“We” quotes

I was born in Detroit, Michigan, on February 4, 1902.

My father was practicing law in Little Falls, Minnesota, at the time. When I was less than two months old my parents took me to their farm, on the western banks of the Mississippi River two miles south of Little Falls.

One afternoon a visiting plane arrived and Reese stepped out of the cockpit. I had not heard from him since we had traded planes in Montana, and he stayed with me on the post that night while we exchanged experiences of the previous year.

One of the interesting facts bearing on the life of aviators is that they rarely lose track of one another permanently.

Distance means little to the pilot, and there is always someone dropping in from somewhere who knows all the various flyers in his section of the country, and who is willing to sit down and do a little “ground flying” with the local pilots.

Eventually, however, in the true Jenny style we skimmed over the hilltop and obtained a little reserve altitude.

I had passed through one of those almost-but-not-quite accidents for which Jennies are so famous and which so greatly retarded the growth of commercial flying during the postwar period.

I decided that my passenger was entitled to a good ride after that takeoff and kept him up chasing a buzzard for twenty minutes. After we landed he commented on the wonderful takeoff and how much he enjoyed flying low over the treetops;

One old negro woman came up and asked—

“Boss! How much you all charge foah take me up to Heaben and leave me dah?”

I could have carried many more passengers but it rained nearly every day and each flight rutted the field badly.

The constant rains had filled the rivers to overflowing, and after leaving Maben I flew over flooded territory nearly all the way to Lake Village, Arkansas.

Often the water was up to the second story windows of the farmhouses, and a forced landing at any time would have at least meant nosing over.

I had installed the compass while waiting for the new propeller at Maben, and experienced no further difficulty in holding my course.

He was highly pleased to find an airplane halfway into his place of business and not only refused to accept anything for damages, but would not even allow us to have the wall repaired.

He said the advertising value was much more than the destruction.

The greatest damage to the plane was a broken propeller, although from that time on it always carried left rudder.

I was fortunate enough to have passed them and my previous flying experience kept me from worrying on any other account during the first part of our training.

There was no disgrace in washing out.

It simply meant in the majority of cases, that the cadet was not especially adapted to flying and he was sent back to his point of enlistment with an honorable discharge and the advice to take up some other form of occupation.

This is because the parachute is made entirely of silk, and silk comes from caterpillars. All the 57 members of this club feel that their lives have been saved by the silkworm caterpillar!

There is a saying in the service about the parachute: “If you need it and haven’t got it, you’ll never need it again!”

That just about sums up its value to aviation.

The reply was immediate and full of confidence,

“Right next the golf links.”

“Well, where are the golf links?”

It was eleven-forty when I left the ground and eleven-fifty-seven when the last flare had burned out.

Our contract had been fulfilled with three minutes to spare.

I located the field by the flashing of the spotlight and levelled off and landed by its beam.

Pilots often bring their ships down when only the outline of a field is visible. For this reason it is imperative that no obstructions such as farm machinery, or live stock, be allowed to remain on a landing field at night.

Locating a strange flying field by its position in relation to an equally strange golf course, is just one of the many instances in a pilot’s life where comedy goes hand in hand with the most serious situations.

In one instance, the story is told of a young pilot who had just learned to fly. He was taking the owner of his plane for a short flight and was demonstrating the various maneuvers he had learned.

Not realizing the seriousness of the situation, the owner replied,

“What the ⸻ do you care, it’s not your ship!”

It was usually the case that a person inexperienced in the art of flying became quite disturbed over some trivial thing that was of little importance, yet was perfectly at home and enjoying life tremendously at a time when the pilot was straining every effort …

After reaching the farmyard I noticed auto headlights playing over the roadside. Thinking that someone might have located the wreck of the plane I walked over to the car.

The occupants asked whether I had heard an airplane crash and it required some time to explain to them that I had been piloting the plane, and yet was searching for it myself.

I had to display the parachute as evidence before they were thoroughly convinced. The farmer was sure, as were most others in a 3-mile radius, that the ship had just missed his house and crashed nearby.

In all likelihood he could not speak English, and even if he could he would undoubtedly be far too astounded to answer. However, I circled again and closing the throttle as the plane passed within a few feet of the boat

I shouted, “Which way is Ireland?”

Of course the attempt was useless, and I continued on my course.

People who have taken their first flight often remark that no one knows what the locality he lives in is like until he has seen it from above.

Countries take on different characteristics from the air.

The sun went down shortly after passing Cherbourg and soon the beacons along the Paris-London airway became visible.

The impossibility of any immediate organization became apparent, and when parts of the ship began to crack from the pressure of the multitude I decided to climb out of the cockpit in order to draw the crowd away.

Speaking was impossible; no words could be heard in the uproar and nobody apparently cared to hear any.

I started to climb out of the cockpit, but as soon as one foot appeared through the door I was dragged the rest of the way without assistance on my part.

For nearly half an hour I was unable to touch the ground, during which time I was ardently carried around in what seemed to be a very small area, and in every position it is possible to be in.

Everyone had the best of intentions but no one seemed to know just what they were.

The French military flyers very resourcefully took the situation in hand. A number of them mingled with the crowd; then, at a given signal, they placed my helmet on an American correspondent and cried: “Here is Lindbergh.” That helmet on an American was sufficient evidence.

A description of my welcome back to the United States would, in itself, be sufficient to fill a larger volume than this.

I am not an author by profession, and my pen could never express the gratitude which I feel towards the American people.

The voyage up the Potomac and to the Monument Grounds in Washington; up the Hudson River and along Broadway; over the Mississippi and to St. Louis—to do justice to these occasions would require a far greater writer than myself.

Who, by the way, can name the dauntless pilots that circled the globe by air not so many months ago?

The reason Lindbergh’s story is different is that when his plane came to a halt on Le Bourget field that black night in Paris, Lindbergh the man kept on going.

The phenomenon of Lindbergh took its start with his flight across the ocean; but in its entirety it was almost as distinct from that flight as though he had never flown at all.

His personality caught the French at the very moment when their natural enthusiasm for his deed was at its height.

It was like pushing a swing just when it has started downward.

Two French aviation officers extricated him from the milling crowd at Le Bourget on arrival night and succeeded in getting him to the American Embassy where newspaper men located him at 1:30 a.m.

I would not be surprised if this flight marks the beginning of a return of that sympathy and affection which lasted 150 years between France and America.

Lindbergh brought you the spirit of America in a manner in which it could never be brought in a diplomatic sack.

”

Yet Lindbergh’s easy dignity, his simple bearing, and always his ready smile, were as quick to earn him the permanent friendship of King and Queen as to excite the adulation of the crowd.

It was said everywhere of him when he left: “We hope he comes back some day.” No traveller receives higher praise than that.

The striking part of it all was that a composite picture of past homecoming heroes wouldn’t look any more like Charles Lindbergh did that day of his arrival in Washington than a hitching post looks like a green bay tree.

Caesar was glum when he came back from Gaul; Napoleon grim; Paul Jones defiant; Peary blunt; Roosevelt abrupt; Dewey deferential; Wilson brooding; Pershing imposing.

Lindbergh was none of these. He was a plain citizen dressed in the garments of an everyday man. He looked thoroughly pleased, just a little surprised, and about as full of health and spirits as any normal man of his age should be.

When the gangplank was in place Admiral Burrage came down it and a moment later returned with a lady on his arm. This lady was Mrs. Evangeline Lindbergh, the young pilot’s mother.

Instantly a new burst of cheering went up; but many wept⁠—they knew not just why.

For a few minutes mother and son disappeared into a cabin aboard the Memphis. It was a nice touch; something more than the brass bands and cheering.

and while I was informed that it was not necessarily an order to come back home, there was a battleship waiting for me.

“The Ambassador said this wasn’t an order, but advice,” the aviator added.

“So on June 4 I sailed on the Memphis from Cherbourg and this morning as I came up the Potomac I wasn’t very sorry that I had listened to it.