Ham and Cheese Sandwiches

CXLI

Captain Ed Musick

“Meticulous” Edwin Charles Musick (1894-1938) was an Early Bird.  He became interested in aviation as a young teenager when he attended the same flight exhibition in Los Angeles as Jimmy Doolittle (the two boys did not meet that day). Musick saved up his chores allowance and took flying lessons, first soloing in 1913 in a plane of his own design. When the United States entered World War I he became a flight instructor, one of the few truly experienced fliers in the country (he and Doolittle soon knew one another by reputation).

After the war, Musick neither stayed in the Marine Corps nor barnstormed, but opened a flying school in Miami. It soon became known as one of the most reputable flying schools in the nation. 

When Juan Trippe founded Pan American Airways Ed Musick became Pan Am’s first on-staff pilot. Although Cy Caldwell of West Indian Air Express flew Pan Am’s first flight from Key West to Havana, it was Ed Musick who became the first scheduled pilot on the route. 

Ed Musick (wearing cap) alongside Charles Lindbergh

Ed Musick’s exploits seemed always to be overshadowed by those of other pilots, and especially Charles Lindbergh. It was Lindbergh who flew almost all of Pan Am’s survey flights, and Lindbergh who was the celebrated original Chief Pilot of the airline, but it was Ed Musick who was the workhorse. Lindy might survey the routes, but Musick established them and flew them regularly.

In no small part, Ed Musick remained an unknown factor simply because he shunned the same spotlight that Lindbergh craved. The papers called Lindbergh “shy,” casting him as a reluctant hero, but he wasn’t. He loved the bully pulpit, and men hung on his every word. 

Musick wasn’t a reluctant hero either, he just never saw flying as heroic. It was a job. Taciturn to the point of dourness,  Ed Musick was tinted a definite matte beige in the Technicolor world of early aviation. There are indeed great Musick stories, but he never told them. And there is no collection of stirring Ed Musick quotes, nor an adventurous autobiography, nor many biographies.

Ed Musick’s biography, From Crate To Clipper, was published in 1939, after his death

Ed was the type of man waiters ignored. No one ever noticed him entering a room.  Throngs didn’t ask him for his autograph. Nobody took photo opportunities with Ed Musick. He appeared in Pan Am promotional photos because he had to, but privately considered it all a lot of nonsense. 

He stood just under six feet and was well-proportioned, but nobody ever called him “Slim.” Or, “ruggedly handsome.” Or applied any adjectives to him at all. 

Pan Am begged him for promotional copy during his long-distance flights. Musick shrugged them off. He admitted he didn’t know what to say. “Talk about the sunset,” the head of Public Relations pleaded. And so Ed did, remarking in one radio message, “Sunset, 0639 hours.”

After his record-breaking flights (and there were many) newspapermen badgered him for comments. He described his first transpacific flight as, “Without incident.” And that was it. Led to a battery of microphones at a reviewing stand, he murmured, “We’re glad to be here,” at an adoring crowd and sat down. 

Time magazine tried hard to create color copy around Ed Musick, who, a Harmon Trophy winner, for a brief shining moment became the most famous pilot in the world. They wrote,

Ed Musick at the controls. The Master of Ocean Flying Boats wanted nothing to do with fame

 

He lives quietly with his blonde wife, Cleo, has no children, likes baseball, Buicks, apples, ham & cheese sandwiches, [and] vacations in Manhattan.

Ed did have a passionate side. He had eloped with Cleo when they married in 1924, an action which seemed out of character for a man whose stated passion was for cheese sandwiches. He enjoyed the energy of New York City. And he was also quietly passionate about flying. 

Ed Musick, as much as anybody, set the platinum standard for being a Pan American pilot. His concern for the safety of his passengers and crew overrode everything else. If an engine sounded rough or if weather was closing in, Musick would take no chances. He once put a plane down overnight rather than land in heavy fog at his destination. His passengers, Juan Trippe and a covey of reporters, knew better than to question his judgement.  After Lindbergh, fleeing the dark celebrity of Charles Jr.’s murder, left Pan Am, Ed Musick became Chief Pilot, and the first holder of a new Pan Am rank, “Master of Ocean Flying Boats.”

Ed Musick, standing in front of an S-42. Few people dared show him this picture; he was unhappy that his tie was slightly askew

 

Part of Ed Musick’s passion for order may have had to do with being a Marine aviator. His uniforms were always spotless, the trouser legs pressed into razor sharp creases, the shirts starched and immaculate, the hat always cocked at a precise military angle. He was ruthless during crew inspections, expecting the same from his fellow fliers.  

Time wrote:

His face, almost wooden, sometimes lights up in a crooked smile. Prone to swearing a good deal in a quiet, pleasant way, he never loses his temper, though he is a martinet about detail. When he is in command, his ship must be spotless, his men equally neat.   

It was color copy; Ed almost never swore. Entering the cockpit, he would sit in the left-hand seat ramrod straight, adjusting and readjusting his position until he could reach the yokes without any strain at all. He would then pinch the creases in his trouser legs between thumb and forefinger, running his hand from knee to ankle. Scanning and tapping the plane’s various gauges, he would then whip out a white linen handkerchief and buff his fingermarks away. He would quickly touch each lever or knob within reach, sometimes making infinitesimal adjustments . . . 

He refuses to show off or make wisecracks for newsmen. He has never been known to stunt in a plane, never makes a flight without the most meticulous preparations, even refuses to tie up to a mark until it has been tested. Completely lacking in vanity, he refuses to discuss his career even with such close friends as Navigator [Fred] Noonan, with whom he bunks when on duty.

Ed Musick did smile, occasionally, in portraits. The photographer here caught him in a casual moment, greeting one of Midway’s numberless gooney birds

Not until everything was precisely to his liking would he say to his flight crew in a soft voice, “Start Number One.”