I
Paris
Charles A. Lindbergh was the “dark horse” of the New York to Paris flight; also he flew alone. These two facts, combined with the tragic disappearance of the French transatlantic fliers, Nungesser and Coli, shortly before he left New York, emphasized the suspense with which Paris awaited his arrival.
He landed safely on a dark night about on schedule time. This was the culmination of what might be called the mechanical aspect of his success.
In consequence of these unique but rather simple circumstances it was natural that there should follow a good deal of notoriety for the flier. Already the so-called “transatlantic Air Race” had received much advertising. Several planes had been grooming for the long flight; and there had been much speculation about the practicability of such an effort. Lindbergh’s landing figuratively rang the bell as the winner came under the wire.
The first man over was bound to be recognized as an audacious pioneer. Without regard for his character, creed or aspirations the world was going to come forward and say “Well done!”
The first man to fly from New York to Paris was bound to be fêted and decorated. He would tell the story of his flight and there would be ephemeral discussion of its bearing on the future of aviation. Wild speculation about the world being on the brink of a great air age would follow.
Washington DC—At Arlington Cemetery
Copy of the $25,000 check presented by Raymond Orteig
New York City—Receiving the Orteig Prize medal. Mr. Orteig is standing in the center between Colonel Scott and myself
The first man to fly from New York to Paris was bound to excite the admiration of his own countrymen. He would be met on his return by committees, have to make some speeches at banquets and receive appropriate decorations for his valor.
The first man to fly from New York to Paris would write several magazine articles and a book. He might make some money by lecturing. He would be offered contracts for moving pictures, jobs as manager of something or other, and honorary memberships in a hundred organizations of more or less doubtful value.
Then someone would break a homerun record or commit a murder; whereupon the world would forget with pitiless promptness the first man to fly the broad Atlantic.
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.
It is probable that in the three ensuing weeks Lindbergh loosed the greatest torrent of mass emotion ever witnessed in human history.
This narrative is a record of events, not an analysis. It therefore cannot pretend to explain the “phenomenon of Lindbergh.” Whether it was his modesty or his looks or his refusal to be tempted by money or by fame that won him such a following we cannot say. Perhaps the world was ripe for a youth with a winning smile to flash across its horizon and by the brilliance of his achievement momentarily to dim the ugliness of routine business, politics and crime. Many said that his sudden meteor-like appearance from obscurity was an act of Providence.
Whatever the reason for it all, the fact remains that there was a definite “phenomenon of Lindbergh” quite the like of which the world had never seen. This strange phenomenon is the opening fact of our simple narrative of events culled from a list far too long to include in the space allowed.
All who followed press accounts of the flier’s adventures after landing agree that his “meteor” did not glow in its full radiance at first. There was a faint but unmistakable artificiality in the news reports on this side of the Atlantic immediately following his arrival in Paris. To be sure, unstinted praise was poured on his courage and on the skill of his unprecedented flight. But the true Lindbergh had not yet impressed itself upon America.
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. The journalists naturally found the flier tired after having had practically no sleep for nearly sixty hours. But he was far from exhausted and he had no maudlin recital for the pencil-pushers who so eagerly surrounded him.
He awakened near noon next day. After breakfast he went out on a balcony in response to crowds in the street and for the first time after his triumph stood face to face in daylight with citizens of France. There was a burst of applause. As we have said, the first man to have flown from New York to Paris, was bound to get just this applause. Then something else happened.
We talked to one of the Diplomatic Corps who witnessed this first public appearance. He said: “The people kept on cheering and clapping and waving their hats or handkerchiefs; but I suddenly had a feeling they were applauding mechanically, as if their attention were rooted on something that fascinated them.
“I glanced up at Lindbergh to see if he were doing anything he shouldn’t do. No, he was just smiling and his ruddy face was alight with appreciation.
“I looked from Lindbergh to the crowd. Then I realized that something was going on right before my eyes that I couldn’t see. Lindbergh’s personality was reaching out and winning the French just as surely as his flight had reached out and found their city.”
That was the beginning of the “phenomenon of Lindbergh.” It grew in a steady crescendo as the days passed. We saw it full force in Washington. We saw it reach incredible heights in New York.
Procession of events fitted into and abetted development of the situation. There was the telephone conversation from Paris to his mother in Detroit four thousand miles away. His mother: the world rolled the two words around its collective tongue as might a wine connoisseur his nectar.
He called on Madame Nungesser, another mother, whose equally brave son had disappeared but a few days before in the stormy wastes of the same ocean he had crossed. Their exchange was brief, but the whole world listened and wiped away a tear. In simple compassion Lindbergh told the mother not to give up hope. You have to know the boy to feel a fraction of the reassurance he must have conveyed.
He visited the blind and crippled veterans of the great war. He smiled at them; which was enough for those who could see, who in turn ransacked their expressive tongue to explain “le joli Lindbergh” to those who couldn’t.
He called on the President of the Republic. He was dressed in plain clothes but the meeting was full of affability on both sides, with Sheldon Whitehouse of the Embassy acting as interpreter. The President pinned the Cross of the Legion of Honor upon the lapel of the boy’s borrowed suit and kissed him on both cheeks.
By this time France was alive to Lindbergh; America was waking up.
At the Aero Club of France he made his first speech. His precise laconic diction was one more step forward in the phenomenon of Lindbergh. The speech was printed widely in America. The Club was jammed that day and Minister of War Paul Painlevé, surrounded by fifty of the leading aviators of France, received the guest of honor. When the time came Herrick quietly leaned over and told Lindbergh he must respond. Whereupon the latter rose and said that Nungesser and Coli had attempted a far greater thing than he when they took off from Paris for New York. Their difficulties had far exceeded his. In any event he urged France not to give up hope. Nothing could have been more tactful.
Ambassador Herrick’s speech which followed emphasized the strengthened goodwill between France and America. “This young man from out of the west brings you better than anything else the spirit of America,” he said. “His exploit shows you that the heart of the United States beats for France. It was needed at this moment that the love of these two great people should manifest itself, and it is this young boy who has brought that about. After his European trip is over he will go back to America and he will be able to tell them as no other man could that France really loves the people of the United States.”
Thus was the idea of “ambassadorship without portfolio” initiated. When press and people, and especially statesmen, began to see how the current strain between France and America was slackening as a result of Lindbergh’s visit, the idea grew doubly strong.
On the following day he went to a large luncheon of 600 Americans at the American Club. On Wednesday he visited the French Chamber of Deputies. There was no session in progress, yet most of the members present followed him to the reception room of the President’s residence. Like ferment in wine, Lindbergh’s personality was working hour by hour.
Welcome in New York Harbor
New York City—Riding up Broadway
Here again the increased cordiality between France and America became the keynote of the interchange. The adored General Gouraud said: “It is not only two continents that you have united, but the hearts of all men everywhere in admiration of the simple courage of a man who does great things. … You and your youth belong to that glorious band of which M. Bleriot standing here beside you was one, and which has opened the great spaces. We greet you also in the name of those others of your countrymen who, in the Lafayette Escadrille, died here for France—who, like you, helped to frame that unalterable fraternity, that indissoluble friendship which unites our two peoples.”
In like vein but with an eye to practicality Lindbergh replied:
“Gentlemen, 132 years ago Benjamin Franklin was asked: ‘What good is your balloon? What will it accomplish?’ He replied: ‘What good is a new born child?’ Less than twenty years ago when I was not far advanced from infancy M. Bleriot flew across the English Channel and was asked ‘What good is your aeroplane? What will it accomplish?’ Today those same skeptics might ask me what good has been my flight from New York to Paris. My answer is that I believe it is the forerunner of a great air service from America to France, America to Europe, to bring our peoples nearer together in understanding and in friendship than they have ever been.”
The speaker’s abrupt but unmistakable sincerity made a profound impression upon his hearers.
It is impossible to do justice to the full Paris visit. Yet it is not difficult even now to sense the ever-increasing aura of popularity and affection that surrounded Lindbergh wherever he went.
He lunched with Bleriot, the first man to fly across the English Channel, who presented him with a piece of the propeller of that famous plane of early days. He had a notable visit with Marshal Foch. He went to the Invalides surrounded by an admiring crowd. He went to the home of Marshal Joffre. He attended a formal lunch with Minister Briand.
Meanwhile a growing avalanche of mail was descending upon the Embassy. There were startling business offers running into millions of dollars. Cables from all parts of the world urged Lindbergh to write this or that, or agree to appear at highly remunerative rates under any and all circumstances. He did not handle this mail or accept any of these offers. He could not do the former, and he would not do the latter. But he was not cynical; only gravely dubious about the results of his original enterprise getting so far out of his control.
On Thursday of that Paris week came the official reception by the City. By this time the popularity of the boy held full sway. It is said that half a million people lined the streets through which the flier drove in company with his host, the Ambassador.
At the City Hall, Lindbergh received the Gold Medal of the Municipality of Paris. In a brief speech he told the Council that he believed his flight was the forerunner of a regular commercial air service between the United States and France. He added that Nungesser and Coli would have voiced the same thought if they had landed in America.
Ambassador Herrick then made one of his finest and most widely quoted speeches. “I am not a religious man,” he said, “but I believe there are certain things that happen in life which can only be described as the interpretation of a Divine Act. 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.”
Next morning Lindbergh got up at daybreak and went to Le Bourget where he found a small black Nieuport 300 hp fighting plane awaiting him. To the delight of the French fliers as well as the populace he went aloft and began stunting with a skill and ease that stamped him once and for all an expert. Again he rose a peg in French esteem. Nor was this a studied performance any more than his modesty in bearing or his brevity in oratory were studied. It was only another integral part of the “phenomenon of Lindbergh.”
At noon there was a luncheon at the Ministry of War. Later he was received by the Senators at the Luxembourg Palace. A reception and official visits followed. In the evening he attended a gala performance at the Champs-Élysées Theatre.
The very recital of his festivities and honors grows monotonous.
Next day he left. About eight in the morning he motored to Le Bourget and put in three hours grooming his plane for its next flight. At noon he hopped off for Brussels, circling the Eiffel Tower and dropping a note of goodbye and thanks to Paris in the Place de la Concorde on his way.