of which turned out to be false. The pilots disappeared and were never heard from again.
On May 10, 1927 Lindbergh took off from San Diego, headed for New York in his new plane, the Spirit of St. Louis. He made record time to St. Louis where he was to make a breakfast and dinner appearance with his benefactors. Lindbergh pointed out that time was of the essence, however, and left the same day for Curtis Field on Long Island.
He was unprepared for the media who awaited his arrival and astonished at how they pushed and pulled each other, how they shouted instructions to him on how to pose with the plane, and to his mind, asked him ridiculous and irrelevant questions.
It was here that Lindbergh began his long and enduring "lovehate" relationship with the press. "The press," Lindbergh wrote, "would increase my personal influence and earning capacity. I found it exhilarating to see my name in print on the front pages of America's greatest newspapers, and I enjoyed reading the words of praise about my transcontinental flight... But I was shocked by the inaccuracy and sensationalism of many of the articles resulting from my interviews... Much the papers printed seemed not only baseless but also useless."8
When his mother came to New York to join him before his flight she and Lindbergh posed together for the press. But as Lindbergh would report it, they refused to take the "maudlin position some of them had asked for."9 He was outraged the next day to see that through composite photography they ran such a picture anyway. The "maudlin" position they refused to take was Lindbergh giving his mother a kiss on the cheek.
This lovehate relationship with the media continued throughout Lindbergh's life. When he needed or wanted the press he was friendly with reporters. When they wrote complimentary or positive pieces about him, he would cooperate. But if he did not want them to ask questions, or if the press were the least bit critical, they were pariahs and "distasteful."
Yet, Lindbergh never hesitated to use the press whenever he felt it would further one of his objectives. At such times he was courteous, polite and even solicitous.
Very early on the morning on May 20, 1927, the weather was finally breaking over the north Atlantic. Lindbergh had the Spirit of St. Louis towed from Curtis to Roosevelt Field for takeoff. In a light drizzle, weighing 5,250 pounds, Lindbergh and machine lifted into the sky bound for Paris. It was a flight which would forever change the nature of aviation. No longer would winged transportation be bound by the borders of the country. Shortly after, continents and people were linked by a method of travel many saw then only as a form of amusement and which insurance companies, only four years earlier, had believed had no future. While Lindbergh may have been prepared to usher in the age of aviation, he was vastly unprepared for the attention his flight received.
CHAPTER III
The flight of the Spirit of St. Louis has been forever imprinted in the American psyche. An event which now seems commonplace was wondrous and daring in 1927. After 33 and onehalf hours in the air, Lindbergh touched down at Le Bourget field in Paris. The flight shrunk the oceans and all of humanity and it coalesced American pride in its emerging technological power.
In 1990, "Dear Abby" devoted a special column to people who remembered the Lindbergh landing. "I was a student at the Sorbonne," a reader wrote, "when the radio announced that Lindbergh had been sighted over Ireland and would be landing in Paris in a few hours. A classmate and I took a bus to the airport. We were among the thousands of spectators restrained behind a wire fence. When Lindbergh landed, the crowd pushed the fence over and ran out on the field. The police had to rescue him from his enthusiastic admirers."
Another wrote, "I was at the theater when an announcement was made at intermission that Lindy had landed safely in Paris. Everyone cheered and left the theater to join a wild celebration in the streets, dancing and hugging strangers! The next day, Lindy was honored with a huge parade down the ChampsElysees. It was one of the highlights of my life. I am 93 now, and an American citizen living in New Jersey."10
His reception throughout France, Europe and particularly upon his return to the United States was no less enthusiastic. His first night in Paris, Lindbergh slept at the home of the United States Ambassador to France. Soon after, he met the President of France, addressed the French Assembly, was received by King George V of England, and given accolades the world over for his feat.
To get him home, and America wanted him home fast, President Calvin Coolidge dispatched the United States cruiser Memphis under the command of Admiral Guy Burrage to Cherbourg where it picked up Lindbergh and his plane. The Secretary of War, Dwight F. Davis, had already arranged to promote Lindbergh to the rank of Colonel in the Air Corps Reserve, a title Lindbergh would cling to in the ensuing years.
He was exceedingly tall, and his height seemed to amplify his solitary nature. He captured the imagination of a nation with his stoical and fearless nature, and he appeared bright, even if he was somewhat aloof and lonely. He was quiet and reserved, not given to boastful behavior. He was, in short, a person whom everyone could romanticize as the adventurer, who embodied all that we wanted him to embody. He became an American Hero.
The country could forgive him his idiosyncrasies. It would shower him with admiration, pridefully boast to the world of his name, and, in his presence, defer to him. This would later include law enforcement officers who were involved in the investigation into the disappearance of his first born son. As America's Hero he quickly became acclimated to deferential treatment.
When he stepped off the ship at Alexandria, he was met by his mother. She had been brought to Washington as the guest of President and Mrs. Coolidge. From there he joined a parade which led him to a huge stage erected at the Washington Monument. Waiting on the stage was the President of the United States, who gave a long speech extolling the virtues of a young man who, only a few days earlier, had been a virtual unknown.
Lindbergh responded with these words. "On the evening of May 21, I arrived at Le Bourget, France. I was in Paris for one week, in Belgium for a day and was in London and in England for several days. Everywhere I went, at every meeting I attended, I was requested to bring home a message to you. Always the message was the same. `You have seen,' the message was, `the affection of the peoples of France for the people of America demonstrated to you. When you return to America take back that message to the people of the United States from the people of France and of Europe.' I thank you." And Lindbergh sat down. It is the shortest known response ever given to a Presidential speech.
Lindbergh was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, and for the first time in an action unconnected with war, the Congressional Medal of Honor, the United States' highest award for bravery for a person serving in the Armed Forces. The French presented him with the French Legion of Honor, and the British with the Air Force Cross. He received thousands of offers to endorse products, lucrative job offers, gifts, proposals for marriage, and several million letters, telegrams and cables.
On June 13th he traveled to New York City and was given a parade attended by what is still believed to be the largest crowd in New York City history. Some four and one half million people turned out to see him in the motorcade. In a speech at City Hall, Mayor James J. Walker looked up from his script at the end of his long discourse and said, "Colonel Lindbergh, New York City is yours I give it to you. You won it."
The Wright Aeronautical Corporation had assigned a corporate public relations specialist named Dick Blythe, along with an assistant, Harry Bruno, to handle the Colonel's public relations, and to help sort through the offers which were pouring in. Lindbergh had signed contracts with Mobile Oil, Vacuum Oil, AC Spark plugs, and Wright before departing. Each contract averaged $6,000 and the companies were now cashing in. Each could have afforded to pay him much more after the flight, and many more wanted his endorsement. On June 16, 1927 he was awarded the Orteig Prize and given the $25,000 at a small ceremony. Interestingly enough, Raymond Orteig's committee had to bend the rules to present the money. The published rules had stated that in order to qualify, sixty days had to lapse between the time the entry was received and the time the flight took place. It had not. Even though the rules had been well publicized in advance everyone had agreed that they could overlook it "in this case." After all, Lindbergh was special.
He wrote an account of his flight called We, which earned him $100,000 in