Slim

XCVIII

Charles Augustus Lindbergh (1902-1974) was known as "Slim" and "Ned" and "Lucky Lindy" and "The Lone Eagle." The international reaction to his flight across the ocean would never be equaled. Only Beatlemania compares even a little

Charles Augustus Lindbergh (1902-1974) was the first true Twentieth Century media celebrity, most famous for being the first man to fly solo and nonstop across the Atlantic Ocean. 

Lindbergh was born into comfortable upper middle-class circumstances in Detroit, Michigan. His father, Charles August Lindbergh (born Charles Mansson in Sweden) was a U.S. Congressman, noted for his opposition to U.S. intervention in the First World War. His mother was a teacher. Lindbergh’s parents divorced in 1909, and Lindbergh afterward led a peripatetic existence, moving between his father’s and mother’s various residences.   Although Lindbergh attended two years of college and majored in mechanical engineering, he was more interested in flying. He dropped out of University against his parents’ wishes, and began flight training in 1922. 

 

Lindbergh as a barnstormer

He was a natural flier, but he couldn’t afford the fees to solo so that he could gain his pilot’s license. His family refused to help him, so he decided to go barnstorming instead to raise the money. He flew under the eye of fellow barnstormers and stunted, becoming known for his particularly high-risk stunts, such as dangling from the landing gear of his plane, and standing on the upper wing as the pilot looped. In 1924 he finally formally soloed, having flown his own plane alone to the school in order to solo in front of an instructor.  After receiving his license, he barnstormed for several more months, but winter found him a flying cadet with the U.S. Army Air Corps Reserve, which he had joined in order to fly more advanced aircraft. He was made a Second Lieutenant, and very quickly a First Lieutenant, and helped train other U.S.A.A.C.R. pilots.

Lindbergh crashed at least two planes during his time as an Air Mail pilot, both times after stunting them. He was not injured either time and managed to get the mail to its destination

In 1926, he inaugurated the United States’ second Air mail route, CAM-2, between Chicago and St. Louis. Despite two crashes (both of which he walked away from) he always managed to get the mail delivered timely. Accused of stunting with the Air Mail planes, he nearly had his pilot’s license revoked, but after a mea maxima culpa, he was allowed to continue flying.  His coolness under pressure became legendary among other pilots, who took to calling the 6’ 3” drink-of-water pilot “Slim.”  

The original Spirit of St. Louis now hangs in the Smithsonian's Air and Space Museum. Several replicas exist

“Slim” Lindbergh took the rap for stunting and promised to mend his ways mostly because he had the world’s greatest stunt in mind --- he was going to win the Orteig Prize in Aviation by flying solo across the Atlantic. The Orteig Prize was no small beer. It was a $25,000.00 (equivalent to $350,000.00 today) award, established in 1919, to be given to a flier who definitively “pushed the envelope” of aviation, and the grantor, Raymond Orteig, hadn’t yet met anyone worthy of his largesse --- even in the Soaring Twenties. Most people just assumed Orteig would never pay off. 

The cockpit window of the Spirit of St. Louis. The plane lacked a front windscreen

With the promise of a “cut” and with the help of some small-time backers who bought “subscriptions” in Lindbergh’s venture, the Ryan Aircraft Company of St. Louis built Lindbergh a plane, N-X-211, which he named The Spirit of St. Louis as a way of promoting the Ryan company. 

The claustrophobic cabin of the Spirit of St. Louis was just over 3 feet by 3 feet by four feet

The Spirit of St. Louis was a custom built single-engine monoplane, dubbed Model NYP (“New York-to-Paris”). She was 27’ 7” LOA with a wingspan of 46 feet and could cruise at 100 miles per hour. She had one Wright Whirlwind J5-C engine, specially modified for fuel economy.  The plane had a rated range of 4,000 miles, and the engine could run for 9,000 hours nonstop (or so it was claimed). 

The original propeller spinner of the Spirit of St. Louis was signed by everyone who worked on the plane at the Ryan Aircraft factory. The swastika was and is a Native American good luck symbol, more common before World War II, and meant to resemble the propeller. Given Lindbergh's later dalliance with Naziism, the symbol echoes with strange overtones

Lindbergh ordered up a lot of fuel capacity, and got it. The Spirit of St. Louis carried 450 gallons of fuel, provided by the Pan-American Petroleum and Transport Company. The ship’s reinforced fuel and oil tanks were in the nose. This improved the plane’s center of gravity, but it also meant that the NYP, like most U.S. Air Mail planes, had no front windscreen. Thus, the lack of a windshield did not bother Lindbergh, but it bothered everybody else. Ryan installed a periscope for low-level flying, but trying to fly and looking through the scope at the same time proved in the event to be impractical. To take off and land, Lindbergh did what he had always done --- stick his head out the side window.   

 

Pushing WE into liftoff position

The cockpit was so small at 36” × 32” × 51” that the lanky Lindbergh sat scrunched over. His pilot’s seat was made of hard wicker. All of this was meant to intentionally increase the pilot’s discomfort as a way of keeping Lindbergh awake during the flight. The Spirit of St. Louis was also purposely designed to yaw unless the pilot’s hands were on the yokes.

WE lifts off from Roosevelt Field, barely missing the power lines along Merrick Avenue

Lindbergh lifted off from Roosevelt Field, in Garden City, New York, on May 20, 1927, and though cramped and tired, successfully made the 33 ½

hour flight to Aéroport de Paris-Le Bourget. 150,000 waiting Frenchmen rushed the plane, dragged the dazed Lindbergh from the cockpit, and hoisted him high on their shoulders. The roar of the appreciative crowd was a sound Lindbergh would learn to get used to.

 

Even the normally staid New York Times got excited enough to use an exclamation point