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An Individual Manby
Charley Hardman
It's understandable that people focus on Lindbergh's 33.5 solo hours in the air that May in 1927 and consider it the height of bravery and skill. It was certainly the shining moment which represented the success of the entire process, and many would scoff at the suggestion that the physical and mental achievement of the flight itself could perhaps have been copied successfully by countless others. Examination shows, however, that Lindbergh's unique bravery and skill was in the getting there. He basically looked countless fools and poltroons in the eye and said, "I will do this my way, and I am likely to succeed because I am right." Most of the relevant aviation community ignored or abandoned him early on. Even with his solid financial backing from some intuitive businessmen in St. Louis, major aviation vendors refused to sell to him, regardless of price. Yes, they were interested in having their products (engines, airframes, oil, etc.) associated with the first nonstop transatlantic crossing, but they weren't about to let them be linked forever to a dead "flying fool." They wanted to approve the crew and the plane, no Mr. Lindbergh necessary or wanted. A major area of contention was his opinion that the aircraft have only one engine. Lindbergh didn't budge, nor did his backers. He insisted that a single-engine plane made more sense for the crossing. Recognizing unintended consequences, his subtle reasoning was of a brand we rarely see outside of liberty circles. Multiple engines required more fuel, which meant more weight in addition to the extra engine(s). In the event of an engine failure (at the time, the most touted reason for having multiple engines), the crippled aircraft would tend to meet the surface short of land anyway. For little to no benefit, thousands more dollars would be required for the extra engine(s), fuel, and associated systems, including a more robust airframe which itself would require more fuel. With engine reliability nowhere near today's standard, Mr. Lindbergh was also aware that multiplying engines multiplied the chance of an engine failure, the very event multi-engine proponents claimed they were providing for with the extra engine. As with many proposals made with good intentions, the disease was preferable to the cure. Lindbergh saw through the hokum with ease. Had the flight failed it would not have belied his logic, for he was right. Being called "Lucky Lindy" must have really stuck in that man's craw. But there were some who listened to Logical Lindy – those brave, integral businessmen from St. Louis, the true Spirit of St. Louis. At a time when critics were loudly deriding the gawky upstart (an easy shot to take in comparison to the official, better-funded sorts also competing for the $25,000 Orteig prize), the core group behind the project showed faith in its man every step of the way. In his wonderful book The Spirit Of St. Louis Lindbergh documented repeatedly how those men offered money, support, and a total lack of interference. They advised him, naturally, but always with the attitude that "Slim" was in charge. As the flight approached they became more aware that the project's direction could lead to Lindbergh's death; it was not such lighthearted work as we might assume. It's tempting to read history lazily, without appreciating that the history you're reading wasn't yet made, or its outcome in any way known to the participants. As Lindbergh readied to leave San Diego for New York (itself a record breaking flight), it was gradually sinking in that Nungesser and Coli, two French competitors who'd recently tried the east-west route from France, were probably lost at sea. His decision to launch for Paris was marred by worries that his potential success on the heels of their disappearance would be seen in France as disrespecting their two aviators. He needn't have worried. Despite those Frenchies and their cowardly, freedom-hating hearts, he was greeted warmly – overly warmly, as you probably know. The world embraces a great man after his groundwork has been laid in solitude. Lindbergh's
genius for laying groundwork was perhaps most apparent in his ride
– the majestic Spirit of St. Louis. He worked closely with the crew
at the San Diego based Ryan Airlines Co., brave renegades all, to
put together an aircraft with a single mission. The plane would
mostly be a flying fuel tank. The answer is "one." There was no committee, no time for showy argument, and Lindbergh would not have stood for it. The designer, Donald Hall, may have played devil's advocate for him, but who's going to argue long with the guy putting his life at risk? To see how Lindbergh succeeded when so many others failed, return to the principles: He was right, he knew it, and he was in charge because it was his life. There is the bravery which so often gets mixed in with the staying up for 33.5 hours after a sleepless night, on a dangerous flight where sleep could have meant death. That risk in some ways mitigates the impressiveness of the task; he quickly realized on the flight that there was no alternative to success but death and failure. That's a little more obvious motivation than what it must have taken to walk once more out of an aviation manufacturer's office, rejected, and get up the next day to try again. The notable bravery was in how Lindbergh lived his life. His code of living did not change upon arrival at Le Bourget Field that amazing night in 1927, nor anytime after. He remained a steadfast voice for reason in America's rockiest times, subjecting himself to derision from masses of fools even after his sainthood. In preparing for his historic flight, one of Lindbergh's major tasks was to figure out how he would navigate across the Atlantic, a body of water with, not surprisingly, very few landmarks. On casual exposure it's easy to say, "Navigation. Uh huh." But put yourself in the place of a man who had no experience on such a long flight, no appreciable time over an ocean, and no chance that a fancy satellite navigation gizmo would sneak on board to help him. It was that one man and the Atlantic, with the likelihood that a significant navigation error would kill him. A little empathy goes a long way toward appreciating the gumption it took to propose what he did and make it happen. Since there wasn't a transatlantic aviation map store at the time, he bought shipping charts. Then there was the standard problem of maps not adequately portraying a sphere on flat paper. Using a map with a gnomonic projection, he traced a single, straight line from New York to Paris. Ballparking the ground speed of his Ryan monoplane at 100 mph, he then broke the course line into 100-mile segments (one hour apiece), noted the coordinates, and transferred those segments to his final map, a large Mercator projection he'd compiled from two maps, which clearly showed the curved path (with the digital granularity from the 100-mile points) of the course – a great circle route. His plan was to change heading, as necessary, only once per hour. He cut away most everything but the course line and a respectable buffer, then folded it for portability in the cockpit. The result when unfolded was a mild, inverted 'V' of the curved route over the two joined map sections. (Surprisingly, I couldn't find a picture of this custom map on the Internet.) By the way, there's an amusing story in The Spirit of St. Louis regarding Lindbergh's interaction with the United States Navy after he taught himself long-range navigation. Good for a knowing chuckle from libertarians. In early 2001
I went on a solo Lindbergh pilgrimage to St. Louis, Missouri. Following
my normal travel habits, I hadn't called ahead or planned anything.
It happened that the usual museum exhibit was out of commission
in preparation for the 75th anniversary of the flight. On a tip,
I lucked into the library blocks away where much of the Lindbergh
collection was kept in storage. I made my whiny plea, and a wonderful
librarian supplied some stock books of chronological newspaper clippings
I followed her to a large table in a corner of the library. Sitting on top was the one thing I wanted to see – the very map Lindbergh had put together with such care, and which he'd used in the cockpit of The Spirit of St. Louis in 1927 to help guide his ship to Paris across that cold ocean. There was only a thin, movable plastic cover over the large inverted 'V' shape, probably 5' wide. I stared with awed disbelief at the physical evidence of the great adventurer's process, plotted by the man with the confidence to rely on it with his life. The librarian stood back in silence, patiently letting me take it all in. I could see Lindbergh's writing, each heading change noted just as an everyday pilot would write it. I don't know why that blew me away. I must have figured it would be typeset, or somehow made official. But it was just Lindbergh's handwritten numbers, his heart, and his determination, displayed materially for a stranger 74 years later. You could still see the folds he'd made with characteristic precision, trimmed in the odd shape required by the course line. Precision was a thing he held almost as dear as life. Charles Lindbergh refused the corruption of letting small minds convince him of rot he knew could not prevail, and was repeatedly rejected by the "leaders" of his chosen industry. How many of us could withstand such movement against our solo entry into a field dominated by oppressive bores? Only Lindbergh the Titan put the winning package together, and his success is testament to the core truths of liberty and the market – of the power one agile man can have against a bureaucracy which walks with glue-covered shoes. Mr. Lindbergh, I wish you could have heard my thoughts that day at the library as I beheld your sure footsteps. You are not forgotten.
Copyright © 2003 LewRockwell.com
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As we look around us today in bafflement at what the common man allows,
and even what he asserts when pushed to it, let's not forget that
there are men who've been thrown into the sea of stupidity and fought
their way to shore using the confidence of principle. One of the
greatest was Charles Lindbergh, a man most noted for being the first
to fly nonstop from New York to Paris.
of Lindbergh's life (some of them horribly inaccurate, as Lindbergh
often noted with disgust). Thus engrossed, I barely noticed when
she appeared over my shoulder an hour later. "I've brought out something
you may find interesting," she said quietly.
June
16, 2003
