Chapter V: Part ONE: The Friendship Flight (2)

Back outside, she stopped at the statue of Alma Mater and for no reason climbed into her lap. That it was an irrational thing to do, she readily admitted, but she liked to do silly things once in a while. She decided to walk for a few blocks down Broadway. She turned the corner at 116th Street. Campus couples were walking arm in arm up Broadway and down the side streets to Riverside Drive. She walked in long, even strides, moving with the easy, unconscious grace of the natural athlete.

“The girl in brown who walks alone.” She remembered the inscription under her picture in the high-school yearbook. She had cried over it when she had shown it to her mother; the tag line had been unkind but true.

She blinked her eyes quickly at the memory. She could not be like those other girls who clung to boys as if they were gods or something. It was worth it to be different and go it alone and do what one wanted to do.

7. _Land!_

“Going it alone,” Amelia repeated the phrase to herself, alone in the passenger compartment of the _Friendship_, a lone woman, the first woman in history on a transatlantic flight. She looked up and forward to the two men flying the plane. Bill was nosing down again, and Lou was gazing intently out his side window. AE walked carefully up to the cockpit. Twenty-five hundred feet. Eight fifty A.M. Lou Gordon pointed out to the right. Two ships!

One of them was the S. S. _America_. Lou took over the controls as Bill Stultz went back to try to make radio contact with the ships; but the radio failed to operate. How could he get a position?

The _Friendship_ dropped down and circled the _America_. Bill scribbled a note. Amelia attached it to an orange, put both in a paper bag, and aimed through the opened hatchway for the deck of the _America_. The combination of speed, movement of the ship, wind, and lightness of the bag made the bombing a failure. A second attempt failed.

An alternative plan was suggested: should they try to land near the ship, get a position report by voice, then try to take off again? The rough sea would make a landing difficult, a take-off impossible. Bill tried again, but in vain, to receive a message on the radio. What to do?

They decided to trust their earlier course determination, and turn back to retrace the twelve-mile detour they had made to circle the _America_. They had to trust their own original judgment. They had only one hour of fuel left.

At this low point of desperation Lou Gordon, smiling as if there were nothing to be alarmed about, came back for a sandwich. He tore off the wrapper--another ham sandwich--and crawled back to the cockpit. Amelia liked his easy manner. She looked out: the cloud ceiling was low and the visibility limited. Bill headed the plane down to 500 feet.

Suddenly a fishing vessel came into view, then a fleet of them. The fliers happily noticed that the course of the boats paralleled the course of the _Friendship_. The gasoline tanks were emptying fast. Amelia guessed that there must be land near, but where? She scanned the horizon, hoping.

Then a nebulous blue shadow appeared through the fog. Was it another mirage of fog, a deceptive cloud formation? Slim Gordon studied the shape, then threw his sandwich out the window and screamed.

“Land!”

Bill Stultz smiled. He had brought the _Friendship_ across the Atlantic. To Ireland or England, he did not know which, but he had found land.

Soon several islands appeared, then a coast line. Bill worked the plane in close and cruised along the coast, looking for a good place to bring the Fokker down. There was not much fuel left. He decided to land. Circling a factory town, he chose a stretch of water beyond it. He landed beautifully, and taxied to a buoy a short distance away.

They had been in the air for twenty fretful hours and forty exciting minutes. Now they safely rode the waves at Burry Port, Wales, looking for a stir of recognition from the earth they had so defiantly left.

8. _A Sack of Potatoes_

Three thousand miles from home and only a half mile from the Welsh shore, the _Friendship_ lay anchored to a heavy buoy, secure in the swift-moving tide. Amelia stood in the square open doorway of the fuselage, gripped the side, and looked out. She saw three men working on the railroad along the shore; she waved her hand in greeting. The men looked up, walked down the shore, cast an unbelieving glance at the big seaplane, then turned their backs and went back to work. Carmarthenshire of South Wales was unimpressed.

Time passed. The _Friendship_ strained at the rope Lou Gordon had used to fasten the plane to the buoy. It started to rain. Sheets of water hit and spread over the Fokker. Pilot, copilot, and passenger stared out from the doorway, frantically waved their arms, cupped their hands, and hollered in vain. Slim crawled out again onto one of the pontoons, and screamed at the top of his lungs. Gray smoke swirled from the factory stacks of the town, his only answer.

Amelia took out a white towel from the crew’s common duffel bag and waved it at the shore. A man near the railroad took off his coat, playfully waved back, put it on again, and returned to his work.

An hour went by. Finally, a boatload of policemen rowed out to the anchored plane. Other boats, full of the now curious, followed.

The chief of the policemen spoke first. “You be wantin’ somethin’?” he asked.

“We’ve just come from America,” the fliers answered.

“Have ye now?” The chief was indulgent if not credulous. “Well, we wish ye welcome, I’m sure.” The policemen rowed back to shore, apparently to make arrangements for the sudden visitors.

Several hours passed before the crew could disembark from the _Friendship_. Rowboats and sailboats came out to meet the plane. The few railroad workers were now convinced that something momentous had happened; they quickly passed the word, and the curious began to gather, in hundreds, then thousands.

The rain stopped, and the three fliers were put into a boat and brought to shore. AE, kerchief and helmet off, her hair in small tightly curled locks, her face bright in a wide smile, was the center of attention. She was besieged by autograph hounds before she could get a foot out of the boat. A boatload of people drew up alongside, and someone reached out a hand and pulled both boats together. They wanted the fliers’ autographs now, all kinds of people: a handsome dark-haired man in a gray homburg; a woman in a tweed coat and a cloche hat; a boy in a cap and short pants; policemen, functionaries, workers.

The public acclaim had begun. To Amelia’s despair, the clamor of the crowds failed to distinguish her as a mere female passenger. She looked for Bill and Lou, the men who had done what everybody was praising her for. It was their show, not hers. Despite her smile, she felt miserable. She did not like to be taken for what she was not: she hated phony heroines. At last three policemen escorted her through the crowd into a factory building.

The wife of the factory foreman brought tea for the three fliers. Amelia, despite the tumult outside the factory, maintained her composure and grinned. “Now I know I’m in Britain,” she said cheerfully, raising her cup and saluting the hostess. In answer to the cheering crowd outside, AE went three times to the window and waved. She was beginning to feel the need for the man who had agreed to manage the publicity.

Hilton H. Railey had crossed the Atlantic earlier by boat. He was waiting for them in Southampton, where they were supposed to land. When he heard that they had arrived safely at Burry Port, he left Southampton immediately by flying boat to join them.

Captain Railey went into action as soon as he saw his charges. Seeing that they were tired and worn from the long flight, he whisked them off to a nearby hotel and locked the doors to all well-wishers. He settled Stultz and Gordon in one room and Amelia in another.

AE sank into a deep chair, threw one trousered leg over the arm of the chair, and stretched the other leg out straight. She raised her arms high and yawned wearily.

Railey thought Amelia looked dissatisfied. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Aren’t you excited?”

Her answer came slowly. “Excited? No.” Amelia took her leg off from the arm of the chair and sat up straight. “It was a wonderful experience, but all I did was lie on the floor of the fuselage and take pictures of the clouds. We didn’t see much of the ocean. Bill did all the flying--had to. I was just baggage,” she said, “like a sack of potatoes.”

“What of it?” Railey replied quickly. “You’re still the first woman to fly the Atlantic, and, what’s more, the first woman pilot to do it.”

Amelia was not convinced. “Oh, well,” she said, “maybe someday I’ll try it alone.”

9. _In the Public Eye_

The next morning they flew the _Friendship_ out from Burry Port to Southampton. For the first time during the trip AE sat at the controls and did some of the flying. During the letdown for landing Bill Stultz took over. In the harbor, boats of all descriptions dotted the water. There was not enough space among them to bring the plane in. A green light flashed from a launch moving farther out. Bill followed the signal and eased the _Friendship_ onto the water.

In the launch Amelia looked back at the big plane. It was the last that any of them saw of the _Friendship_. The plane was sold and later it crashed on a flight to South America.

Among the welcomers at Southampton was Mrs. Frederick E. Guest, the sponsor of the flight, and the woman whom AE had replaced as passenger. It was the first meeting for the two. Mrs. Guest took Amelia by one arm, Hilton Railey took her by the other. Sponsor and manager would see the young woman flier through acclaim she could not believe existed in a country famous for its restraint.

The lady mayor of Southampton, Mrs. Foster Welch, greeted her enthusiastically. “Well, now,” said the mayor, the long gold chain of office about her neck, “I’m going out to the States myself next year, and it gives me pleasure to see you here, for when I get out there I’ll feel that at least I know someone!”

Amelia was delighted, and smiled broadly at the footman who attended the mayor and whose mien was so serious behind a long waxed mustache.

From the tumult that was Southampton Amelia was taken to London by Hubert Scott Pain, director of Imperial Airways. They rode in his Rolls-Royce, which was the same color as her “yellow peril” back in Boston. Amelia was still wearing her heavy flying suit, her only wardrobe, and one brightly colored scarf. Her other scarf had been snatched by an eager souvenir hunter. As they drove along they were met on the road by people returning home from the Ascot races; the racing fans, having heard about the flight, waved at the famed woman flier. AE smiled and raised her hand. She was anxious to get to London and out of her flying clothes. Having but a toothbrush and comb, she looked forward to a whole new outfit.

Rolling into Winchester, the Rolls passed the cathedral. Amelia asked if they might stop. She wanted to see the famed resting place of Canute, the shrine of William of Wykeham who built Windsor Castle, and the place where Alfred the Great was crowned and buried. She might not come by this way again, she explained.

AE went inside. The stillness of the cathedral came over her like a cloak. Here the followers of William the Conqueror had built a monument in thankfulness to God. Amelia walked silently through the church, stopping occasionally to admire the interior. She loved the skill and zeal, but not the faith, that marked this marble prayer of arches, like hands joined and raised.

She planned to stay in London for only a short time, but she remained for two weeks. With Hilton Railey as her escort, she was caught up in a succession of teas, parties, exhibitions, testimonials, and visits. She met hundreds of people, all of them full of compliments for what she had done. As in Wales, she felt embarrassed: it was Stultz and Gordon who deserved the praise, not she.

Captain Railey was proud of his charge. At every occasion she was gracious, charming, modest. He never agreed with Amelia when after a compliment from him she insisted that she was plain and unattractive. For whenever he escorted her from Mrs. Guest’s Park Lane home she was quietly triumphant, tall and lovely in a straight-lined, long-waisted black dress, with matching coat and cloche hat, gloves, and pointed silver-buckled shoes.

One of the high points of the London visit was the meeting with Lady Astor. Amelia found her American-born hostess both “gracious and brilliant.” Lady Astor was not particularly impressed by Amelia’s transatlantic flight. “I’m not interested in you a bit because you crossed the Atlantic by air,” she said frankly. “I want to hear about your settlement work.”

AE was pleased to find someone who treated her as other than the false celebrity she considered herself to be. She spent the rest of the day with Lady Astor discussing Denison House in Boston and its model in London, Toynbee Hall.

Inevitably, like all visitors to London, Amelia watched the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace; then, later, she saw a Tattoo at Aldershot, where RAF fliers performed in the air while the soldiers went through their maneuvers on the ground. Amelia wished she were in one of the planes, with the men in the sky. At a flying exhibition she would much rather be a performer than a spectator.

During an interview with newspaper reporters, AE was asked: “Should you like to meet the Prince of Wales?”

Before Amelia could say a word, an American official answered for her: “That depends on His Highness’ wishes.”

The published account of the interview made AE laugh for many years to come. “Wal, I sure am glad to be here,” she was quoted as saying, “and gosh, I sure hope I’ll meet the Prince of Wales.” If there were a reason for not having met the prince, Amelia chuckled, it was the implied nasal twang in that newspaper story.

At a luncheon given in her honor by the Air League of the British Empire, AE met Lady Mary Heath, the famous woman aviator who had flown from Cape Town, Africa, to London. Lady Heath made the flight in a small light plane called an Avian.

Amelia decided she would like to have a plane like it. One early morning she stole from Mrs. Guest’s home and took a taxi out to Croydon Airport. She had made a date to go up with an English pilot in Lady Heath’s little two-seater Avian. While they were in the air, Amelia made up her mind. She would make Lady Heath an offer.

A few days later, when they sailed home on the _Roosevelt_, the little plane was lashed to the deck. The boat trip across the Atlantic was a wonderful opportunity to relax. The skipper, Captain Harry Manning, realizing the strain Amelia had been subject to, set aside a deck for her exclusive use. “Can’t you take us to South America instead of New York?” she asked him one day. She did not look forward to more receptions. Often AE went into the chartroom and discussed navigation with Captain Manning. One day, they decided, they would make a long flight together.

During the voyage Wilmer Stultz behaved erratically. Although the flight was accomplished through his skill as a pilot, and he was $20,000 richer because of it, he nevertheless sank into deep melancholy. To deaden the long days of the ocean trip, he had brought a case of brandy with him aboard the ship. With the liquor he found what he craved: an escape from mundane realities; in neat water tumblerfuls he finished off one bottle after another.

One afternoon a friend entered Stultz’s cabin. The flier was naked. In his right hand he held a full glass of brandy; with his left hand he gripped the rim of the water basin. He stared dolefully at his face in the mirror. Suddenly the ship lurched. Stultz slipped from the basin, swung across the room, and crashed into the portside bulkhead. He lay sprawled and unconscious on the floor, the water glass broken in a dark splash of brandy.

Later that day, when he recovered, Wilmer Stultz found his way on deck. “Drunkenness,” he said to anyone who cared to listen, “is the only true form of happiness.”

Amelia, Hilton Railey, and the others were stunned by the little, gentle, modest pilot who from drink could turn into a complete stranger.

Perhaps Bill Stultz knew that he had been marked by the gods; for within the year, on July 1, 1929, he was killed in an airplane crash one quarter of a mile short of the runway at Roosevelt Field, New York.

AE walked the lonely upper deck and fussed with her thoughts. She stopped at the railing and looked down at Lady Heath’s Avian tied down on the fantail of the ship. Up the metal ladder from the deck below came the clatter of feet. It was her good friend and manager Captain Railey.

“Hilton,” she said to him, “I dread all the things coming up--the business I suspect GP has been promoting in New York in my behalf.” She paused. “I’m not the type.”

Railey smiled half-seriously. “Ticker tape, receptions, dinners,” he said. “At least that.”

“You don’t have to tell me what’s in store for me,” she answered. “I know.” Her forehead wrinkled; she continued: “But why? All I contributed to the _Friendship_ flight--apart from the fact that accidentally I happen to be the first woman to fly across, or rather to be flown across, the North Atlantic--was to lie on the floor of the fuselage like a sack of potatoes and admire the lovely clouds we were flying over. That’s all I did, Hilton.”

Captain Railey did not interrupt Amelia, now fierce in working out her own thoughts. He watched her long fingers grip the railing and turn white as they tightly turned back and forth around the wood.

Amelia looked out over the waves; then she swung around quickly. “But someday,” she said strongly, “I will have to do it alone, if only to vindicate myself. I’m a false heroine now, and that makes me feel very guilty. Someday I will redeem my self-respect. I can’t live without it.”

Hilton Railey understood. She did not want to be the symbol of something she was not. Now she would have to spend the next few years becoming what she was already in the eyes of the press and the public--a woman flier who deserved the acclaim she had received.

Amelia looked again at the Avro Avian below. The fuselage was covered with medals and mementoes to which was added: “To Amelia Earhart from Mary Heath. Always think with your stick forward.”

She had bent her thoughts forward and they had carried her to a resolute conclusion: she had to become a recognized flier in her own right.