an airplane flying low above the river. It was a biplane, and Charles could clearly see the pilot sitting in the cockpit, with a cap backward on his head. When the plane disappeared, he ran to ask his mother about what he had seen. She explained that the aviator had come to Little Falls to give exhibitions and rides to anyone brave enough to travel up with him. But, his mother noted, flying was very dangerous and very expensive. By the summer of 1909, Charles’s mother had asked his father for a divorce. Evangeline was constantly fighting with her stepdaughters, the frequent upheavals as they moved from one household to another were stressful, and she suspected that her husband was having an affair. C.A. refused to agree to a divorce, fearing that it would prove disastrous to his political career. Instead, the couple quietly separated, each moving to their own Washington apartment while Charles remained principally with his mother, and C.A.’s two daughters returned to live with relatives in Minnesota. And so, for Charles, his life once more shifted. He lived

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during the school year in Washington, where he spent time with both parents, then for the summer he would move to the family farm, with trips to his grandparents’ home in between. In fact, the trips to visit his grandparents, made at the end of the summer, meant that he was always late returning to Washington in the fall. He soon fell behind in school and found making friends difficult. He would later remember his school years and the times in Washington as unhappy periods and focus instead on the summers in Minnesota, where he spent time hunting, fishing, swimming, and canoeing.

First in Flight

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ess than two years after Charles Lindbergh’s birth, two brothers named Wilbur and Orville Wright became the first men to successfully fly an airplane. The first flight took place on December 17, 1903 on North Carolina’s Outer Banks, where at a sandy spot known as Kitty Hawk the owners of an Ohio bicycle shop discovered that their flying machine was capable of flying in the air. This first plane, known as the Wright 1903 Flyer, proved a humble beginning for aircraft. The Wright brothers had designed a four-cylinder, 12-horsepower engine and equipped it with bicycle chains and two propellers. The Flyer was built of spruce and ash wood covered with muslin. Fabric pockets sewn inside enabled the framework to “float,” helping the aircraft to be lighter, stronger, and more flexible. It also was a humble beginning for aviators. The pilot of the Wright Flyer (the brothers took turns operating the machine) needed to lie flat with his head forward, using his left hand to operate the elevator control. The pilot shifted his hips from side to side to operate the rudder. The first flight—with Orville serving as pilot—lasted a total of 12 seconds and went 120 feet (37 meters). The plane made three more flights—Wilbur achieved the longest that day, flying for 852 feet (260 meters) and staying in the air for 59 seconds. The Wright Flyer solved many of the problems that had challenged researchers trying to develop a plane capable of controlled, piloted flight. Their plane is now housed in the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH He was given great responsibility from an early age. By the time he was seven years old, he was allowed to handle a loaded gun. On hunting and camping trips with his father, he was expected to demonstrate his strength, his courage, and his endurance. In June 1912, Charles attended an aeronautical exhibition held in Virginia. Sitting in the grandstand, he studied a group of six airplanes lined up in front of him, tuning up their engines. As the 10-year-old boy watched, one of the planes gunned its engine and took off. The pilot was clearly visible, and Charles studied him and the aircraft in fascination, determined to one day try flying.

TRAVELING BY CAR That same year—1912—C.A. Lindbergh bought a Model T automobile. The car, soon known as “Maria”—was hard to start. Its engine had to be cranked by hand. It had a footpedal gearshift; a folding, waterproof cloth top; and even curtains that could be fastened on for rainy days. C.A. had bought it for campaigning. Cars were still a novelty in parts of Minnesota, where the roads were sometimes little more than crude paths and where marks on telegraph poles and fence posts, rather than painted signs, indicated the direction in which the car was traveling. The speed limit was 25 miles (40 kilometers) per hour on the open road, but the roads were so poor that few cars could go any faster. Only cities had roads paved with asphalt or concrete. Outside the city limits, roads turned to dirt sprinkled with holes, and when it rained or snowed, the roads were practically impassable. Both C.A. and Evangeline struggled to operate the Model T, but by the time he was 11 years old, Charles learned to drive. He had demonstrated mechanical skill from an early age, and he was much more skilled at operating the difficult vehicle than

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C.A.’s career in Congress caused upheaval in his family, and young Charles spent part of the year in Washington, D.C., with his father. He also drove his father across Minnesota during his campaign for reelection.

either of his parents, although he could barely see over the steering wheel and had to sit on a cushion so that his feet could reach the brake and clutch pedals. By the time he was 12, he was tall enough to reach all of the controls, and from then on he did most of the driving when the family traveled by car. He also handled the majority of the frequent repairs the car needed, learning how to clean spark plugs, adjust the coil points, and fill the grease cups and screw them down after a long drive. In 1916, C.A. decided to campaign by automobile across Minnesota. He was facing a difficult primary challenge, and so Charles chauffeured his father across the state (in a new car) as he gave speech after speech, campaigning against intervention in World War I and a more equal distribution of resources. It

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CHARLES LINDBERGH was a primary election that he would ultimately lose, and his term in Congress ended in 1917 after 10 years. C.A. returned to Washington to finish out the last months of his term, and Evangeline decided to take Charles and the car west, to California. She took the 14-year-old out of school and they set out by car, over the rough roads, for what they thought would be a two-week trip. Bad weather and frequent breakdowns turned it into six weeks, with Charles doing all of the driving. Charles’s mother rented a home in Redondo Beach, California, where Charles enrolled in high school—late as always. Less than a year later, they returned to Little Falls, with Charles once more driving.

AN END AND A BEGINNING Charles finally graduated from high school in Little Falls in June 1918. He had attended 11 different schools in 10 years. His father had made an unsuccessful attempt to run for governor, and his Grandmother Land, dying of cancer, had moved into the home in Little Falls. And the United States had entered World War I. The home in Little Falls was transformed into a working farm during the war. Charles did much of the work, milking cows, feeding newborn lambs, caring for thousands of chicks, repairing fences, and building a hog house. In the evenings, he would read by the light of a kerosene lamp, beginning to consider a growing dream: to become a pilot. In those evenings, after a day of exhausting labor on the farm, Charles dreamed of owning his own plane someday. He searched through the newspapers to find stories about aerial combat. He read about pilots and decided that, if he ever should join the army, it would be as an aviator. The war ended, but Charles was not destined to remain a farmer. At the age of 18, he enrolled in the University of

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Early Memories Wisconsin at Madison as an engineering student. His mother, unwilling to be separated from her son, moved to Madison with him, where they shared an off-campus apartment. He was interested in science and mechanics, but he was more interested in using that skill to solve immediate, practical problems rather than reading and studying simply for the sake of learning. He soon found the classes dull and the professors frustrating. The highlights of his freshman year were his experiences with the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC) program, where he excelled on the rifle and pistol teams, and the experience of roaming around the Wisconsin countryside on his Excelsior, a motorcycle he had bought shortly before classes began. He managed to survive his freshman year, but his poor academic performance (failing mathematics and chemistry) left him on academic probation when his sophomore year began. Rather than concentrating on his studies, Charles spent far too much time helping two fellow students build iceboats, which operated using a motorcycle engine driving an airplane propeller. He began to think about switching to a flying school, even writing to two schools to determine the cost and whether or not it made sense to drop out of college. The choice was soon taken out of his hands. On February 2, 1922, only two days before his 20th birthday, Charles was expelled. He had failed machine design, mathematics, and physics. His adviser wrote a letter to his mother, suggesting that Charles might be better suited to something less technical than engineering. Two months later, Charles arrived at the Nebraska Aircraft Corporation flying school in Lincoln to begin studying aviation.

THE AGE OF AVIATION At the time that Charles began training at the Nebraska Aircraft Corporation, the field of commercial aviation was only three years old. The aircraft industry had really begun to

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CHARLES LINDBERGH develop as a result of World War I, when the role aircraft played in battle developed from reconnaissance to actual one-on-one fighting, known as “dogfights.” The demand soon grew for planes that were faster, stronger, and easier to maneuver. With the end of the war, aircraft designers and manufacturers began to search for new commercial uses for their machines. Some pilots trained to perform exhibitions, traveling the country performing dangerous stunts and then taking up paying passengers. Other pilots focused on the opportunities aircraft offered to carry mail, or later freight. Charles had chosen the Nebraska Aircraft Corporation because, in addition to promising to train him in all skills necessary for piloting, it also offered job placement assistance. Aviation was dangerous in those early days. Discussions of aviation regularly carried news of the latest fatal crashes. Charles witnessed two crashes during his first week as a flight student. In one, the pilot and stunt man escaped with minor injuries; in the other, when a wing broke off during a looping maneuver, two men were killed. But Charles’s enthusiasm was strong and constant. For the first time in his academic career, Charles had arrived in time for the first day of classes and immediately was put to work learning the basics of aviation—the construction and repair of the airplane. Inside the hangar, Charles learned how to dismantle 220-horsepower Hispano-Suiza motors. By his second day in Lincoln, he was learning how to “dope” wings—waterproofing the wing and fuselage fabrics with a varnish. He learned how to recondition planes, replacing engines and remodeling cockpits to carry two passengers. It was routine work for veteran pilots, but for Charles it was extremely interesting. And then, on April 9, came the moment he had been waiting for. Otto Timm, a stunt flyer, took Charles and another passenger—a 16-year-old employee of Nebraska Aircraft named Hartland “Bud” Gurney—on their first flight. The plane was a Lincoln Standard Tourabout, essentially a reconditioned

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Early Memories army-training plane. Those 15 minutes, soaring over the Nebraska countryside, would change Lindbergh’s life forever. In Lindbergh’s memoir, Autobiography of Values, he recalled the joy he felt during those earliest flying experiences at the aviation school. “There were times in an airplane,” he wrote, “when it seemed I had partially escaped mortality, to look down on earth like a god.”

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Life as an Aviator harles soon proved his natural talent for flying. A former army instructor, Ira Biffle, was Charles’s first teacher. Charles found the actual flying of the plane, as well as takeoff, fairly easy, but landing proved much more of a challenge. By the time he had managed eight hours of flying time, he was ready to fly solo—but there was suddenly no plane to fly. The owner of the company had decided to sell the training plane—the plane on which Charles was learning—to Erold G. Bahl, a local pilot who specialized in barnstorming. At that time, barnstorming was one of the most widespread ways of popularizing aviation. Courageous and talented pilots would travel from town to town, demonstrating flying and performing difficult and often dangerous maneuvers before convincing passengers to try their chances and pay to go up for a few minutes themselves. For larger venues, or to pull in bigger crowds, the pilots would perform even

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more dangerous stunts—things like walking on the planes’ wings or jumping from the planes in parachutes. Bahl needed the training plane for a barnstorming trip through Nebraska, Kansas, and Colorado. Charles knew that without the plane, there was little hope of continuing his flying lessons. So he decided to follow the plane. He persuaded Bahl to let him go with him as an unpaid assistant. Bahl agreed. The tour was scheduled to last for a month, and Charles’s initial jobs were the most menial tasks—cleaning the plane, collecting the money (five dollars for five minutes in the air), and doing his best to gather a crowd when Bahl flew in. Impressed by Lindbergh’s hard work, Bahl eventually agreed

Helping out on a barnstorming tour was a way for Charles (fourth from right) to spend time with other pilots. He also gathered experience by working in an airplane factory and demonstrating parachutes.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH to cover his assistant’s expenses while they traveled. Then, Lindbergh dreamed up a way for them to make more money: The crowds would be even more impressed if someone climbed out onto the soaring plane’s wing and waved to the crowd below. Bahl agreed, provided that the “someone” was his young assistant. Lindbergh agreed to try. Fighting his fear of falling, he climbed out of the cockpit and carefully followed Bahl’s instructions to go no further than the innerbay strut. He inched just a bit out and waved. After the tour ended, Lindbergh returned to the Lincoln Standard airplane factory. He wanted to find a way to earn a bit more money—he was still holding on to the dream of buying his own plane, and the $15 per week salary he was earning at the airplane factory would not help him quickly reach his goal. Then Lindbergh met Charles and Kathryn Hardin. In June 1922, they arrived in Lincoln. They were parachute makers, who used a series of aerial stunts to demonstrate their products. From the moment that Lindbergh saw Charles Hardin jump from 2,000 feet (610 meters) in the air and then float gently down to earth, he was determined to do the same thing himself. He told Hardin that he wanted to try a jump—but not an ordinary, basic jump. Instead, Lindbergh was determined that his first jump would be the much more difficult “double jump”—a maneuver in which the jumper used one parachute for the first part of the fall, then cut away its canopy and did a free fall for several seconds before a string opened the second parachute. Hardin reluctantly agreed, and the very next afternoon, he took Lindbergh up to 1,800 feet (549 meters) and then told him what to do. Lindbergh climbed out onto the end of the plane’s wing and jumped. The first parachute opened perfectly, and after a few seconds, Lindbergh cut it away. But the second chute failed to open properly. Never having done the jump before, Lindbergh did not realize he was in trouble until he suddenly found himself rapidly falling to the ground headfirst. Finally,

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Life as an Aviator the second parachute opened and carried him the short remaining distance to the ground. But Lindbergh had felt no fear. He wanted only to spend the rest of his life in the air— even if the experience would shorten his life considerably.

AERIAL DAREDEVIL Lindbergh now had all of the skills he needed to find work. He could repair a plane, fly it, walk on its wings, or jump from it using a parachute. Lindbergh decided to join a pilot named H.J. “Cupid” Lynch and his partner, a Kansas wheat farmer named “Banty” Rogers, who were putting together a barnstorming act and needed a parachute jumper. In July 1922, they set out on a two-month tour of Kansas, Wyoming, Nebraska, and Colorado, where Lindbergh soon earned the nickname “Aerial Daredevil Lindbergh.” By the time the tour ended, Charles had earned a reputation for fearless stunts—all of which had been carefully planned out in advance. In April 1923, Charles (with the help of a loan from his father) was able to put together the $500 he needed to buy his first plane. His choice was a Curtiss JN4-D “Jenny”—the plane of choice for many barnstormers. The Jenny had an open, two-place cockpit and could travel up to 70 miles (113 kilometers) an hour, but had no brakes. Charles was undaunted, even though he had never flown on his own before. But his inexperience became obvious when he attempted to take off. The plane rose up four feet into the air, and then the right wing began to drop. Lindbergh decided to quickly put the plane back down, and it landed on one wheel. A young aviator, watching nearby, had seen the awkward takeoff and recognized that Lindbergh needed help. He offered to fly with him for a few times until Lindbergh could get the feel of the plane and its controls. Late that afternoon, after the wind had died down, he attempted a solo flight

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CHARLES LINDBERGH again, this time climbing above 4,000 feet (1,219 meters) and enjoying the spectacular sight of the setting sun. For the next week, Lindbergh remained at the airfield, practicing takeoffs and landings hour after hour. Finally, he felt ready. His father, C.A. Lindbergh, was planning a run for Minnesota’s Senate seat. Several years earlier, father and son had traveled together, campaigning by car. This time, they planned

The Curtiss “Jenny” and the Barnstormers

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he Curtiss JN4, affectionately known as the “Jenny,” got its start as a training plane for the majority of the U.S. pilots entering World War I. The most widely produced version of the Jenny was the JN4-D, of which the U.S. military bought thousands. By the time production of the Jenny was terminated at the end of World War I, more than 6,000 of the JN4-D had been produced. The surplus JN4-Ds were sold on the civilian market at very low prices, and many pilots like Charles Lindbergh bought their first Jenny for just a few hundred dollars. The general public also got to experience aviation firsthand in the years after World War I when hundreds of decommissioned military service pilots began touring the United States in their Jennies. These pilots, known as barnstormers, performed exhibition stunts and conducted sightseeing tours for rural audiences across the country. The Jenny was ideally suited for barnstorming. The open cockpit seated two people (the pilot and a passenger), and offered a thrilling, windblown ride over the countryside . The lower wings of the Jenny were outfitted with curved skids, originally designed to protect the wing tips from being destroyed by military student pilots, but used by barnstorming daredevils for midair acrobatics. And to the delight of onlookers on the ground, fearless wingwalkers traversed the Jenny’s wings while flying through the air at 70 miles per hour. However, the barnstorming era was short-lived. As the commercial airplane era took its first tentative steps in the late 1920s—and more fatal accidents occurred on the barnstorming circuit—stunt pilots, joyriding, and barnstorming took their place in history books. However, there is no denying the influence the Jenny and the barnstormer had on America’s love affair with the airplane.

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The U.S. Army provided advanced training for its air cadets, which Charles took advantage of in 1924. He is shown here, second from the left, posing with members of the Minnesota National Guard’s aero squadron.

to do it by plane. But this attempt at modernizing a candidate, while attracting crowds, did not win the election. C.A. finished a distant third in the race.

FLYING CADET Following the disappointment of his father’s defeat, Lindbergh looked around for his next adventure. He soon recognized that the best opportunities for pilots lay in the military, and he decided to enlist in the U.S. Army as an air cadet. The army offered the opportunity to fly more sophisticated aircraft, capable of higher performance than the planes Lindbergh had flown previously.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH For the first time, Lindbergh began to focus seriously on academics. In the army, the subjects he was studying suddenly had practical, real significance. His training was interrupted by the news that his father had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. He traveled back to spend a few days with his father before returning to training. His father died on May 24, 1924. In September 1924, Charles and 32 other cadets graduated and moved on to advanced training at Kelly Field, 10 miles outside San Antonio, Texas. For the next six months, Charles flew the planes he had dreamed of flying while working as a farmer—bombers and scouts—and engaged in mock battles with the other students, firing guns and dropping bombs, as well as taking aerial photographs. Each cadet was assigned to a specific field—for Charles, it was pursuit. He learned how to engage in dogfighting, light bombing, and ground strafing, as well as flying in formation with other planes. On March 14, 1925, Charles and 18 other cadets graduated from the Advanced Flying School and were commissioned as second lieutenants in the Air Service Reserve Corps. Charles graduated at the top of his class.

MAIL CARRIER Charles had hoped to further his career in the military, but there was a limited demand for pilots in those postwar years. So after graduation Charles took off his uniform, put on a business suit, and climbed aboard a train heading north, arriving in Lambert Field in St. Louis. He spent several months performing various “odd jobs” in the air—teaching flying, taking part in the occasional barnstorming exhibition, and ultimately joining the Missouri National Guard. In October, he was approached by the Robertson Aircraft Corporation to serve as their chief pilot. The U.S. government

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Charles flew the first sack of airmail on a new commercial route between Chicago and St. Louis in April 1926. Airmail delivery was dangerous for the pilots because of the lack of advanced navigational equipment, but flying was the most efficient way to get the mail across the country.

had begun to award the rights to carry airmail across the country to a select group of air companies. The first route (between New York and Boston) had been granted to Colonial Air Lines. Robertson Aircraft had been granted the second (the Chicago to St. Louis route). Robertson began to plot out this novel system of mail service. Actual mail delivery was not scheduled to begin until the following spring, but Charles was put to work immediately, to map out the routes, scouting out potential landing points along the way.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH It was a pioneering time, and Lindbergh was excited to be able to participate in the development of a novel system for delivering mail—by air. He was less thrilled with the aircraft designated for the new system. The planes were DH-4s, a fabric-wing biplane with a plywood fuselage. The DH-4s carried a 12-cylinder, 400-horsepower Liberty engine and were capable of cruising at about 90 miles (145 kilometers) per hour. They were refitted military planes, but their broken fuselages and torn wings had rendered them unfit for any kind of military use. They were labeled “flying coffins” by experienced pilots—they were prone to crash and then to burst into flames. But Robertson did not have enough money to purchase new airplanes, whose cost often ran as high as $5,000-$10,000. As a minimum safety requirement, Charles requested that each pilot be given a new silk parachute—just in case. On April 15, 1926, Charles set out on his first airmail route. Leaving Chicago, he headed south, arriving in St. Louis in just under three hours, after stops in Peoria and Springfield, Illinois. It was an exciting time for commercial aviation, but one frequently hampered by poor weather, which forced down the pilots and their planes. Particularly in winter, the Chicago-to-New York plane would often be forced down at Cleveland or some other point along the way, delaying the mail until the weather cleared. If a pilot was forced down because of bad weather, or mechanical difficulties, he phoned the nearest post office and then put the mail he was carrying onto a train. The pioneer aviators experienced a very different kind of flying than the nearly seamless system of transportation in place today. In those early years, pilots needed to fly low enough to maintain visual contact with the ground. Clouds or heavy fog could spell disaster, forcing pilots lower and lower in order to navigate. Weather forecasting was not an exact science. There were no satellites or radar to provide accurate reports. There

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Life as an Aviator was no radio system to help pilots navigate from point to point. The pilot’s best and most reliable navigational tools were his or her own eyes, looking down from above. Charles developed his own safety policy for flying: He would take off when the visibility was good enough that he felt confident, and he would land or turn back when he could not see well enough to travel farther. Gradually, the tedium of flying the same route over and over began to weigh on him. To pass the time, he thought of new adventures, new routes, and new ways to advance the cause of aviation. In an aviation magazine, Lindbergh had read about a new challenge. A French-born American named Raymond Ortieg was offering a $25,000 prize for the first nonstop flight between New York and Paris. The Atlantic had been crossed by several flying teams—some in dirigibles, while a few had made it in stages, hopping from one point to the next. A French World War I pilot named René Fonck had attempted to win the Ortieg prize but crashed before takeoff on Long Island, costing two members of his crew their lives. On those long tedious hours flying the mail route, Charles began to wrestle with the problem of the transatlantic flight, evaluating the mistakes of previous attempts and sketching out his own ideas for what would be needed to succeed. Charles felt that many of the earlier attempts, like Fonck’s, had failed because of their reliance on multiengine planes. Multiengine planes offered a greater likelihood for engine failure—the more engines, the more likely that one or more would fail—and their placement along the wings created a much less streamlined design. A single-engine plane would offer the greater range needed for a nonstop flight across the ocean. By now, Charles had experience flying with different types of reconditioned warplane engines. He had flown planes using the OX-5s, the Hispano-Suizas, and the Liberties. But he had

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Charles was an experienced pilot by the time he thought about crossing the Atlantic Ocean. The Wright Aeronautical Corporation was his choice to build an airplane engine that was strong enough for the trip.

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Life as an Aviator heard about a new engine being developed by the New Jerseybased Wright Aeronautical Corporation, called the “Whirlwind.” The Whirlwind offered 200 horsepower and a much greater reliability than other engines. Much of the talk about the Ortieg Prize had focused on the hazards of attempting a trip across the Atlantic Ocean. But Charles knew that flying the unreliable DH during a midwestern winter posed just as many hazards, without the opportunity to set a record—or win $25,000. He began to focus more and more on the possibility of attempting the trip himself.

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Hero of Aviation he record-breaking flight across the Atlantic, described at the beginning of this book, would forever change the life of the young Charles Lindbergh. Paris erupted in frenzy at the arrival of the aviator. American flags were quickly unfurled. Traffic jams clogged the roads to the airfield, where an estimated 100,000 people surrounded the landing spot, attempting to catch a glimpse of the pilot or his plane. A mob attempted to grab souvenirs from the plane or the pilot—or lacking that, the airfield—until French police armed with bayonets were able to force them back. Charles was rescued and taken to a hangar, where he finally received a few hours of muchneeded rest. The next two weeks were a whirlwind of telegrams and parties. Lindbergh, not anticipating the excitement and interest his flight would spark, had carefully budgeted a sum of money to cover the cost of a hotel stay after his arrival, followed by a few days on

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airfields chatting with French pilots before returning to the United States. Instead, he stayed at the American Embassy as a guest of the ambassador and spent his time with dignitaries and diplomats at a seemingly endless series of lunches, dinners, and parties—all in his honor. Lindbergh had hoped to spend a bit of time sightseeing, but any shred of privacy—and any moment of free, unscheduled time— was gone. Finally, he decided to see the city in the only way he knew how. Early on the morning of Friday, May 27, Charles crept out of his room. A car took him to the airfield at Le Bourget,

An enthusiastic crowd of people gathered at Le Bourget airfield near Paris to witness the landing of the Spirit of St. Louis.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH where he met with the chief of the airport. A black Nieuport 300-horsepower fighting plane had been placed at his disposal. He was quickly instructed in the plane’s operation, and then he rose up into the sky, heading back for Paris. He spent 20 minutes seeing beautiful sights—from the air. Then he returned to Le Bourget, giving a quick demonstration of aerial stunts for the small audience of French pilots before landing and going on to inspect the Spirit of St. Louis. Lindbergh’s plane had been heavily damaged by the eager crowds that had mobbed him upon his arrival, but the French pilots and crew had done their best to repair it, and Lindbergh was pleased to see that the plane now was completely restored, its fabric looking like new. Lindbergh spent one more day in Paris before leaving for his next stop. The kings of Belgium and England had both invited Charles to visit their countries, and he had decided to accept both invitations. At 7:30 A.M., on May 28, 1927, Charles was once more at Le Bourget. He spent three hours tuning his plane and then, after a quick lunch in a hangar with the American ambassador, Charles prepared for departure. In the early afternoon, the Spirit of St. Louis was once more in the skies over Paris. Hundred of thousands of people lined the streets, hoping for a glimpse of the famous plane. They were not disappointed. Lindbergh performed a final exhibition for the crowds that had gathered to cheer him on once more. He circled the Eiffel Tower twice, then flew lower over the Arc de Triomphe, looping twice over the famous Parisian boulevard Champs Élysées. The boulevard ended near the Place de la Concorde and there, just steps from the hotel owned by Raymond Ortieg—the Hotel Crillon—a weighted French flag was dropped from the Spirit of St. Louis and slowly floated down to the crowds waiting eagerly below. Attached to the tricolored flag was a note. “Goodbye! Dear Paris,” it read. “Ten thousand thanks for your kindness to me. Charles A. Lindbergh.”

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Hero of Aviation KINGS AND QUEENS Lindbergh flew on to the Belgian airfield, Evere, where a more sedate crowd (under strict orders from King Albert) of more than 25,000—guarded by 5,000 soldiers armed with bayonets—awaited his arrival. The Belgian king and queen welcomed him enthusiastically, and again another whirlwind of parties began. Charles then returned to Evere and flew on to his next stop—England. Flying over the Croydon Aerodome outside London, Charles looked down and saw that a crowd of nearly 150,000 people had gathered and were swarming over the airfield. He was forced to circle the airfield for several minutes until British police were able to clear enough space for him to land without crushing anyone. Once again, an overenthusiastic crowd of admirers flocked around the Spirit of St. Louis, damaging it in their efforts to grasp a souvenir; once more Lindbergh was forced to flee for his own safety, whisked away in an automobile by alert members of the Royal Air Club. Crowds lined the roads leading back to London, cheering his motorcade as it passed. Charles spent several days in yet another round of parties and ceremonies. He met the British prime minister, and was invited to a private meeting with King George V. There, the king asked Charles several questions about the details of his 33-and-a-half-hour flight over the Atlantic. At one point, the king leaned forward and asked, “Now tell me, Captain Lindbergh. There is one thing I want to know. How did you pee?” Lindbergh explained that a hole in his wicker seat contained a funnel, which drained waste into an aluminum container. The corked container had then been disposed somewhere over the French countryside. His curiosity satisfied, the king presented Charles with the Air Force Cross, the highest peacetime honor given to non-British pilots. Charles had hoped to spend more time seeing Europe, possibly even flying on to the Far East. But the

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CHARLES LINDBERGH American public—and the American president—all wanted “Lucky Lindy” to come back home. President Calvin Coolidge dispatched the cruiser U.S.S. Memphis to France to bring back the aviator and his plane. On June 3, Lindbergh and the Spirit of St. Louis (carefully packed into two crates) set sail from Cherbourg for the United States. Crowds once more had gathered. American flags decorated the port. Lucky Lindy was going home.

A HERO RETURNS As the Memphis steamed toward the United States, Lindbergh was barraged by hundreds of requests—to appear in movies, to give lectures and speeches, to endorse products, and to travel to different cities for parades in his honor. When the Memphis finally arrived at Washington on June 11, it was with an escort of 88 planes, numerous ships and boats, and the din of horns, whistles, sirens, and bells. Cabinet and military officials awaited his arrival, after which he and his mother (who had been brought to the dock to welcome him home) were swiftly escorted by car to Potomac Park, where a ceremony had been arranged. Thousands of people lined the route of the motorcade and cheered as the aviator passed. President Coolidge and his wife, as well as numerous dignitaries and honored guests, awaited his arrival on the grandstand. Following a brief and moving speech, indicating his gratitude, Lindbergh was hosted at a cabinet dinner and a meeting at the National Press Club. He then received an honorary presentation from the U.S. Post Office of a stamp that had been designed for airmail use bearing a picture of the Spirit of St. Louis. After several days of celebrations in his honor, Charles traveled to New York, where more festivities awaited. Lindbergh Day had been declared for the date of his arrival— June 13—and estimates were that about four million people

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The celebrations in Europe were followed by parades, such as this one in Minneapolis, and national honors in the United States, to mark the aviator’s return to Washington, D.C., on June 11, 1927.

had gathered in his honor. More parades and parties followed. On June 16, a ceremony was held at the Hotel Brevoort where, at last, Raymond Ortieg handed Lindbergh the hard-won check for $25,000. The media relentlessly covered the parades, banquets, and ceremonies, transforming Charles from an aviator into a celebrity. In 1927, advances in media were gradually transforming the coverage of news. The use of radio, photojournalism, and newsreels ensured that the quiet life Charles had known before his flight would be forever transformed. And although in personality he was ill suited to the role of

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CHARLES LINDBERGH celebrity, in looks he was everything the public could hope for—tall, attractive, and photogenic. More than 200 songs were composed in his honor. Even a dance, a variation of the Charleston called the “Lindy Hop,” became popular across the country. Lindbergh’s image became the inspiration for countless articles of merchandise. There were Lindbergh hats, shoes,

Ortieg Prize

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n May 22, 1919, Raymond Ortieg, a French-born New York hotel owner, offered a prize of $25,000 “to be awarded to the first aviator who shall cross the Atlantic in a land or water aircraft (heavier-than-air) from Paris or the shores of France to New York, or from New York to Paris or the shores of France, without stop.” For several years, the prize went unclaimed. No plane had proved capable of traveling the distance such a flight would require—some 3,315 miles (5,335 kilometers). In 1923, a nonstop distance record was set for travel from New York to San Diego, but that coast-to-coast flight traveled only 2,500 miles (4,023 kilometers). Ortieg renewed the prize offer in 1924. In 1926 a French flyer who had made a reputation for himself as a war pilot attempted to win the prize. René Fonck had a large plane specially constructed for the attempt. The biplane—built on Long Island—carried three air-cooled radial engines and a crew of four. Fonck’s plane began its takeoff at Roosevelt Field (the same field from which Lindbergh would later make his own attempt) on September 21, 1926. The plane crashed at the end of the runway before takeoff, and burst into flames. While Fonck and his copilot escaped, the radio operator and mechanic burned to death. Lindbergh studied the failures of Fonck’s flight in planning his own voyage. Fonck’s plane carried extra, unnecessary weight—a bed, two radios, four crewmembers, and leather upholstery. Other expert pilots with skilled crews attempted to win the prize, but it was Lindbergh who determined that the surest, safest course lay in a lightweight, single-engine plane with a crew of one. The prize was officially awarded to Lindbergh on June 16, 1927, at the Hotel Brevoort in New York.

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Hero of Aviation pocketknives, pens, razors, dolls, and watches. There were board games, postcards, letter openers, model kits, cigars, and commemorative plates. Desperate to escape the fuss, Lindbergh soon found that the only place he could truly be alone was the very place that had brought him fame in the first place—the cockpit of the Spirit of St. Louis. Prior to his flight, Charles had met Harry Guggenheim, a Navy aviator in World War I who was also a member of one of the richest families in America. He was serving as president of the Daniel Guggenheim Fund for the Promotion of Aeronautics, and he understood Charles’s desire to use his fame to help promote the cause of aviation. Together, they drafted plans for a three-month “goodwill” tour that would take Charles to all 48 states in the continental United States. The tour began on July 20 and lasted until October 23, taking Charles across 22,350 miles (35,968 kilometers). The Spirit of St. Louis soared over the Appalachians, the Rockies, and the Sierras. It flew above the rocky coastline of Maine, as well as the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. Charles traveled over Oklahoma’s badlands and a village of Indian tepees. He landed in every one of the 48 states, giving speeches, dropping messages from above, inspecting potential sites for airports, and talking with politicians and engineers about the opportunities aviation offered. At the end of this tour, Charles met with American Ambassador to Mexico Dwight Morrow. The ambassador had recently headed a presidential commission created to investigate American aviation. Now he invited Charles to fly the Spirit of St. Louis to Mexico. Charles was excited by this opportunity to demonstrate the capabilities of modern aircraft. Having shown off the ways in which different parts of the country could be linked during his cross-country tour, he was now eager to demonstrate the links aviation could provide between countries. He planned out a tour not just of Mexico, but also of 15 other Latin American countries.

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The boy from Little Falls, Minnesota, would grow up to be a world famous aviator. This official greeting car met Charles upon his return to his hometown after crossing the Atlantic.

On December 13, 1927, he began this second tour with a record-setting nonstop flight of 27 hours between Washington and Mexico City. The plan alarmed Ambassador Morrow, who had invited Lindbergh with the thought that he would travel to Mexico in a series of stops, not in another dangerous flight. To add to the challenge, Lindbergh had decided that he would not plan out his trip based on the most favorable weather conditions, but instead would select his departure date and stick to it, regardless of the conditions, much as he had had to do when flying mail routes. Bolling Field in Washington was soaked when Lindbergh prepared for his departure. As the journey between Washington and Mexico City was about 1,500 miles (2,414 kilometers)

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Hero of Aviation less than the distance between New York and Paris, the Spirit of St. Louis was not so weighed down by fuel tanks. Nonetheless, Lindbergh prepared carefully, adding a Kollsman supersensitive altimeter to his instrument panel, as well as a rifle, a machete, and some tropical medicine for the very different conditions he might encounter in an emergency landing in Latin America. Charles took off without too much trouble, flying low in spots where the mist and clouds obscured visibility. In those early days of flight, planes did not have the kind of pressurized and air-conditioned interiors that are standard today, so Charles could clearly feel the change in weather as he flew south, the cabin growing warmer with every passing mile. As he flew over Mexico, the flight became more challenging. There were few landmarks, and the maps of Mexico he had been given showed little detail—none of which matched the landscape he saw below. He spotted a railroad and decided to follow it, thinking that perhaps it would intersect with another line and so carry him on to a city where he could get his bearings. But there was no intersection. Finally, he decided to land at the nearest railroad station, thinking that he could read the signs there and determine where he was. The Spirit of St. Louis glided down into the midst of a dusty village, and a crowd of people quickly gathered. Charles spotted a name on a sign—Caballeros—but could not find it on his map. He could not communicate with the local people and so decided to fly on to the next town. Again he landed, again a crowd gathered, again he spotted a sign—and again, the sign read Caballeros. It took one more town with the exact same sign before the tired pilot realized that the signs he was reading marked not the name of the town, but instead the location of the men’s room. By now, the time for his scheduled arrival at Mexico City had passed. Lindbergh knew that the ambassador and various

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CHARLES LINDBERGH dignitaries would all be waiting for him. Frustrated and anxious, he was uncertain how to find his way on to the capital city. He finally decided to take the plane up to 14,000 feet (4,267 meters)—a point at which his visibility would extend 50 miles (80 kilometers)—and hope that from the pattern of rivers and other bodies of water he could somehow pinpoint his position. In the distance, he spotted a city. He flew toward it and then banked low. On a building, he spotted a sign, “Hotel Toluca.” At last, a name—Toluca—that appeared on his map. Toluca was 35 miles (56 kilometers) southwest of Mexico City. He swiftly turned and headed for the capital, arriving an embarrassing two hours late for his reception, where a crowd of thousands waited in the hot sun. In 27 hours and 15 minutes he had flown from Washington to Mexico City, a journey that would have taken nearly a week by train.

SOUTH OF THE BORDER While there were many receptions and parties held in Lindbergh’s honor, Ambassador Morrow had also arranged a few days of rest to give Lindbergh an opportunity to relax and enjoy a bit of a vacation. He spent the Christmas holiday at the embassy, enjoying the company of the Morrow’s and for the first time in years, experiencing a holiday with a happy family. The Morrows had one son and three daughters, including their 21-year-old daughter Anne, who had come back from college for the Christmas break. She was impressed by the young aviator, quite different from the Lucky Lindy she had heard so much about, but Lindbergh was soon focused on the next leg of his journey. On the morning of December 28, Charles set out for Guatemala City, seven hours away. His tour next took him to British Honduras (where he landed on a polo field—the only spot wide enough), to El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua,

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Hero of Aviation Costa Rica, Panama, the Canal Zone, Colombia, Venezuela, St. Thomas, Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, Haiti, and Cuba. Charles financed the 16-stop tour himself, viewing it as an opportunity to further the cause of aviation. He filed reports from each of his stops to the New York Times. After two months, his tour was over, and he flew the Spirit of St. Louis back from Havana to St. Louis. The St. Louis schools closed on the day of Charles’s arrival, and a crowd of nearly 100,000 turned out to welcome him home. He performed a half-hour aerial stunt show before landing at Lambert Field. It was a fitting end to a remarkable achievement, and Charles decided that the time had come for both him and his famous plane to retire. In the spring of 1928, he flew the plane to Washington, D.C.—a noteworthy flight of 725 miles (1,167 kilometers) in less than five hours—where the Spirit of St. Louis was donated to the Smithsonian Institution.

A NEW CHAPTER Charles now turned his attention to new endeavors. His memoir of his historic transatlantic flight, titled We, had been published to tremendous success, thanks in part to the promotional skills of his publisher, George Putnam. Impressed by the success of Charles’s book, Putnam soon decided to back another transatlantic flight, this time one with a crew of three—two male pilots and the first woman to cross the Atlantic, a 29-year-old social worker named Amelia Earhart. On June 18, 1928, Earhart and her crew landed in Wales, and the fame that followed would earn Earhart the label “Lady Lindy.” She too would write a best-selling memoir, published by Putnam, who would ultimately become her husband. The achievements of Lindbergh and Earhart sparked a tremendous interest in aviation. Lindbergh decided that

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CHARLES LINDBERGH the time had come to launch a transcontinental passenger airline service, flying between New York and California. Lindbergh approached Henry Ford, the wealthy businessman who had successfully made automobiles a part of everyday life. Ford was such an influential businessman that he could make a success of any business he chose to support, and Lindbergh was determined to interest him in the field of aviation. Lindbergh had taken Ford for his first airplane flight, a short trip up in the cramped cockpit of the Spirit of St. Louis during Lindbergh’s promotional tour of the United States. Ford had financed a factory where multiengine metal monoplanes were being built in Dearborn, Michigan. Ford was supportive of Lindbergh’s efforts but unwilling to help finance the airline himself. Ford felt that he needed to stay with the area he knew best—manufacturing. He would lend his name to the enterprise and help support it with highquality, low-cost trimotor transports. Charles turned to a railroad executive—William W. Atterbury, president of the Pennsylvania Railroad. Atterbury understood the competition airlines could pose to the railroad industry—he was willing to invest to obtain a 20 percent interest in the company, and so have some say in its direction. Next came the actual creation of the airline. For this, Charles turned to Clement Keys, the chief executive of the Curtiss Airplane Company and owner of an operation called Transcontinental Air Transport (TAT). Keys had been interested in organizing a transcontinental airline. It was agreed that TAT would become the focus of this new plan to develop a passenger airline traveling coast to coast. For most of the next year, Charles sketched out the planned TAT route. He determined where the 10 stopping points would be on the coast-to-coast route, then checked and rechecked them to ensure that they were safe, well

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Transcontinental Air Transport’s the City of Los Angeles was piloted by Charles for the first passenger flight from Los Angeles to Arizona. His influence on the new industry was apparent for years following this initial flight.

maintained, and capable of handling passengers. His plans and ideas would set a standard for American aviation. In some cities, Charles’s ideas would spark the first modern airports in those locations. There were many technical problems that needed to be addressed. Few of the planned stops had landing fields capable of handling the planned trimotored, 1200-horsepower

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CHARLES LINDBERGH Ford monoplanes. The planes could carry 12 passengers, plus the pilot and copilot. Estimating that each of the fleet’s planes would fly at 75 percent capacity, the airline would need to manage approximately 18 passengers heading eastbound or westbound each day, or a total of 6,500 per year. In fact, the numbers would prove to be even greater, as some passengers would only travel for a portion of the flight, rather than coast to coast. It was a revolutionary time. Aviators had never addressed these kinds of numbers and problems. What would happen when rough weather limited a pilot’s contact with the ground? The planes would need to operate in all kinds of weather or else passengers would not trust the schedules. Would all passengers need to be given a parachute in the event of an emergency landing? And if so, would they be willing to put it on before takeoff? It would mean that women would need to wear pants. And how would pilots communicate to passengers in the event of a forced landing? TAT ultimately ordered 10 planes for its initial fleet. The route would cross the country from Los Angeles to New York with stops at Kingman, Winslow, Albuquerque, Clovis, Waynoka, Wichita, Kansas City, St. Louis, Indianapolis, and Columbus. The hope was that the government would soon set up a weather-reporting network, but in those early days the weather forecasting was more basic. A railroad agent along the route would look outside at a specific time and telegraph reports of cloud formations, temperature, and barometric pressure. On July 7, 1927, Transcontinental Air Transport officially began operation. A group of passengers in New York— mainly journalists given free tickets—boarded a train at Penn Station heading for Port Columbus, Ohio, where several of them would continue on for the 48-hour air and rail trip to Los Angeles. The next day, the first group of

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Hero of Aviation 10 eastbound passengers boarded the City of Los Angeles, which Charles would fly to Winslow, Arizona. Among the passengers inaugurating this new transcontinental airline was the daughter of the ambassador to Mexico, Anne Morrow. Six weeks earlier, she had become Mrs. Charles Lindbergh.

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Family Man harles brought the same careful planning to his choice of bride as he had to flying. Ever since his return from the New York to Paris flight, reporters had hounded him about his plans for marriage. The truth was that there were none. Charles had focused on flying to the exclusion of all else. And then, in the festivities that followed, Charles had little time for relaxing—for dating or simply enjoying the company of friends and family. He had been whisked from one activity to another, surrounded by thousands of members of his adoring public as well as one city’s officials after another. It is not surprising that, when he finally contemplated a more quiet life, retired from public demonstrations of aviation, he remembered the one peaceful moment he had enjoyed since the excitement began—the family Christmas he had spent with the Morrows in Mexico. There were three Morrow daughters that Charles had met in

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Mexico, and in fact when the ambassador and his wife had suspected that Charles might be interested in one of their girls, it was Elisabeth, their beautiful eldest daughter, who seemed the most likely. But it was Anne, the quiet, studious graduate of Smith College in Massachusetts who nurtured dreams of becoming a writer, who had captured the aviator’s interest. In Lindbergh’s memoir, Autobiography of Values, he describes his rather unromantic progress toward choosing a bride: “The physical characteristics I wanted in a woman were not

Anne Morrow met all the requirements that the aviator set forth for a wife. In addition, she was well educated and shared the avid pilot’s love for aviation.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH difficult to describe—good health, good form, good sight and hearing. Such qualities could be outlined in sequence like the specifications for an airplane. I wanted to marry a girl who liked flying, because I would take her with me on the expeditions I expected to make in my plane.” Finally, in the fall of 1928, Lindbergh phoned the Morrows at their new home in Englewood, New Jersey, and asked Anne for a date. Knowing that the media would immediately surround them should they appear in public, he decided that the easiest way for them to spend time together alone would be in the air. On October 16, 1928, Anne Morrow and Charles Lindbergh met for their first date. Anne would later recall that she looked like a mess—dressed in what she thought was a suitable outfit for flying: her sister’s riding jodhpurs, her mother’s wool shirt, her father’s thick gray golf socks, and her own hat, red leather coat, and high heels. They had lunch with the Guggenheims. Charles then brought over a rented plane—a De Havilland Moth—from Roosevelt Field to the Guggenheim’s horse pasture, where he landed the small, open-cockpit biplane. Lindbergh put a parachute on Anne, showed her how to work the controls, and within minutes they were in the air. A second flight followed later in the week, and Anne knew that she was in love—both with Charles and with the fun of flying. Charles, too, was in love. His careful plans had brought him this far, but now he simply wanted to spend as much time as possible with Anne. By February 1929, the engagement had officially been announced, and they were married on May 27, 1929, the ceremony kept secret even from the friends who had been told they had been invited to the Morrow home for a birthday party for Anne’s mother. Anne later recalled that, unlike most brides, all messages of congratulations were given to her, the girl who had captured the heart of the “prince of the air.”

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Family Man FIRST COUPLE OF THE AIR The media frenzy that had surrounded Lindbergh now widened to include his wife. They planned several expeditions together—flights designed to continue Lindbergh’s goal of promoting commercial aviation. During his flight from South America the year before, Lindbergh had spotted the ruins of an ancient temple half-hidden in the Mexican jungle. His interest had been sparked in archaeology, and so the young couple decided to make a survey (by air) of the Mayan ruins. Their expedition provided valuable research to archaeologists. The couple flew high over the sites of ancient communities, the ruins visible only from the air. They photographed these ruins and the surrounding terrain, providing valuable data to scientists studying these ancient civilizations. The couple had successfully provided yet another use for commercial aviation. Researchers could use airplanes to quickly cover territory that would require months to survey in the only other local means of transportation available—the back of a donkey. The aerial photographs also demonstrated the ruins in proximity to other topographical features, better showing the life of those ancient inhabitants in the remote jungle. In September 1929, the Lindberghs flew on to Central and South America. Their tour opened up passenger and mail service linking North and South America, and huge crowds gathered to welcome them at stops in Cuba, Haiti, Puerto Rico, Trinidad, Venezuela, Colombia, Panama, and Nicaragua— all in only 10 days. The flight provided critical information about flying over water. It marked the first airmail delivered to South America. By now, Lindbergh was also serving as a technical adviser to the fledgling Pan American Airways, and the Caribbean tour provided the airline with valuable data about technical obstacles to international flights, as well as the economic and political problems that such a venture might encounter.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH The couple traveled everywhere together. Charles wanted his wife to share his love of flying—and she did. He taught her how to fly, and she ultimately earned her pilot license. She learned Morse code and navigation to better function as her husband’s copilot. In early 1930, she became the first woman to earn a glider pilot license. The Lindberghs were constantly on the move in those early days of their marriage, traveling from one spot to another, visiting the White House, appearing at air races, continuing to promote aviation. Then, after several months of near-constant travel, it became clear that the Lindberghs would need to find a more permanent home—Anne was expecting a baby. The news first broke following yet another record-setting flight. This one began on April 21, 1930, when the Lindberghs departed from Los Angeles in a Lockheed Sirius monoplane that had been custom built for the aviator. The Sirius was equipped with all of the latest gadgets, as well as a tandem cockpit that allowed both pilot and copilot full vision on either side, and dual controls for flying, navigating, or photographing from both positions in the plane. The Sirius was also equipped with a small generator, into which the Lindberghs could plug their bulky, electrically heated flying suits. The Lindberghs’ goal was to cross the continent, making only one stop—in Wichita, Kansas. They succeeded in setting this impressive record, simultaneously setting a speed record by making the trip nearly three hours faster than had ever been done before. The flight lasted 14 hours, 45 minutes, and 32 seconds, and the noise, vibrations, and fumes nearly proved too much for Anne. Still, she gamely served as copilot, only giving in to nausea when they arrived at Roosevelt Field on Long Island. The reason for her nausea soon became clear, and the media surrounded the Morrows’ family home in New Jersey, where Anne had escaped to await the birth of her baby. Guards ultimately had to be hired to protect the family from

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Family Man

Privacy became important to the Lindberghs following the birth of Charles Jr. on June 22, 1930. But their hectic schedule continued to take them across Canada, Alaska, and eventually to China.

the army of reporters and photographers that lurked around the gates. On June 22, 1930—the date of Anne’s 24th birthday— Charles Augustus Lindbergh Jr. was born. News of the birth of “Baby Lindy” traveled around the world. Charles reluctantly agreed to a brief press conference, in which he handed out a picture of his son that he had taken himself.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH But the national mood was shifting as more and more Americans fell victim to the Great Depression. Where Charles had once been barraged by requests for autographs, now more and more of his mail contained requests—and even demands—for money, some threatening harm to his family if a payment was not swiftly sent. Charles decided to find a permanent retreat, where his family could safely live far from the prying eyes of the media. He finally settled on a stretch of 425 acres (172 hectares) in Hopewell, north of Princeton, New Jersey. The area was largely uninhabited except for a few farms, and it was difficult to reach. Charles continued his interest in furthering the cause of aviation. He had been impressed by Robert Goddard, a physicist who was studying the field of liquid-fueled rockets. Charles lent his name and financial support, as well as encouraging the financial support of others, to this new area of research. This work would ultimately become the basis for rocket-fueled space exploration. Charles also established a friendship with the controversial Dr. Alexis Carrel, a Nobel Prize-winning biologist working at New York’s Rockefeller Institute for Medical Research. Charles had been concerned by his sister-in-law’s heart condition and had at one point asked her doctor why surgery could not repair her damaged heart. Charles began to think about the idea of an “artificial heart”—a mechanical pump that could keep the blood circulating long enough to permit a surgeon to stop the heart and repair it. Carrel was exploring the idea of vascular surgery and artificial transplants, and his research fascinated Charles. He was no longer content to simply study aircraft—now he wanted to learn more about the bodies of the people who flew them. Working with Carrel, Lindbergh ultimately developed a machine called a perfusion pump. Using the machine,

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Family Man researchers were able to keep animal organs alive for up to 21 days. The invention would inspire future research, culminating in the successful development of artificial hearts by Drs. Robert Jarvis and William Pearce in the 1980s. To many, the development of this pump—which was formally unveiled in 1935—and its demonstration that life could be sustained by a machine, would prove to be as much of an achievement as the flight across the Atlantic.

FLIGHT TO THE FAR EAST But once more the skies lured Charles away to a different kind of laboratory. He had long hoped to visit Asia, and so he and Anne began to make plans for a trip that would take them over the northernmost parts of the Pacific and on to Japan. The flight was planned for personal reasons, but Charles knew that the information he would gather would prove useful to Pan American in plotting future itineraries. Charles arranged for his new, black Lockheed Sirius to be modified into a seaplane. He also installed his first radio—a lightweight, long-range radio that Anne would operate. On July 27, 1931, the couple departed from College Point, Long Island. A crowd had gathered to cover the beginning of this latest adventure. For the next 10 weeks, the couple would fly across Canada, across the northwesternmost point of the Northwest Territories, over Alaska, and then across the Bering Sea from North America to Asia. As a result of the data they gathered, it became clear that the shortest route to the Orient was via Alaska. They then became the first aviators to fly from America to China. Charles sketched out vast territories of previously uncharted areas in China, while Anne piloted the plane. As their surveying flight was drawing to a close in China, their seaplane flipped while being lowered into the Yangtze River from a British aircraft carrier. Anne and Charles jumped

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CHARLES LINDBERGH into the river, where a lifeboat rescued them. While the plane was being repaired, they received a telegram informing them that Anne’s father had died suddenly. The Lindberghs canceled the remainder of their expedition and returned via boat to the United States.

TRAGEDY STRIKES That winter, the Lindberghs completed the construction on their new home in New Jersey. The whitewashed stone home was impressive, containing several bedrooms, a nursery for the baby, and servants’ quarters. On February 4, 1932, Charles celebrated his 30th birthday. Anne too was gaining her own fame. She had taken on a project that had initially been proposed to her husband—writing a book about their recent journey to the Orient. The book would ultimately become the acclaimed North to the Orient and would mark the beginning of Anne’s successful career as a respected writer. She was also expecting another baby. The family had settled into a regular routine. Lindbergh was busy with frequent meetings in New York, particularly at the Rockefeller Institute and so the family spent weekdays at the Morrow family home in Englewood, closer to Manhattan. On the weekends they returned to their new home outside Hopewell, New Jersey. The routine was always the same. But on February 28, 1932, Anne and the baby were both battling colds. Charles traveled alone to New York, while the rest of the family remained in their home. They decided to stay home the next day, Tuesday, March 1, as well, giving mother and baby one more day to fully recuperate. By the end of the day, both were feeling fine and made plans to visit Anne’s parents’ home the next day. At 7:30 P. M ., the 20-month-old boy was placed in his crib. The shutters on the windows in the nursery were

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Family Man closed—all but one, which had warped and could not be shut. The baby’s nanny, Betty Gow, pulled open the French window halfway, then left the room. When she returned a few minutes later, the baby was fast asleep. She then went downstairs. Anne sat at her desk writing and waiting for Charles to return home from New York. Shortly after 8:00 P. M ., she thought that she heard the sound of car wheels crunching on the gravel driveway, but it was not until 15 minutes later that Charles parked the car in the garage and came into the house. The couple then ate dinner and went upstairs to prepare for bed. Shortly after 10 P.M., Betty Gow went upstairs to check on the baby, as she always did before going to bed. The room felt cold, so she closed the French window and turned on the electric heater. Then she realized that she could not hear the baby breathing. She rushed to the crib and realized that the baby was not there. She hurried to the Lindberghs’ room, where she found Anne coming out of the bathroom. Anne rushed into the baby’s room, while Betty Gow went downstairs where Charles was reading. At the news that the baby was missing, he rushed upstairs, searched the rooms, then grabbed a rifle from the bedroom closet. “Anne,” he said, “they have stolen our baby.” Charles then went back to the nursery, where he found a small, white envelope containing a ransom note. The police were called, and soon both local authorities and the state police from Trenton were combing the house and grounds in the dark. Three sections of a ladder were found near the house, and marks in the mud under the nursery window indicated that the kidnapper had climbed up to the second story to take the baby. The house and ransom note (which the Lindberghs had wisely not touched) were dusted for fingerprints, but there were none. The note demanded $50,000. The handwriting and spelling

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CHARLES LINDBERGH suggested to police that the writer had been someone European, most likely Scandinavian or German: dear Sir! Have 50.000 $ redy 25 000 $ in 20 $ bills 15000 $ in 10 $ bills and 10000 $ in 5 $ bills. After 2-4 days we will inform you were to deliver the Mony. We warn you for making anyding public or for notify the Police the child is in gut care. Indication for all letters are singnature And 3 holes.

At the bottom of the note was an odd mark—two interlocking blue circles and, at the point where they joined, a solid red circle. To the right, left, and center of these marks were three square holes, forming a straight line punched through the paper. Police set up headquarters in the family home and frantically scoured the grounds for clues. It seemed clear that the kidnapping was no random event, but had been carefully planned, with the layout of the family home studied in advance. After two days of anxious waiting, the Lindberghs released a public statement, expressing their wish to make contact with the kidnappers to obtain the safe return of their son. On March 5, the long-awaited response arrived. In a second note, the kidnappers warned that their request to keep the matter from the police had not been followed, and so the family would have to take the consequences. Confirming that the child was still in good health, the kidnappers now increased their demand to $70,000, saying that the family would be contacted with the details of where and when to deliver the ransom once the police and media were no longer involved. But by now it was too late. Reporters and photographers surrounded the Lindbergh home, waiting for any bit

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of news. Hundreds of letters arrived each day, some with offers of assistance, others with promises of prayers, still others from pranksters promising the safe return of the baby in exchange for cash.

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harles and Anne Lindbergh were plagued by hoaxes during the kidnapping, perpetrated by people seeking money and fame. The three most prominent hoaxes involved a small-time mobster, a former FBI agent, and a boat builder from Virginia. The first hoax was perpetrated by a bootlegger named Mickey Rosner. Because of the many gangland kidnappings that occurred during the 1920s and 1930s, popular opinion held that only members of organized crime could have succeeded in kidnapping the Lindbergh baby. Rosner capitalized on this belief, and led Charles to believe that his contacts in the underworld would allow him to rescue the baby. The Lindberghs gave him $2,500 for expenses, and placed their faith in him until contact with the real kidnappers was made. The second hoax involved Gaston B. Means, a former FBI agent turned criminal, who reported that the kidnappers had asked him to participate in the crime but he had refused. Means contacted influential people, like Evalyn Walsh McLean (the wife of the Washington Post publisher), and convinced them that he could help recover the baby since he had met the kidnappers. McLean herself invested over $100,000 to help the Lindberghs, money Means claimed he would give to the kidnappers. When neither the baby nor the money was returned, Means and an accomplice were found guilty of larceny. John Hughes Curtis, a boat builder from Virginia, was responsible for the third hoax. He claimed that he had made contact with the kidnappers, and had even held the baby in his arms. Curtis brought his story to an Episcopal priest and friend of Anne’s family, Reverend Dobson-Peacock, as well as to Admiral Guy Hamilton Burrage, the man who had brought Lindbergh back from France after his historic flight. Since Curtis was a well-respected businessman, both of these men (as well as the Lindberghs) believed him. The Lindberghs spent valuable time chasing leads from Curtis. It wasn’t until the baby’s body was found that the hoax was revealed.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH The interference of a retired principal from the Bronx finally sparked some progress in the case. Without any contact with the Lindberghs, Dr. John Condon wrote a letter to his local newspaper, the Bronx Home News, addressed to the kidnappers, offering his service as a go-between and promising to add $1,000 of his money to the ransom. Incredibly, the letter received a response. The day after his letter was published in the newspaper, Condon received a note from the kidnappers—the letter was marked with the distinctive symbol at the bottom. Condon, with the approval of Lindbergh, met with a man claiming to represent the kidnappers late on the night of March 12 at a Bronx cemetery. The stranger agreed to produce the pajamas the baby had been wearing as proof that he had the child. Charles, desperate to ensure the return of his son, forbade the police from following the man in the cemetery. A few days later, the baby’s pajamas—freshly laundered— arrived in the mail, along with a demand for the ransom. Charles arranged with his bankers to have the $70,000— in gold notes, with the serial numbers carefully recorded in advance—packed into two boxes, which he then gave to Condon. On the evening of April 2, in yet another Bronx cemetery, Condon handed the boxes over to a man, who then handed him an envelope containing the details of where the baby was located—on a boat named Nelly, located near Elizabeth Island. Charles borrowed a plane from the Navy and flew low between Martha’s Vineyard and the coast of Massachusetts. Coast Guard ships also searched from the water. But there was no boat named Nelly anywhere. The marked bills began appearing in various parts of New York City, but police were unable to trace them. As April turned into May, the desperate couple was forced to face the fact that their ransom money was being spent, and their son was still gone. On the afternoon of May 12, 1932, a man discovered the

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Family Man body of a baby in the woods along a highway only four miles from the Lindbergh home. The badly decomposed body was soon identified as that of the Lindbergh baby. An autopsy determined that the baby had died from a fractured skull. Later, by studying the splintered ladder found near the home, as well as other evidence, detectives would theorize that the kidnapper had placed the baby in a burlap bag, which had been found near the body. While coming down the ladder, the kidnapper had slipped and dropped the bag. The baby’s head banged against a thick concrete wall, killing him instantly. Charles Lindbergh, who had been pursuing a lead in Norfolk, Virginia, quickly returned to New Jersey. But while he was en route, newspaper photographers broke into the morgue and took pictures of his son’s remains—copies of which were sold for five dollars each. It was a horrifying time for Anne and Charles. After the body of their son was found, they left their home and never returned. The house and grounds were later donated by the couple to the state of New Jersey, to be used as a home for children. They moved instead to Anne’s parents’ home, where their second son, Jon, was born on August 16, 1932. For two years, the search for the kidnappers continued. The U.S. Congress, acknowledging the public outpouring of grief, passed a law that made kidnapping a federal offense, one that could be punishable by death. The legislation became known as the Lindbergh Law. To deal with their grief, Charles and Anne set out on a new flight, a survey of transatlantic air routes. For five months during the winter of 1932 to 1933, Charles and Anne studied conditions along three possible transatlantic routes for Pan American Airways (Pan Am), traveling some 30,000 miles from New Jersey to Greenland, Iceland, Scandinavia, Russia, and Great Britain, then on to Spain and West Africa, then across the Atlantic Ocean to Brazil, and on to the

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Lindbergh would eventually take the stand against his son’s kidnapper and murderer, but he and Anne would first have to endure two long years while authorities searched for the perpetrator. In the meantime, Congress passed the Lindbergh Law, which made kidnapping a federal offense that could be punishable by death.

Caribbean and back to the United States. They researched and surveyed air flights under different weather conditions, everything from blizzards to sandstorms. It was another pioneering flight, one that helped Pan Am to begin its plans for regular transatlantic passenger service.

THE CRIME IS SOLVED Following their return, the couple searched for a new home, debating whether to settle in New York City or California, where Anne’s older sister was living. While visiting California in September 1934, the Lindberghs received a phone call from the

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Family Man police chief in New Jersey. A carpenter from the Bronx named Bruno Richard Hauptmann had been arrested, suspected of being the murderer of Charles Jr. Hauptmann was a 35-year-old German immigrant, who had arrived illegally in the United States in 1923 as a stowaway. The “crime of the century,” as it was labeled in the papers, ended at a gas station, where a German-accented stranger had paid the gas attendant for 98 cents of gas with a $10 gold certificate. The exchange had been so unusual that the attendant had written down the license plate number of the stranger. Police tracked down Hauptmann and found that his modest apartment in the Bronx was filled with new and expensive items, and in his wallet was another of the gold certificates whose numbers matched those used for the ransom. Other evidence was found—maps of New Jersey in his apartment, sketches of a ladder that matched the ladder found outside the Lindbergh home, the phone number and address of Dr. Condon, and paper matching that used for the ransom notes. Hauptmann never admitted his guilt. The trial began on January 2, 1935, and lasted for six weeks. The jury ultimately found Bruno Richard Hauptmann guilty. To this day, questions remain about the kidnapping, principally whether or not Hauptmann had any accomplices. Legal experts note that the trial may have been unfair, particularly since no evidence ever placed Hauptmann on the Lindbergh property. But the outcome was that Hauptmann was found guilty. He was put to death by electrocution on the morning of April 3, 1936. While the murderer had at last been found, tried, and executed, the aftermath of his crime haunted the Lindberghs. The Lindbergh name now brought to mind the death of a child, rather than a history-making flight across the Atlantic. Still worse, journalists and photographers continued to

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A jury found Bruno Richard Hauptmann guilty after a six-week trial. Although details surrounding the case still raise questions about Hauptmann’s guilt, at the time the jury’s decision was upheld and Hauptmann was executed the following year.

follow the family everywhere, once forcing a car containing their three-year-old son Jon off the road. As Jon’s teacher tried to calm the terrified child, a photographer jumped out of the car, rushed up, and snapped a picture of the crying boy. A truck of photographers parked outside Jon’s nursery

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Family Man school, secretly snapping pictures of him while he and his classmates played outside at recess. Mentally unstable people also plagued the Lindbergh family, who continued to receive mail threatening their second son. Charles was forced to hire a retired detective to serve as his son’s bodyguard, following him while armed with a sawed-off shotgun. One evening, Charles was sitting in an upstairs bedroom at the Morrow house when he heard a voice calling outside. He opened a window and looked down, where a man was staring up at him and mumbling. Police soon arrived and arrested the mentally disturbed man. In another incident, Charles and Anne were returning one night from New York City when a car containing four men tried to force them into a dim alley. They were able to escape when Charles quickly braked and then turned and drove away. These incidents and the constant sense of danger made life in the United States intolerable for the Lindberghs. Charles no longer felt safe leaving his family to go to work. He no longer trusted the police to offer adequate protection from the media and fanatics. Late on the night of December 21, 1935, the Lindbergh family boarded a small ship, the American Importer. They were the only passengers. The family was headed for England, a country that they believed might offer them greater privacy and safety than they had been able to find in their own homeland.

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An Aviator’s Travels or the next three years, the Lindberghs would find the safety and solitude they had craved, first in rural England and then later on a small island off the coast of France. Charles began flying again, exploring the surrounding areas in a custom-built orangeand-black monoplane. In July 1936, the Lindberghs used their two-passenger plane to make a trip to Berlin, Germany. A new leader had come to power, a representative of the Nazi party named Adolf Hitler, and the U.S. government wanted to learn more about Germany’s military buildup. The American Embassy invited Lindbergh to Germany as a guest, in the hope that the German Air Ministry, impressed by Lindbergh’s reputation, would invite him to inspect their planes and airfields. As expected, Charles was invited to visit many of Germany’s airplane factories and air bases and given the opportunity to meet

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with pilots and technicians designing new aircraft. Charles was impressed by Nazi Germany’s air power, finding it far advanced to that in the United States, and he witnessed and reported on the mass production of various planes, including two types of bombers. Lindbergh met with Herman Göring, the second in command in the Nazi hierarchy. Göring had flown as a combat pilot during World War I and had even been a barnstormer in the 1920s. He invited the Lindberghs to sit in his box at the opening ceremonies of the Olympic Games.

Charles and his son Jon spent time together at their home in the English countryside. The family sought a quiet, safe place to live free from the attention of the press and public.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH These ceremonies impressed Lindbergh. Germany had been in chaos following its defeat at the end of World War I. The Nazis had restored a sense of national pride and a kind of order that appealed to Lindbergh in those early years of the regime’s rise to power. Many people believed that the greatest threat to Europe was not Germany but instead Communist Russia, led by the dictator Stalin. Yet it was clear, from what Lindbergh saw, that the Germans were assembling an impressive air force, far superior to that of the rest of Europe, and designed for war. Lindbergh reported his observations to the U.S. and British governments upon his return to England, warning them of the Luftwaffe’s potential. On May 12, 1937, the Lindberghs’ third son, named Land, was born. In the fall of that year, Charles and Anne once more returned to Germany—officially to attend the Lilienthal Aeronautical Society Congress in Munich, but unofficially to gather more information for the U.S. Army. He was again invited to visit several airfields and factories, touring an air testing station and inspecting the Messerschmitt 109, a single-engine fighter, and the Dornier 17, a light bomberreconnaissance airplane. He was able to draft a detailed report for the American authorities. In November 1937, Anne and Charles made a brief trip back to the United States, their first since moving to England. They visited with family and friends, hounded once more by an overwhelming array of reporters and photographers. They returned to England in March 1938, just as German troops invaded Austria.

WINDS OF WAR Charles was frustrated by the unwillingness he saw in British officials to take the German threat seriously. He determined that the time had come to move again, settling this time on a small island called Illiec, 200 miles (322 kilometers) across

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An Aviator’s Travels the English Channel off the coast of the Brittany region of France. The island was small—only 4 acres (1.6 hectares) in size—but contained a three-story manor house built of stone, with a slate roof and 12 rooms, including a tiny chapel and two towers. It had been built in 1860 and never modernized with plumbing, heating, or electricity. Nonetheless, Charles was determined to buy it. The Lindberghs bought the island for $16,000, moving to a nearby guesthouse on June 7 and then onto the island on the 23rd. The conditions were still quite primitive—the only light came from kerosene lamps, the only heat from the fireplace, and water had to be brought from a well in the front of the house. But that summer the Lindberghs found a peaceful retreat on their island—walking, boating, swimming, and clamming with their two sons. In late August, Charles at last agreed to leave his retreat at the request of the U.S. government. Charles had been asked to undertake a survey of aviation in the Soviet Union, leaving with Anne to follow the tour the Russian government had dictated: Mogilev, Kiev, Odessa, Rostov, and Moscow. What Charles saw made a deep impression on him, but it was an impression quite different from that offered by the airfields and factories of Nazi Germany. In the Soviet Union he was shown only a few, carefully selected aviation sites, and even these were far inferior to the other sites they visited—the subways, collective farms, and theaters. Aviation was grossly underdeveloped in the Soviet Union, Charles soon learned. He visited one airplane factory that was large and well equipped, but most of its machines had been imported from either the United States or Germany. The bombers being built were inferior to those he had seen in America, England, or Germany. The engines being built were too large and heavy for use in high-performance airplanes. Charles returned with another detailed report for the American officials: The Soviet Union’s aviation was dependent

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CHARLES LINDBERGH on foreign sources for its machines and tools. The airplanes and engines he had seen would not perform well in modern air combat, and he had seen no modern or more advanced prototypes on display at air shows. He felt that the Russian air force would be no match for the Luftwaffe, should Germany choose to attack Russia by air. Lindbergh’s reports influenced the sentiment in much of Western Europe that Germany’s forces were far superior to those the other countries could muster. In fact, some of Lindbergh’s figures were overstated—the numbers of planes that Germany could produce had not yet been manufactured in 1938, but were instead long-range goals that would not be reached for four more years. But at the time these estimates frightened officials and may have contributed to British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain and French Premier Edouard Daladier’s decision to agree to a “diplomatic solution” to the crisis of Germany’s invasion of Czechoslovakia. On September 30, 1938, Chamberlain and Daladier signed an agreement with Hitler and Italian leader Mussolini in Munich, essentially giving in to all of Hitler’s demands. They felt that peace had been achieved—“peace with honor,” as Chamberlain described it. But the peace would prove short-lived.

IN SEARCH OF A HOME Charles traveled again to Germany in October, invited to attend the Lilienthal Aeronautical Society Congress. At a dinner at the American Embassy, Herman Göring approached Lindbergh and presented him with the Verdienstkreuz Deutscher Adler—the Service Cross of the German Eagle. The medal was a golden cross decorated with four swastikas, strung on a red ribbon. Charles had received hundreds of medals and awards since his famous flight, and he thought little more about it after it was presented—in fact, the same award had also been presented recently to the French

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In the years preceding America’s entry in to World War II, Charles, shown here in England, traveled between various European countries and developed views of world politics that were unpopular with Americans.

ambassador and to Henry Ford. But it would soon cause a stir in America. Lindbergh had begun to consider the possibility of relocating from France to Germany. He admired the state of technology, the focus on cutting-edge developments in aviation. Anne found a house in Wannsee, a suburb of Berlin, and the couple made arrangements to move with their children. But just before their move, on November 9, 1938, Germany staged a massacre that horrified the world. More than 100 synagogues were burned, and thousands of Jewishowned shops and homes were destroyed. The night would be known as Kristallnacht—the “night of broken glass.” Dozens of Jews would be murdered and tens of thousands were taken away to concentration camps. At this sensitive moment, Lindbergh’s recent medal became

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CHARLES LINDBERGH a public-relations disaster. Reports in American newspapers questioned why Lindbergh did not publicly speak out against the Nazi regime’s actions, or return the Service Cross. The Lindberghs soon determined that it would be wiser for them to spend the winter in Paris, rather than Berlin. For four months, Charles served as a kind of diplomat “at-large,” traveling to England to meet with the American ambassador as well as British aviation officials. He also traveled to Berlin to report on the state of aviation developments and to attempt to negotiate a deal for France to purchase German airplane engines—a deal that ultimately collapsed. In Berlin, Charles repeatedly raised the question of the status of Jews, finding most Germans embarrassed at the recent mistreatment of German Jews but at the same time convinced (by a constant barrage of Nazi propaganda) that Germany would be better without Jews. Despite the stated concern he expressed about German antiSemitism, Lindbergh continued to ignore the true threat that the Nazi regime posed. He was convinced that the major battle to come would be fought between Hitler and Stalin and that the dictatorship Stalin had established in Russia was far more brutal in its suppression of its people than that in Germany. He felt certain that Germany would win—a victory that would benefit France and England, both of which would emerge from the conflict strengthened. He also believed that with Hitler’s eventual passing from power, more moderate Germans would assume control and scale back any excesses of the Third Reich. Lindbergh’s views were made public, and his popularity in the United States gradually faded. He remained convinced that the United States was ignoring the greater danger posed by the Soviet Union. He finally decided that the time had come to return to America, to meet with officials to help promote the policy he felt made the most sense: “strength and neutrality.” On April 8, 1939, he boarded the S.S. Aquitania, sailing for New York.

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An Aviator’s Travels FIGHTING WORDS The rest of the family quickly followed Charles back to the United States, where he had decided to focus on convincing American leaders that there needed to be renewed attention to developing military aircraft, particularly in light of Germany’s recent advances. He was convinced that he could use his reputation to help stimulate the development of American aviation. Charles was no fan of the spotlight, yet he immediately set to work, touring U.S. aviation facilities and factories. He met with the U.S. president, Franklin Roosevelt, and was able to persuade him to seek an increase in the military budget to modernize the air force. Charles began to speak out against American involvement in the war breaking out in Europe. His antiwar campaign was undertaken as a private citizen, but one who had the ability to attract a large audience. He used this clout to gain invitations to make a number of speeches—speeches in which he emphasized that military intervention should be put to public vote, rather than being forced on the American people and that democracy was not a concept or principle that could be forced on others. But many of his speeches and the articles he wrote were laced with language that drew criticism. Charles passionately believed that the greatest threat to Europe—and the world—lay in the Soviet Union, not Germany. His writings and speeches reflected that view. In one article, published in the Atlantic Monthly magazine, he noted that a strong Germany was vital, “for she alone can either dam the Asiatic hordes or form the spearhead of their penetration into Europe.” In his first nationally broadcast radio address, Lindbergh continued this theme, arguing that Americans needed to maintain a sense of detachment in light of world events, to assume the same kind of unsentimental, impersonal attitude as a surgeon.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH While Charles was not the only American to advocate a position of neutrality, he was certainly one of the most visible. His discussions of the importance of defending the “White race” against foreign invasion disturbed many who had previously viewed Charles as a hero. His refusal to return the German Service Cross added to public criticism. Columnists began to brand Charles as a Nazi. In October 1940, shortly after giving birth to the Lindberghs’ first daughter, named Anne Spencer, Anne entered the growing controversy with the publication of her nonfiction

America First Committee

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he America First Committee began in New Haven, Connecticut. A group of law students at Yale University circulated a petition to other Yale students, as well as recent graduates of other universities, inviting them to join together to support the cause of noninterventionism. Their petition was based on the idea that the United States should focus on defending its own hemisphere, rather than interfering in the European conflict. The group was committed to defending its country, believing that a prepared America could forestall any attack from a foreign power. Its membership was broad and included young students and older, prominent businessman. Its rallies gathered enthusiastic crowds of people opposed to the war. Isolationism, or nonintervention, sparked heated debates in the United States as Europe became enmeshed in war. Lindbergh became its most visible spokesman. He was concerned by the forces that he believed were propelling America into a war. His beliefs led him to make the Des Moines speech, a speech that many viewed as full of the same anti-Semitism that the Nazis exhibited in Europe. Lindbergh’s Des Moines speech weakened the America First Committee, shocking many of its members and causing them to abandon an organization they feared was showing signs of many of the same excesses that characterized the Nazi regime. The attack at Pearl Harbor served as a wake-up call to those remaining members who believed that America could remain isolated from the war that had swept across most of the globe.

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Charles used his fame to attract audiences and speak out on America’s possible involvement in war with Germany. Here he is addressing an America First audience. The group advocated that the United States not join a war being fought on foreign soil.

book The Wave of the Future. Intended to serve as a moral argument for isolationism, as well as a justification of her husband’s stance, the book—which immediately became a best-seller—served instead to further inflame public opinion against the Lindberghs. As it became clear that America might soon have to enter the war, the Roosevelt administration began attacking the most public symbol of the antiwar movement— Lindbergh. He was regularly speaking at rallies of the America First Committee — a movement that had been

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CHARLES LINDBERGH organized by Yale students in 1940 with the goal of promoting the defense of the Western Hemisphere instead of intervening in Europe. America needed to be prepared—the America First movement argued—prepared not to go to war on foreign soil, but instead to ensure that no foreign invader dared attack American soil. It is important to remember that, at the time, large numbers of American citizens were opposed to the country entering the war. Many prominent Americans were members of the America First organization, and their rallies attracted huge, cheering crowds. In April 1941, President Roosevelt held a press conference and made reference to Lindbergh, linking him with defeatists in past American wars and offering his own thoughts on why the U.S. Army had not approached Lindbergh to rejoin as a flyer. Lindbergh was outraged, and he quickly sent the president a letter offering his resignation from the Army Air Corps Reserve. He continued to speak out against American involvement in the war, even as his personal mail began to fill up with unsigned death threats, even as the FBI began tapping his phones. The greatest criticism followed a speech Charles gave to an America First rally in Des Moines, Iowa, in September 1941. To a crowd of 8,000, Charles criticized American Jewish leaders, noting: “Their greatest danger to this country lies in their large ownership and influence in our motion pictures, our press, our radio, and our Government.” He went on to add an even more inflammatory statement about British and Jewish leaders: “We cannot allow the natural passions and prejudices of other peoples to lead our country to destruction.” The public outcry was immediate. By implying that American Jews were somehow not American, Charles immediately was labeled anti-Semitic. Supporters of Charles and more moderate members of the America First campaign

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An Aviator’s Travels distanced themselves. Charles refused to bow to the criticism, continuing to draw attacks for his unwillingness to speak out against the Nazi regime. But soon the question of intervention was settled for all concerned, with the December 1941 attack at Pearl Harbor by Japanese warplanes.

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A Hero Once More harles was initially shut out from active service in the war, but soon his old friend Henry Ford hired him to serve as a technical consultant at Ford’s bomber factory near Detroit. The plant produced B-24 bombers, and Charles moved his family to a Detroit suburb shortly before the birth of another son, Scott. Lindbergh did his best during this period to maintain a low profile. He wanted to serve his country at this critical time, but knew that the armed forces would not welcome him back. Instead, he chose to offer himself as a test subject. For 10 days in September 1942, he submitted to tests at the Mayo Clinic’s aeromedical laboratory, where scientists tested his temperature and reactions to varying conditions, including simulated pressure and altitude changes. He also served as a consultant to the United Aircraft Corporation, which was developing the F4U “Corsair” fighter for the U.S. Navy.

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In this capacity, he went to the Pacific, officially to test the performance under battle conditions of the Corsairs that he had helped develop. As a civilian consultant, he was allowed to go on missions as an observer but not to actively participate in any combat. But it was not long before the skilled pilot was providing more than technical assistance, participating in bombing runs on various Japanese bases in the Pacific. News of Lindbergh’s participation soon traveled up the chain of command, but General Douglas MacArthur agreed to allow Lindbergh to continue to fly, provided that he did his

Before Charles was permitted to participate in World War II as a pilot, he provided technical assistance to the U.S. Navy as a civilian. He is seen here in civilian clothes, discussing tactics with pilots.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH best to avoid danger and any trouble. MacArthur understood the valuable contribution Lindbergh was making to the war effort—teaching pilots how to conserve fuel, lessons that greatly expanded the range planes could fly. Charles spent four months overseas, flying 50 missions. He returned home in September 1944. Soon both the leaders of the United States and Germany—Roosevelt and Hitler— were dead. Lindbergh’s selection to join a group of other experts sent to inspect the defeated Germany’s aviation facilities demonstrated that his contributions to the war effort had been valued. His two-month tour began on May 11, 1945—four days after Germany’s surrender. Lindbergh landed first in France and found it relatively unscathed. In Germany, the signs of destruction were much clearer and deeply troubled the aviator. He witnessed the horrible evidence of mass murder in a concentration camp and the looting and devastation that now marked German cities. To Lindbergh, much of what he saw only served to support his initial feeling—that America should never have entered this war, a war that now left Soviet forces occupying sections of Eastern Europe, a war that left (in Lindbergh’s view) America responsible for safeguarding Europe’s future. While his observations at the concentration camp left him shaken, he never publicly admitted his own failing—his unwillingness to publicly denounce the worst evils of the Nazi regime.

THE FUTURE OF WEAPONS Charles believed that the dropping of atomic bombs on Japan in 1945 was a mistake. He felt that the use of atomic weaponry was not necessary to win the war at that stage and that its use demonstrated the danger of this new era— science being used for evil rather than good. He would later write of his sense that science was going too far too fast:

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A Hero Once More “What men had spent centuries to build they could atomize in seconds.” He agreed to serve on the Chicago Ordnance Research (CHORE) committee created by the army to focus on the challenges of the nuclear age. The group focused on evaluating weapons and their uses. Lindbergh’s role was to test equipment, investigate potential bases for strategic bombers, and gather vital aviation information. He addressed a wide range of questions: How effective was fighter interception at high altitude? Should the B-58 supersonic-bomber program be abandoned? Was it possible to create an effective defense against ballistic missiles? Lindbergh’s involvement in such top-secret projects revealed that his reputation had now been cleared. And indeed, in contrast with his stance prior to World War II, he now spoke out advocating the vital role America should play in international affairs. He saw no inconsistency in this position, since he had always believed that the greatest threat to America came from the Soviet Union. In October 1945 a sixth child was born to the Lindberghs —a girl named Reeve. The family was now living near Darien, Connecticut. Charles, in addition to his work with CHORE, was also assigned to serve as a special adviser to the U.S. Air Force (which had recently become a separate branch of the military). He also continued to serve as an adviser to Pan American, testing planes and facilities for the airline. In 1948, Charles decided to once more share his ideas in print. The result was Of Flight and Life, a book revealing Charles’s thoughts on the evolving Cold War, his personal sense that a civilization’s value depended heavily on the spirit of its people, as well as outlining some of his experiences during the war. For the first time, many Americans learned of Charles’s efforts on behalf of the American military. The book was a best-seller. Honors and awards soon added to the restoration of his

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Charles poses with the Spirit of St. Louis. The pilot and his plane became the subject of an autobiography, and then a film. The Spirit of St. Louis was a best-seller in print and starred Jimmy Stewart in the film version.

reputation. He was given the Wright Brothers Memorial Trophy and the Daniel Guggenheim Medal, which was awarded for “pioneering achievement in flight and air navigation.” On April 7, 1954, he was granted a special military honor with the approval of President Dwight Eisenhower—Charles was named a brigadier general. He decided that the time had come to rewrite his bestselling account of the flight across the Atlantic, We. The book had been written hastily, and Charles in hindsight felt that certain parts were not completely accurate. The follow-up effort, entitled The Spirit of St. Louis, was published to great acclaim and won the Pulitzer Prize in 1954.

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A Hero Once More In April of the same year, he was asked to serve on a congressional commission to select the location of the U.S. Air Force Academy. Charles, along with the four other committee members, inspected 21 sites from the air, and then visited 15 on the ground. They finally selected a location just outside of Colorado Springs. Charles also continued serving as a technical consultant to scientists seeking to develop ballistic missiles and as an inspector for various Pan Am flights and facilities.

TRIUMPH AND TRAGEDY The mid-1950s brought success and sadness to the Lindberghs. The success of The Spirit of St. Louis was soon followed by literary success for Anne, whose book Gift of the Sea became a best-seller and continues to sell successfully to this day. In September 1954, Charles’s mother, Evangeline Lodge Land Lindbergh, died at the age of 78. She had suffered from Parkinson’s disease for several years. Only a few months later, Anne’s mother, Elizabeth Morrow, also died, following complications from two strokes. The Spirit of St. Louis became a film, directed by Billy Wilder and starring Jimmy Stewart. Wilder consulted Lindbergh frequently during the making of the movie, and the film was released in 1957—the 30th anniversary of Lindbergh’s flight across the Atlantic. Lindbergh was pleased with the final results, although the movie failed to achieve the kind of financial success its promoters had hoped. By now, a plane’s flight across the ocean seemed routine. The public was interested in the possibilities of new kinds of journeys— into outer space. The Lindberghs struggled during the 1950s and 1960s to hold their marriage together. Charles continued to travel extensively, spending more and more time away from home.

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CHARLES LINDBERGH Their children were growing up and attending college or marrying and beginning their own families. And Charles had discovered a new passion—the environment. He opposed the construction of American supersonic passenger jets, warning of the air and noise pollution they would create. A trip to Africa reminded him of the world that existed without airplanes, and he soon took on a wide variety of environmental causes, from saving the blue whale in Peru to the monkey-eating eagle in the Philippines. He served as a spokesman for several environmental organizations, including the World Wildlife Fund and the Nature Conservancy. Charles found new homes for his family away from the noise and pull of civilization—a small chalet overlooking Lake Geneva in Switzerland and a home on Maui, a Hawaiian island. Charles witnessed the fulfillment of his old friend Robert Goddard’s dreams of rocket-launched space travel. Charles was invited to attend the December 1968 launch of Apollo VIII’s moon mission, and was back at Cape Kennedy a few months later for the Apollo XI moon landing. Late in 1972, Charles was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer. Following radiation therapy, the cancer briefly went into remission, but he became sick again only a year later. Doctors did not want Charles to travel, but he was determined that his final days would be spent in the serene and private retreat he had created in Maui. A friend helped smuggle him onto a plane—his last flight—and on to the Hawaiian island. In his final days, Lindbergh oversaw the details and arrangements for his own funeral, careful and methodical as always about the final stage of life that awaited him. Charles Lindbergh died on August 26, 1974, quietly slipping away from life in a private spot. He was quickly buried in a remote Hawaiian cemetery, choosing to be dressed only in simple clothes and attended by a few family members and friends.

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A Hero Once More

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A LIFE’S LEGACY For 33 and one-half hours, Lindbergh flew alone over the Atlantic. That period of time—little more than a single day— would forever change his life and the future course of aviation. But Charles never allowed himself to be limited by his earliest achievements. As he wrote in his Autobiography of Values, published after his death: “Our accomplishments of the past are minor in comparison with the accomplishments we dream about today.” There was little about aviation that did not inspire Charles, and the modern airplanes and airports that are used today owe much to his tireless supervision. He helped shape the modern network of passenger service that links one state with another and America with the rest of the world. His imprint is clear on the U.S. Air Force, from the location where its cadets begin their

Milestones in Aviation 1903

Wilbur and Orville Wright build the first successful airplane

1927

Charles Lindbergh makes the first solo transatlantic flight

1928

Amelia Earhart becomes the first woman to fly across the Atlantic

1932

Amelia Earhart makes the first solo transatlantic flight by a woman

1935

Amelia Earhart makes the first solo flight across the Pacific Ocean

1947

Chuck Yeager pilots the first aircraft to travel at the speed of sound

1957

Sputnik 1 is the first artificial satellite

1969

Apollo 11 makes the first manned lunar landing

1976

Viking Lander is the first spacecraft to operate on the surface of Mars

1983

Pioneer 10 is the first spacecraft to leave the earth’s solar system

1999

Breitling Orbiter 3 Gondola makes the first nonstop balloon flight around the world

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98

CHARLES LINDBERGH

The young pilot posed in 1927 at the beginning of a career that took him from the early stages of aviation to the development of air travel as a common means of transportation.

study to the planes they fly and the bases where they land. Charles was not comfortable with publicity, or with public acclaim, but he understood the value of the forum he had been given and did not hesitate to use it when he believed it was necessary. He continued to spark controversy in his later years,

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A Hero Once More speaking out for ecological issues and warning of the dangers of a nuclear war. The young aviator who flew across the Atlantic and became an international celebrity was hailed as a hero—a simple pilot from the Midwest who dared to do something no one else had done before and did it quietly, alone. In his lifetime, he witnessed the transformation of aviation from the daredevil stunts of barnstorming pilots to a commercial enterprise vital to the world’s economy. He saw the evolution of aircraft—and their capacity for both good and evil. He saw man conquer the skies and then worried about what the results of that conquest would be. “We actually live, today, in our dreams of yesterday,” Charles wrote in The Spirit of St. Louis, “and living in those dreams, we dream again.”

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100 CHRONOLOGY 1902 1906 1916 1918 1919

1922

1923 1924 1925 1927

1929 1930 1931 1932

1934 1935

Charles Lindbergh Jr. is born on February 4 in Detroit, Michigan. C.A. Lindbergh (the pilot’s father) is elected to Congress. Charles chauffeurs his father around Minnesota during his campaign for reelection. Charles graduates from high school; begins working on family farm. Raymond Ortieg first announces the offer of $25,000 prize for successful flight from New York to Paris or Paris to New York. Charles enrolls at the Nebraska Aircraft Corporation to learn how to fly. Makes first flight. Works as a barnstormer. Buys his first plane—a Curtiss JN4-D “Jenny.” Enlists in the army as an air cadet. Becomes Robertson Aircraft Corp.’s chief pilot, delivering mail. With the help of financial backers, he buys the Spirit of St. Louis. In May, he becomes first person to fly across the Atlantic Ocean. In December, he flies to Mexico and launches tour of Latin American countries. Marries Anne Morrow. The Lindberghs’ first son—Charles Augustus Lindbergh Jr.—is born on June 22. The Lindberghs become the first aviators to fly from America to China. The Lindberghs’ 20-month-old son is kidnapped from their home on March 1. His body is discovered near their home on May 12. A German immigrant, Bruno Hauptmann, is arrested for the kidnapping and murder. Hauptmann’s trial begins. It lasts for six weeks and sparks a media frenzy. Lindbergh family moves to England.

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CHRONOLOGY 1936

1938

1939

1941 1944

1945

1954 1968 1974

101

Hauptmann is executed for the murder of Charles Augustus Lindbergh Jr.; Anne and Charles visit Berlin at the invitation of the American Embassy. Lindbergh family moves to France. Charles and Anne tour Soviet Russia. Lindbergh travels again to Nazi Germany and is awarded the Service Cross of the German Eagle. Family moves back to the United States. Lindbergh begins speaking out against American involvement in the war in Europe. Gives disastrous speech at America First rally in Des Moines, Iowa. Serves as civilian consultant to United Aircraft’s development of Corsair. Participates in bombing raids on Japanese bases in the Pacific. Sent to inspect defeated Germany’s aviation facilities. Serves on CHORE—consulting on army’s committee to study nuclear weaponry. Becomes special adviser to the U.S. Air Force. Named a brigadier general. Wins Pulitzer Prize for The Spirit of St. Louis. Attends launch of Apollo VIII ’s moon mission. Dies of cancer in Hawaii on August 26.

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102 BIBLIOGRAPHY Books Bak, Richard. Lindbergh: Triumph and Tragedy. Dallas: Taylor Trade Publishing, 2000. Berg, A. Scott. Lindbergh. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1998. Lindbergh, Anne Morrow. Listen! The Wind. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1938. Lindbergh, Charles A. Autobiography of Values. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1977. Lindbergh, Charles A. The Spirit of St. Louis. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1953. Lindbergh, Charles A. The Wartime Journals. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., 1970. Lindbergh, Charles A. We. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1927. Mosley, Leonard. Lindbergh. New York: Doubleday & Co., 1976. Ross, Walter S. The Last Hero. New York: Harper & Row, 1968.

Websites www.barnstormerart.com www.barnstorming.com www.cnn.com www.lindberghfoundation.org www.nasm.si.edu www.nytimes.com www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/lindbergh/

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FURTHER READING

Books Bak, Richard. Lindbergh: Triumph and Tragedy. Dallas: Taylor Trade Publishing, 2000. Berg, A. Scott. Lindbergh. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1998. Lindbergh, Anne Morrow. Listen! The Wind. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1938. Lindbergh, Charles A. The Spirit of St. Louis. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1953. Mosley, Leonard. Lindbergh. New York: Doubleday & Co., 1976.

Websites www.barnstormerart.com www.barnstorming.com www.lindberghfoundation.org www.nasm.si.edu www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/lindbergh/

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104 INDEX “Aerial Daredevil Lindbergh,” 35 Air Force Academy, 95 Air Force Cross, 47 Air Force, Lindbergh as advisor to, 93, 97-98 Airmail, 10, 38-41 Air Service Reserve Corps, Lindbergh as second lieutenant in, 38 Albert, King of Belgium, 47 America First Committee, 87-89 American Importer (ship), 77 Apollo VIII moon mission, 96 Apollo XI moon landing, 96 Aquitania, S.S., 84 Army Lindbergh as air cadet in, 37-38 and Lindbergh resigning post in Army Air Corps Reserve, 88 Artificial hearts, 66-67 Atlantic Monthly, 85 Atterbury, William W., 56 Autobiography of Values (Lindbergh), 31, 61-62, 97 Bahl, Erold G., 32-34 Barnstorming, 32-34, 35, 38 B-24 bombers, 90 Belgium, Lindbergh’s flight to, 46, 47 Biffle, Ira, 32 Bronx Home News, 72 Caribbean, Lindbergh’s tour of, 63 Carrel, Alexis, 66 Chamberlain, Neville, 82 Chicago Ordnance Research (CHORE), 93 China, Lindbergh’s flight to, 67-68

City of Los Angeles (plane), 59 Coli, François, 12 College Point, Long Island, 67 Colonial Air Lines, 39 Condon, John, 72, 75 Coolidge, Calvin, 48 Corsairs, 90-92 Curtiss Airplane Company, 56 Curtiss JN4-D “Jenny,” 35-37 Daladier, Edouard, 82 Daniel Guggenheim Fund for the Promotion of Aeronautics, 51 Daniel Guggenheim Medal, 94 De Havilland Moth plane, 62 Detroit, Michigan, Lindbergh’s childhood in, 18, 23-24, 24, 25 DH-4s, 40, 43 Earhart, Amelia, 55 Eisenhower, Dwight, 94 England Lindbergh living in, 77, 78, 80 Lindbergh’s flight to, 46, 47 Environment, Lindbergh’s concern with, 96, 99 Fonck, René, 41 Ford, Henry, 56, 83, 90 France Lindbergh’s first nonstop transatlantic flight to, 6-8, 10-17, 43, 44, 97 Lindbergh’s move to, 78, 80-81

George V, King of England, 47 Germany (Nazi) Lindbergh’s award from, 82-84, 86 Lindbergh’s inspection of aviation facilities of after WW II, 92 Lindbergh’s thoughts of moving to, 83-84 Lindbergh’s trips to, 78-80, 81, 82, 84 and persecution of Jews, 83, 84 Gift of the Sea (Morrow), 95 Goddard, Robert, 66, 96 Göring, Herman, 79, 82 Gow, Betty, 69 Great Depression, 66 Guggenheim, Harry, 51, 62 Gurney, Hartland “Bud,” 30 Hardin, Charles and Kathryn, 34 Hauptmann, Bruno Richard, 74-75 Hispano-Suiza engine, 30, 41 Hitler, Adolf, 78, 82, 92 Hopewell, New Jersey, 66, 68, 73 Hotel Brevoort, 49 Jarvis, Robert, 67 Keys, Clement, 56 Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, 9 Kristallnacht, 83 Lambert Field, St. Louis, 38, 55 Land, Charles (maternal grandfather), 19-20

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INDEX Latin America, Lindbergh’s tour of, 51-55 Le Bourget Airport, 15-16, 17, 45-46 Liberty engine, 41 Lilienthal Aeronautical Society Congress, 80, 82 Lincoln Standard airplane factory, 34 Lincoln Standard Tourabout plane, 30-31, 32-33 Lindbergh, Anne Spencer (daughter), 86 Lindbergh, August (paternal grandfather), 20-22 Lindbergh, Charles as advisor to Air Force, 93, 97-98 as advisor to Pan American Airways, 63, 67, 73-74, 93, 95 as airmail courier, 10, 38-41 and anti-Semitism, 84, 88-89 as Army air cadet, 37-38 and artificial heart, 66-67 as author, 31, 54, 61-62, 85, 93, 94, 95, 97, 99 and award from Nazi Germany, 82-84, 86 as barnstormer, 32-34, 35, 38 birth of, 18 and birth of first son, 64-65 and bombing raids on Japan in Pacific in WW II, 91 as brigadier general, 94 and Caribbean tour, 63 and celebrations after transatlantic flight, 16-17, 44-51

childhood of, 18-19, 23-28 children of, 64-65, 68-77, 80, 86, 90, 93, 96 as consultant at Ford’s bomber factory, 90 and damaged reputation, 17, 84, 85-89, 92, 93 death of, 96 and discovery of kidnapped son, 72-73 and driving car, 26-28 and early interest in flying, 24, 26, 28 education of, 10, 18-19, 23-31, 32 and environment, 96, 99 and execution of kidnapper, 75 family of, 18-28 as father’s chauffeur, 27-28 as father’s pilot, 36-37 and first flight, 30-31 and first nonstop transatlantic flight, 6-8, 10-17, 43, 44, 97 and flights with wife, 63-64, 67-68, 73-74, 78-80 and flight to China, 67-68 and flight to Mexico and Latin American tour, 51-55 and flying school, 10, 29-31, 32 and “goodwill” tour, 51, 56 and home in Hawaii, 96 and home in Switzerland, 96 and inspection of defeated Germany’s aviation facilities, 92

105

and job at airplane factory, 34 and kidnapping of first son, 68-70 and landing in Paris, 14-17, 44 and last flight, 96 legacy of, 97-99 and lymphatic cancer, 96 marriage of, 59, 60-62. See also Morrow, Anne and media and fanatics after son’s kidnapping, 76-77 as medical test subject, 90 and move to California, 28 and move to England, 77, 78, 80 and move to France, 78, 80-81, 84 and move to Hopewell, New Jersey, 66, 68, 73 and nicknames, 17, 35, 48, 54 and nuclear weaponry, 92-93, 99 and Ortieg prize for flight between New York and Paris, 10, 11, 12, 41, 43, 49 and participation in WW II, 90-92 and passenger service, 97 and privacy, 17, 44-45, 51, 60, 62, 64-66, 70-71, 73, 75-77, 80, 98 and Pulitzer Prize, 94 and purchase of first plane, 35-37 and restoration of reputation, 90-95

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106 INDEX and return to U.S. after flight, 48-51 and return to U.S. from living in Europe, 84-85 and search for kidnapper, 73, 74-75 and space exploration, 66, 96 and speeches against U.S. involvement in WW II, 17, 84, 85-89, 92, 93 and stay in Paris, 44-46 as stunt pilot, 10, 34-35 and survey of Mayan ruins, 63 and survey of transatlantic air routes, 73-74 and tour of Soviet Union, 81-82 and transcontinental flight, 64 and transcontinental passenger airline service, 55-59, 97 and trial of kidnapper, 75 and trips to Nazi Germany, 78-80, 81, 82, 84 and troubled marriage, 95-96 and work on family farm, 28, 38 Lindbergh, Charles August (“C.A.”) (father) and car, 26-28 and Charles’ childhood, 24, 25, 26 death of, 38 and family home, 18-19, 23, 24 family of, 20-22

and first marriage, 20 as lawyer, 18, 20 Lindbergh as chauffeur for, 27-28 Lindbergh as pilot for, 36-37 and Lindbergh’s first plane, 35 and marriage to Evangeline, 20, 23, 24 and political office, 23, 24, 27-28, 36-37 Lindbergh, Charles, Jr. (son) birth of, 64-65 and discovery of dead body, 72-73 and execution of kidnapper, 75 kidnapping of, 68-73 and search for kidnapper of, 73, 74-75 and trial of kidnapper, 75 Lindbergh, Jon (son), 73, 76-77 Lindbergh, Land (son), 80 Lindbergh, Reeve (daughter), 93 Lindbergh, Scott (son), 90 Lindbergh Day, 48 Lindbergh Law, 73 “Lindy Hop,” 50 Little Falls, Minnesota, Lindbergh’s childhood in, 18, 20, 23, 24, 25, 28 Lockheed Sirius monoplane, 64 Lockheed Sirius seaplane, 67 Lodge, Evangeline Land (mother), 18 and car, 26-27 and Charles’ childhood, 24, 25 death of, 95 education of, 20

family of, 19-20 in Madison, Wisconsin, 29 marriage of, 20, 23, 24 and move to California, 28 as teacher, 18, 20 “Lucky Lindy” (nickname), 17, 48, 54 Lynch, H.J. “Cupid,” 35 MacArthur, Douglas, 91-92 Mayan ruins, Lindbergh’s survey of, 63 Mayo Clinic, 90 Memphis, U.S.S., 48 Mexico, Lindbergh’s flight to, 51-54 Minnesota, Lindbergh’s childhood in, 18, 21, 25, 26-28 Missouri National Guard, 38 Model T automobile (“Maria”), 26-28 Morrow, Anne (wife), 54, 59 as author, 68, 86-87, 95 children of, 64-65, 68-77, 80, 86, 90, 93, 96 and death of father, 68 and death of mother, 95 and flights with Charles, 63-64, 67-68, 73-74, 78-80 marriage of, 54, 59, 60-62 and troubled marriage, 95-96 and World War II, 86-88 Morrow, Dwight (fatherin-law), 51, 52, 53, 54 Mussolini, Benito, 82 Nature Conservancy, 96 Nebraska Aircraft Corporation, 29-31

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INDEX Nelly (boat), 73 North to the Orient (Morrow), 68 Nuclear weaponry, Lindbergh as consultant on, 92-93, 99 Nungesser, Charles, 12 Of Flight and Life (Lindbergh), 93 Olympic Games (Germany, 1936), 79-80 Ortieg, Raymond (Ortieg Prize), 10, 11, 12, 41, 43, 46, 49 OX-5s engine, 41 Pan American Airways, 63, 67, 73-74, 93, 95 Pearce, William, 67 Pearl Harbor, 89 Pennsylvania Railroad, 56, 58 Perfusion pump, 66-67 Pulitzer Prize, 94 Putnam, George, 55 Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC), 29 Robertson Aircraft Corporation, 38-41 Rockefeller Institute for Medical Research, 66, 68 Rogers, “Banty,” 35 Roosevelt, Franklin, 85, 87, 88, 92

Roosevelt Field, Long Island, 6, 64 Ryan Airlines Corporation, 11 Service Cross of the German Eagle, 82-84, 86 Soviet Union, Lindbergh’s tour of, 81-82 Space exploration, Lindbergh’s support of, 66, 96 Spirit of St. Louis (plane) building of, 8, 10-11 and donation to Smithsonian Institution, 55 and flight to Belgium, 46, 47 and flight to England, 46, 47 and flight to Mexico, 51-54 and “goodwill” tour, 51, 56 and Latin American tour, 51-55 in Paris, 46 and transatlantic flight, 6-8, 10-17, 43, 44, 97 Spirit of St. Louis, The (book, Lindbergh), 94, 95, 99 Spirit of St. Louis, The (film), 95 Stewart, Jimmy, 95

107

Timm, Otto, 30 Transcontinental Air Transport (TAT), 55-59 United Aircraft Corporation, Lindbergh as consultant to, 90-92 United States Post Office stamp, 48 University of Wisconsin at Madison, 28-29 Washington, D.C., Lindbergh’s childhood in, 23, 24, 25 Wave of the Future, The (Morrow), 86-87 We (Lindbergh), 55, 94 Whirlwind engine, 43 Wilder, Billy, 95 World War I, 27, 28, 30 World War II Lindbergh’s participation in, 90-92 and Lindbergh’s position against U.S. involvement in, 17, 82, 84, 85-89, 92, 93 World Wildlife Fund, 96 Wright, Orville and Wilbur, 9 Wright Aeronautical Corporation, 43 Wright Brothers Memorial Trophy, 94

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108 PICTURE CREDITS page:

7: 12: 16: 19: 22: 27: 33: 37: 39: 42: 45:

Associated Press(AP) Minnesota Historical Society AP Minnesota Historical Society Minnesota Historical Society Minnesota Historical Society Photo by Detroit News, Minnesota Historical Society Minnesota Historical Society Photo by Swenson Studio, Minnesota Historical Society Photo by Bain News Service, Minnesota Historical Society AP

49: 52: 57: 61: 65: 74: 76: 79: 83: 87: 91: 94: 98:

Minnesota Historical Society Minnesota Historical Society AP AP AP AP AP Minnesota Historical Society Minnesota Historical Society AP Minnesota Historical Society AP AP

Cover: Associated Press (inset), ©Bettmann/Corbis Frontis: Corbis

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Heather Lehr Wagner is a writer and editor. She earned an M.A. from the College of William and Mary and a B.A. from Duke University. She has written several books for teens on global and family issues, and is also the author of Amelia Earhart in the Famous Flyers series. She lives with her husband and their three children in Pennsylvania.