Excerpts from Lindbergh’s Log of His Solo Flight from New York to Paris

И New York to Paris

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harles Lindbergh was already being treated like something of a celebrity even before he departed New York for Paris. He and the Spirit of St. Louis had been ready to fly since Monday, May 16, 1927, but the weather was dreadful in New York and points north. Since his arrival in New York he had been feted and greeted by dig­nitaries ranging from William McCracken, the Assistant Secretary of Commerce for Aeronau­tics to Harry Guggenheim, Tony Fokker, Rene Fonck, С. M. Keyes of the Curtiss Company, Charlie Lawrance, the air-cooled radial engine pioneer, and Theodore Roosevelt, Jr.

The press had been pushy and ever-present, and the week had been very tiring. On Thursday, the 19th, Lindbergh visited the Wright factory in Paterson, New Jersey, and attended the theater that night, including a trip backstage. He did not arrive at his hotel until after midnight, and he was scheduled to arise at 3:00 a. m. to go out to Roosevelt Field to make the final decision for takeoff as weather had been reported improved. He was too keyed up to sleep.

In the pre-dawn gloom of Roosevelt Field on Friday, May 20, 1927, the clouds hung low and a light rain was falling. The weather was reported as still improving, and a high-pressure
area is moving in over the North Atlantic. After the Spirit of St. Louis is towed into takeoff posi­tion and fueled, the wind shifts to a tailwind. The engine on run-up is thirty revolutions low due to the weather, the mechanic said.

As Lindbergh himself explains the situation:

Plane ready; engine ready; earth-inductor compass set on course. The long, nar­row runway stretches out ahead. Over the telephone wires at its end lies the Atlantic Ocean; and beyond that, mythi­cal as the rainbow’s pot of gold, Europe and Paris. This is the moment I’ve planned for, day and night, all these months past. The decision is mine. No other man can take that responsibility. The mechanics, the engineers, the blue – uniformed police officers standing there behind the wing, everyone has done his part. Now, it’s up to me.

Their eyes are intently on mine. They’ve seen planes crash before. They know what a wrong decision means. If I shake my head, there’ll be no complaint, no criticism; I’ll be welcomed back into their midst, back to earth and life; for we are separated by something more than the few yards that lie between us. It seems almost the difference between the future and the past,

to be decided by a movement of my head. A shake, and we’ll be laughing and joking together, laying new plans, plodding over the wet grass toward hot coffee and a warm breakfast—all men of the earth. A nod, and we’ll be separated—perhaps forever.1

■ The Flight

Takeoff from Roosevelt Field, Long Island, New York. Mud, rain, and fog complicate the departure. Lindbergh clears telephone wires at the end of the runway by only 20 feet.

Over Rhode Island, 100 miles from Roosevelt Field, 3500 miles to go. Altitude 600 feet; Airspeed 102 miles per hour; Ceiling 2000 feet; Visibility 5 miles; True course 51 degrees; Compass course 63 degrees.

Between Boston and Cape Cod. Alti­tude 150 feet; Ceiling 4000 feet; Vis­ibility unlimited; Airspeed 107 miles per hour; True course 56 degrees; Compass course 70 degrees.

Over water. Burning 16 gallons of gasoline per hour. Altitude 50 feet; Ceiling unlimited; Airspeed 104 miles per hour; True course 57 degrees; Compass course 73 degrees.

Approaching Nova Scotia. Altitude 200 feet; Airspeed 103 miles per hour; True course 58 degrees; Compass course 78 degrees. He is six miles southeast of course.

12:52 p. m. Over Nova Scotia. Wind is 30 miles per hour from the West forcing a crab correction of 15 degrees. Alti­tude 700 feet; Airspeed 102 miles per hour; True course 60 degrees;

Compass course 82 degrees. Storm clouds are forming.

1:52 p. m. Beginning the seventh hour, over

Nova Scotia. 3000 miles to go. Alti­tude 900 feet; Ceiling 1500 broken; Airspeed 101 miles per hour; True course 61 degrees; Compass course 84 degrees.

2:52 p. m. Still over Nova Scotia. Altitude 600 feet; Airspeed 96 miles per hour; True course 64 degrees; Compass course 89 degrees. Storm recedes to the North. Lindbergh sees fog, his most dreaded condi­tion, directly ahead.

3:52 p. m. Leaving Cape Breton Island for a 200 miles stretch of water to Newfoundland. Altitude 500 feet; Airspeed 94 miles per hour; True course 64 degrees; Compass Course 91 degrees. Lindbergh is fighting the urge to sleep. Sleep is winning.

4:52 p. m. Over ice fields in the Atlantic. Alti­tude 150 feet; Airspeed 95 miles per hour; True course 73 degrees; Compass course 102 degrees. Lind­bergh has trouble holding course, causing repeated corrections.

5:52 p. m. Placentia Bay, along the southeast­ern coast of Newfoundland. Altitude 300 feet; Airspeed 92 miles per hour; True course 70 degrees; Compass course 100 degrees.

6:52 p. m. Sunset over Newfoundland. Alti­tude 700 feet; Airspeed 98 miles per hour; True course 68 degrees; Compass course 99 degrees. Lind­bergh has covered 1100 miles in 11 hours, exactly. Never before has an airplane overflown Newfoundland without landing. Lindbergh leaves the continent of North America.

12:52 a. m. Closer now to Europe than America.

Altitude 9600 feet; Airspeed 88 miles per hour; True course 72 degrees; Compass course 106 degrees. High thin overcast. Lindbergh only wants sleep, nothing else. Yet he realizes that sleep means death and failure. He must be intermittently sleeping:

He makes repeated course correc­tions in excess of 10 degrees in both directions.

1:52 a. m. 1800 miles to Paris. Altitude 9000;

Airspeed 87 miles per hour; Lind­bergh fails to record his true course or his compass course. Lindbergh begins to wonder what difference a few degrees can make. Figuring out his new heading is beyond his resolve and his ability. Suddenly, he realizes that it is daylight again.

2:52 a. m. Beginning the 20th hour. Altitude 8800 feet; Airspeed 89 miles per hour; Ceiling: flying between cloud layers. True course and compass course not recorded. The altimeter has not been reset since Newfound­land, by flying close to the water.

That was 8 hours ago. He descends to near sea level and determines that he has a quartering tailwind there.

But he encounters fog and begins a climb to 1500 feet. He frequently loses control of the airplane as he fights sleep, but recovers each time.

During the Lindbergh misses the 3:52 a. m. log

21st hour, entry. He reasons that it’s not worth the effort anyway. He is so tired that he cannot both control the airplane and make entries in the log. He has energy enough only to fly the airplane and keep track of fuel management. The Spirit of St. Louis has 5 fuel tanks: a nose tank, a fuselage tank,

a left wing tank, a center wing tank, and a right wing tank. He switches tanks hourly.

Still on instruments. He wonders what happened to the forecast high-pressure area that was sup­posed to be over the North Atlantic. His log entries are confined to fuel management. Over and over again he falls asleep with his eyes open, knowing all the time this is what’s happening, but unable to prevent it. (p. 387) He finds himself just above the mountainous ocean waves, flying in salt spray form the wave tops. He climbs.

6:05 a. m. The 23rd hour. No entries again.

What difference does it make, he wonders. No entries in the log for over 3 hours. Lindbergh flies above, below and between layers of clouds. The 24th Lindbergh decides to abandon any hour. further effort to keep his log. He fig­

ures that he is 2300 miles from New York, 1300 miles from Paris, and maybe 700 miles from Ireland. But he is beginning to realize that he can no longer accurately deal with figures.

Endnote

1. The Spirit of St. Louis, p. 182.