THE BOYS' BRIGADE

Charles Lindbergh

Charles Lindbergh (1902-1974), American aviator, engineer, and Pulitzer Prize winner, who was the first person to make a nonstop solo flight across the Atlantic.

Lindbergh was born February 4, 1902, in Detroit. He attended the University of Wisconsin for two years but withdrew to attend a flying school in Lincoln, Nebraska. He began flying in 1922, and four years later he piloted a mail plane between St. Louis, Missouri, and Chicago. He decided to compete for a prize of $25,000 offered in 1919 by the Franco-American philanthropist Raymond B. Orteig of New York City for the first nonstop transatlantic flight between New York City and Paris. In his single-engine monoplane, Spirit of St. Louis, Lindbergh left Roosevelt Field at 7:52 am on May 20, 1927. After a flight of 33 hours 32 minutes, he landed at Le Bourget Airport near Paris. His achievement won the enthusiasm and acclaim of the world, and he was greeted as a hero in Europe and the U.S. He was later commissioned a colonel in the U.S. Air Service Reserve and was a technical adviser to commercial airlines. He made “goodwill tours” of Mexico, Central America, and the West Indies. Lindbergh flew over Yucatán and Mexico in 1929 and over the Far East in 1931, and in 1933 he made a survey of more than 48,000 km (about 30,000 mi) for transatlantic air routes and landing fields. Lindbergh also collaborated with the French surgeon Alexis Carrel in experiments to develop an artificial heart pump. Despite early promising results the experiments were finally given up without entirely achieving their purpose. The two men were coauthors of The Culture of Organs (1938).

In 1932 the kidnapping and murder of Lindbergh's first child, 19-month-old Charles A. Lindbergh, Jr., attracted nationwide attention. A German-born carpenter, Bruno Hauptmann, was later found guilty of the crime and executed. To avoid further publicity, the Lindberghs moved to Europe in 1935. Lindbergh toured the Continent and studied the air forces of various countries. He accepted (1938) a decoration from Adolf Hitler and praised the German air force as superior to that of any other European country. On his return (1939) to the U.S., Lindbergh toured the country and made a series of antiwar speeches. He was criticized as being pro-German and was forced to resign his commission in the air corps reserve and his membership in the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics. During World War II, however, Lindbergh was a civilian consultant to aircraft manufacturers and was sent on missions to the Pacific area and to Europe for the U.S. Army. He died on August 26, 1974, on Maui, Hawaii.

Lindbergh's writings include the story of his historic flight, We (1927); his autobiography, The Spirit of St. Louis (1953; Pulitzer Prize, 1954); and The Wartime Journals of Charles A. Lindbergh (1970). His wife, Anne Morrow Lindbergh, the daughter of the American diplomat Dwight Morrow, became a well-known writer.

Execution of Man Convicted in Lindbergh Baby Trial

Hauptmann Dies Tonight as Wendel Charge Dropped

Ex-Lawyer Convinces Grand Jury His Repudiation of Confession True;

Torturers Near Arrest

Los Angeles Times

April 3, 1936

After a brief stay of execution due to the complication of another possible suspect, Bruno Hauptmann, who had been convicted of kidnapping and murdering the son of American aviator Charles Lindbergh, was executed. This article covers the events immediately preceding the execution, as the other suspect Paul H. Wendel, recanted his testimony.

Trenton (N. J.) April 3. (Friday.) (Exclusive)—Bruno Richard Hauptmann's execution at 8 o'clock tonight was assured at 12:10 a.m. when the Mercer county grand jury voted to discontinue its investigation of Paul H. Wendel, who made a “torture-confession” of the Lindbergh baby murder.

The ex-lawyer in three and one-half hours' examination convinced the majority of the twenty-three jurors that his repudiation of the confession was the truth.

WARDEN'S COMMENT

When informed that the jury had discontinued the Wendel investigation, Col. Mark O. Kimberling, Warden of the Trenton State Prison, said that “it looks as if things will go as already planned,” meaning that he believes Hauptmann will die tonight as scheduled.

Hauptmann will not be appraised before 8 a.m. that his fate has been sealed once more.

TORTURE NET TIGHTENS

The grand jury's rebuff of Detective Ellis Parker's suspect, and Gov. Hoffman's intervention in Hauptmann's behalf, came as Federal agents and New York police were reported closing down on the four persons who kidnaped Wendel, held him a prisoner for ten days in Brooklyn and beat, chained and burned him into making a fantastic admission that he was the Lindbergh slayer.

“The jury has voted to discontinue the Wendel case, which means also the Hauptmann case,” Mercer County Prosecutor Marshall announced as the inquisitorial body adjourned until Tuesday.

POSSIBLE BARRIER

A reprieve from the Governor—who made it clear that he will not act again to stay Hauptmann's jolt to eternity unless Wendel were indicted—was the only possible barrier that might be raised now to prolong Hauptmann's execution hour.

The horror of Hauptmann's predicament—to die a thousand times in imagination while his fate hangs by a thread that is stretched to the breaking point by New Jersey's most bizarre legal entanglement—was overshadowed by outside developments. Bruno was a forgotten man—except to the prison guards, his distraught wife and the clergyman and lawyer who had access to his closely guarded cell.

COURTHOUSE BEDLAM

The Mercer County Courthouse was a bedlam as the jury's announcement was made. The jury, which will reconvene Tuesday to take up “routine matters,” included one 72-year-old woman who bore the strain of the long session without showing signs of fatigue. It was 9 a.m. when the jurors began to consider the strange situation into which the crime of the century had been turned.

The first motion to discontinue consideration of the Wendel case was made in the grand jury session early in the afternoon but a desire on the part of at least some of the jurors to question Dr. John F. (Jafsie) Condon, intermediary in the payment of $50,000 ransom to “John” four years ago yesterday in St. Raymond's Cemetery, Bronx, frustrated the attempt.

HEAR WENDEL

Eleven jurors finally decided that it would be wise at least to hear Wendel—if not Dr. Condon—before taking final action.

The procession of notables into the jury room included such as the Governor, State Attorney-General Wilentz, prosecutor of the German war veteran's Flemington trial, and two handwriting experts who satisfied the jury that Hauptmann—and not Wendel—wrote the fourteen ransom notes.

By a vote of 13 to 9, the grand jurors finally voted no bill, it was learned from one of the members. Earlier in the day the grand jurors tied, 11 to 11, on a similar resolution.

BALANCE OF POWER

Foreman Freeman, a supporter of Gov. Hoffman, held the balance of power earlier, and cast his vital ballot in favor of continuing the investigation.

Wendel testified before the grand jury last night, and if he had been indicted for murder, or had the investigation dragged past 8 o'clock tonight, Hauptmann again would have been saved from the electric chair.

Yesterday's proceedings were virtually a retrial of Hauptmann before a grand jury which has no authority to pass on his guilt or innocence.

Atty.-Gen. Wilentz appeared and testified for more than an hour—trying, as always, to send Hauptmann to the electric chair for the crime of which he was convicted in Flemington last year.

HOFFMAN TESTIFIES

Gov. Hoffman also testified in another skirmish in his long fight to save Hauptmann until mystifying angles of the Lindbergh case are cleared up.

And, finally, Wendel himself, wearing a brown suit and grinning, was brought across the Bridge of Sighs from Mercer County Jail and led into the grand jury room early last night.

Albert D. Osborne, prosecution handwriting expert at the Flemington trial, also was a witness and he had before him the scrawled ransom notes that were sent to Col. Charles A. Lindbergh in the spring of 1932.

Around midnight the grand jurors, who had been in session since 9 a.m., filed out of the room and Mercer County Prosecutor Marshall said:

“The grand jury voted to discontinue the Wendel case.”

CHARGE STANDS

It was learned, however, that the murder charge still stands against Wendel, and that Marshall will have to move for its dismissal. He is not expected to do this before the second week in May.

There was a long delay before any announcement was made on this issue which has aroused interest around the world.

Marshall and the grand jury foreman went into the former's office for a conference. When Freeman came out he evaded all questions.

Only persistent questioning drew from Marshall the admission that the grand jury had discontinued the Wendel case, that no more witnesses would be summoned, and that there would be no further investigation.

PURPORTED CONFESSION

Wendel's confession is supposed to state that he kidnaped the baby and took it to a farmhouse where it fell out of bed and was killed.

Wilentz late last night talking to a group of newspapermen, declared:

“The Wendel confession stated that the child had been held a month and that it fell out of bed during his absence. That does not spell murder. It is my considered judgment that this county has no jurisdiction.”

Wilentz's last statement was in reference to the fact that the Lindbergh crime was committed in Hunterdon county, and that the present investigation is being conducted in Mercer county, by a Mercer county grand jury.

Source: Los Angeles Times, April 3, 1936.

Lindbergh Baby Seized

LINDBERGH BABY SEIZED BY KIDNAPERS

Los Angeles Times

March 2, 1932

This Los Angeles Times account contains some of the first reports on the 1932 kidnapping of Charles Lindbergh II, infant son of aviator Charles Lindbergh and his wife Anne. A massive search ended in tragedy when the child was found murdered. A carpenter, Bruno Hauptmann, was later convicted of the crime, and the sensational case led to new legislation, often called the Lindbergh Act, making kidnapping a federal offense.

NEW YORK, March 1. (Exclusive)—Charles Lindbergh II, infant son of Col. Charles A. Lindbergh, was kidnaped between 7:30 and 10 o'clock tonight from his nursery in the Lindbergh home near Hopewell, N. J.

Police automatic printers throughout the State immediately broadcast an alarm and cars on every road leading from Hopewell were stopped and investigated. By 11 o'clock police in New York and Pennsylvania also had received the alarm.

Police were asked to hunt for a dark green sedan, stolen Monday night from Atlantic City. Although the New Jersey State troopers did not say how they came to suspect an automobile of this type it was presumed that such a car had been seen during the night on one of the roads leading from Hopewell.

Mrs. Lindbergh, daughter of the late Dwight W. Morrow, discovered the disappearance of the child, who will be 2 years of age on June 2. He had been dressed in night clothes and put in his crib at 7:30 o'clock. Between that time and 10 o'clock Mrs. Lindbergh entered the room and saw that her son had vanished.

An open window in the nursery of the Lindbergh home at Hopewell indicated how the kidnapers had gained entrance to the house. A close watch has been kept on the baby since it was born, but apparently no member of the family dreamed of the possibility of a kidnaping and no one remained in the nursery tonight after the nurse had placed the child in his crib and made sure he was asleep.

COLONEL NOTIFIED

Mrs. Lindbergh at once called Col. Lindbergh, who quickly called State police. Five troopers were rushed to the home and the following message flashed on the teletype:

“Col. Lindbergh's baby kidnaped from Lindbergh home at Hopewell between 7:30 and 10 p.m. Boy, nineteen months, dressed in sleeping suit. Search all cars.”

Shortly after midnight the Princeton police sent over the network of wires the first message containing anything approaching a definite clew. It read as follows:

“Information received that two men in blue or black sedan bearing New York license plates stopped a man working on highway and asked to be directed to the Lindbergh home in Hopewell.”

Relayed to every outpost, this message gave the searchers their first indication of the possible description of the kidnapers' cars. It was so vague, however, that they did not permit to stop them from questioning the occupants of cars of other descriptions.

A note, contents not disclosed, was found on the sill of a window on the second story of the home, half an hour after the troopers reached the scene. Whether this was a demand for ransom could not be learned—although that was the assumption in most quarters. A three-piece ladder, found a hundred feet from the house, suggested that the kidnapers may have entered by the second floor window—and not from the first floor, as was at first supposed.

New York police received the alarm at 10:45 o'clock and a few minutes later Pennsylvania authorities also were notified.

Efforts to reach the Lindbergh home met the response: “No one has time to talk now.”

The chief operator at the Hopewell telephone exchange said that although the Lindbergh home had a private telephone she had been instructed by Col. Lindbergh to “keep my telephone line clear all night.” She said he had asked particularly that no calls from newspapers be put through till morning.

IN SECLUDED SPOT

The Lindbergh home is in a secluded spot in the Sourland hills and is reached from Hopewell only by rough dirt roads, which wind through scrub and woodland. The home itself is backed by dense woods, but to the front and on each side there is open country and a quarter mile from the house is a natural landing field, which Col. Lindbergh had improved to assure safety in taking off and descending on his flights.

The only neighbors of the Lindberghs are farmers. Col. and Mrs. Lindbergh seeking complete privacy picked the site from the air and their home was built while they were on their trip to the Orient last fall. Hopewell is between fifteen and twenty miles south of Trenton and about five miles northeast of Princeton.

Col. Lindbergh had been scheduled to speak tonight at a dinner in this city of New York University alumni but he did not appear.

As soon as the alarm reached headquarters in New York Capt. James Cooper, in charge of the telegraph bureau, notified Commissioner Edward P. Mulrooney and Chief Inspector John O'Brien. Commissioner Mulrooney raced to headquarters and ordered nothing left undone to assure the capture of the kidnapers' automobile if one was used. Special police cars were shot out to help the New Jersey officers cover the highways under their command and a close watch was placed at the Holland tunnel, the George Washington bridge and at all ferries across the Hudson.

SPECIAL DETECTIVES

Commissioner Mulrooney also ordered picked detectives to mix in places where underground characters gather, on the possibility that the Lindbergh baby was to be held for ransom and a hint of this might be learned by the detectives.

Col. Lindbergh made his first call to the State police training school at Wilburtha, the nearest station to his home. He spoke to Lieut. Daniel Dunn, who quoted Col. Lindbergh as saying: “The baby was placed in his crib by a maid at 7:30 p.m. We saw him then and when Mrs. Lindbergh went into the room at 10:30 he was gone.

While Lindbergh took command of the hunt for his heir, Anne, after some delay, telephoned the tragic news to her mother in Englewood, N. J. where the child was born on June 22, 1930. Mrs. Morrow planned to remain up the rest of the night, it was said, awaiting telephonic reports of developments.

The mother disclosed that Anne is expecting another baby and feared that the shock of the kidnaping might have a disastrous effect on her daughter. Mrs. Lindbergh's new baby is expected within three months, friends said.

POLICE START HUNT

Col. Lindbergh had scarcely poured out his tale when the vast machinery of co-operating police systems began to function. While one man was calling the State police barracks at Lambertville, N. J. ten miles from Hopewell, on the telephone, another was writing out the message to be flashed over the police teletype system.

Telephone connection with the Lambertville barracks was quickly established and Lieut. Arthur Keaton, in command of that post, had been informed of the situation. With every man who could be spared, he started at once for Hopewell.

Col. Lindbergh was pacing nervously up and down the terrace in front of the house when Lieut. Daniel J. Dunn of the State troopers arrived there in a mud-splattered car.

“The baby was placed in his crib at 7:30 o'clock,” Lindy said, talking excitedly. “We saw him then—saw that the nurse did everything properly, as we always do. Then, when Mrs. Lindbergh went into the room after 10 o'clock he was gone.”

Mrs. Lindbergh who was standing just inside the door then spoke—a sob in her voice.

WIFE OVERCOME

“They must have kidnaped him through the window—”

She couldn't go on. The colonel's jaws snapped, and he hastily stepped inside. Placing his arm around his wife, he led her gently to the living room—where she was shielded from instrusion the remainder of the night.

The small force under Lieut. Keaton at once began a careful search of the woody areas surrounding the Lindbergh home, on the possibility of uncovering some clue to the kidnapers, a remote hope that perhaps somehow the baby had managed to make its way out of the house alone.

Troopers meanwhile were speeding from the barracks at Morristown to the north, and from Trenton, to augment the searchers on the scene, while additional details were posted at every cross-road to complete a cordon about the neighborhood and stop all cars for questioning.

The Roosevelt Boulevard, as that part of the Lincoln Highway route leading into Philadelphia is known, was closely patrolled and the busy stream of traffic which it always carries was slowed down almost to a snail's pace as the searchers satisfied themselves on the cars which passed.

The special police, who patrol the Holland Tunnel and the new George Washington Bridge over the Hudson took similar precautions in New York. Every car was examined before it was permitted to pass from New Jersey into New York, and as a result traffic was considerably delayed about midnight.

MOTIVE PUZZLES

The authorities were puzzled as to whether the abduction was the work of a demented person or, what seemed far more probable, one of the most daring snatchings for ransom ever attempted in the United States.

The baby, besides being heir to the aviator's $10,000,000 accumulated since the famous solo flight from New York to Paris in 1927, will inherit a considerable amount of his grandfather's estate. Senator Morrow, who had $20,000,000, had already settled before he died, several millions on Anne, second of his three daughters.

The penalty for kidnaping in New Jersey is thirty years to life.

When the former St. Louis airmail flyer and Anne flew to China last summer, Charles, Jr., was left with Mrs. Morrow, who with the same nurse who lately has attended the “Eaglet,” took care of him at the Morrow's summer home in Maine. The only available description of the baby tonight was that given at its birth—blue eyes, light hair and fair complexion. However, Col. Lindbergh has taken recent photographs of the child which will be widely distributed tomorrow, police said.

Mrs. Evangeline Lindbergh, the colonel's mother, in Detroit, Mich., refused to comment. She appeared greatly worried, according to dispatches from that city.…

Source: Los Angeles Times, March 2, 1932.

Charles Lindbergh Makes a Flying Tour of Latin America

In this 1928 National Geographic article, Charles Lindbergh provides a first-hand account of a “goodwill tour” from Washington, D.C., through Latin America. He completed the flight in the Spirit of St. Louis, which is the same plane he used in May 1927 to make his record-breaking transatlantic flight.

TO BOGOTÁ AND BACK BY AIR

By Charles A. Lindbergh

The modern airplane brings the remotest corner of the known world within a few hours of a metropolis. It makes every spot on this planet accessible to man.

We can fly in comfort over the ice fields of the Arctic or above equatorial jungles.

It is no longer necessary to remain close to a base and corps of mechanics. Our planes to-day will travel for thousands of miles with reasonable attention and carry passengers for but little more than the cost of rail transportation.

In countries where few railroads exist, the airplane is the only feasible means of travel over long distances.

The Spirit of St. Louis had covered only a little over thirty thousand miles at the end of its tour of the United States. The plane was practically new and its engine was capable of many more hours of flying.

THE START FROM BOLLING FIELD

I always had a desire to fly in the Tropics; also, I was particularly interested in the feasibility of Pan American airlines; consequently, when I received an invitation from the President of Mexico to visit his country, it required less than a week to complete my preparation for the flight.

The tail skid cut through the mud on Bolling Field for nearly 2,000 feet and the wheels ran along for another thousand before the Spirit of St. Louis lifted, hopped over the puddles and into the air. Thus, shortly after noon on December 13, 1927, began my flight from Washington to Mexico, to Central America, and home through South America and over the Caribbean.

Fog, clouds, and rain were all ahead. I had cloudy weather all the way to the Carolina mountains, where darkness began to fall.

Up to midnight I saw no moon. All night the sky was overcast, with frequent rains. Occasionally I could make out lights on the ground, but seldom could I see any horizon.

This made instrument flying necessary. I had never done so much of it before, even on the flight to Paris. By instrument flying I mean the use of instruments in the dark to keep the plane level and on its course.

FLYING LESS THAN 100 FEET ABOVE THE WHITE LINE OF SURF

As the sun went down I laid a course for the Gulf which, with the aid of an earth inductor compass, I hit fairly close to the point plotted on my map.

On the Gulf coast I struck more fog; so I had to come down low over the water, sometimes less than a hundred feet above the white line of surf. Often I lost that and flew blind until I could pick it up again. Since the transatlantic flight I had added a supersensitive altimeter to my instrument board. Without this addition, blind flying at 150 and 200 feet over the coast line would have been impossible.

One of the odd things about this flight was the length of night. On my flight to France I had only about five dark hours, because I flew from west to east, against the sun and north of 50° north latitude; but on this flight the direction was slightly west and in southern latitudes, where the nights are long; so I had thirteen hours and thirty minutes of darkness.

I recognized Tampico, near the east coast of Mexico, by its oil tanks. There was a heavy fog and I came down within 50 feet of the Pánuco River. The fog was so low I could not stay under it, so I climbed again and set a compass course for Mexico City.

LOST IN MEXICO

A thousand feet up I got over the clouds, and less than two hours later had passed the first mountains. I crossed a railroad and a small town. It was at this point that I made an important error in navigation by mistaking my position as south of my course, whereas it was actually north. Consequently I changed course in the wrong direction and greatly increased my error.

My mistake soon became apparent, but I was not able to locate my position. The only maps of Mexico I had been able to obtain in the United States were inaccurate and showed few natural landmarks.

Occasionally I passed over a winding railroad, but upon consulting the map I could find none that were not straight.

After following one of these for a time. I arrived over a fair-sized village and flew low past the station to pick up the name from its signboard.

It did not, however, correspond with the names of any towns on the map. After several other similar attempts, I decided that there had been a disagreement somewhere, or that the towns had been renamed and I would have to locate myself by some other method. [Later, in Mexico City, I was presented with Mexican maps, which were surprisingly accurate and by which I was able to navigate in Mexico as easily as in the States.]

I then climbed to an altitude of over 12,000 feet.

MOUNT TOLUCA PROVES TO BE A SIGNPOST

The rivers below were flowing toward the south, and far to the east was a high mountain peak towering above the others in its range. Directly underneath, the country was rough and uninhabited.

I located my position approximately by the direction of the rivers and headed east, toward the peak, which, from my map, appeared to be Mount Toluca.

About an hour later I came to the largest city I had passed over since leaving Tampico.

I again attempted to shoot the station, but without result. After circling three times over the city, however, I noticed a sign saying “Hotel Toluca,” painted on one of the buildings near the station.

After locating Toluca on my map as being about thirty miles west of Mexico City, I headed east, and a few minutes later, after passing over a low ridge, the city itself appeared in the distance.

I had lost between two and three hours by my mistake and flown nearly far enough to have reached the Pacific Ocean and returned to Mexico City, had I followed such a course accurately.

I landed at the airport 27 hours and 15 minutes after taking off from Bolling Field, or one hour and 15 minutes over my estimated time.

When flying becomes common each town and city will have its name painted on some prominent building. Many of our progressive cities in the States have already done this and thereby received the silent gratitude of many a pilot who has passed over on a stormy day.

THE PRESIDENT OF MEXICO AND THE AMERICAN AMBASSADOR WELCOME THE FLYER

A large crowd had assembled on the field. Immediately after landing I was welcomed by President Calles, who had extended to me the invitation to come to Mexico, and by Ambassador Morrow, who was my host during the only too short time I was there.

The day after my arrival I flew with some of the Mexican pilots.

The flying field here is excellent, although I never saw the wind change so fast in so short a time. This may be because Mexico City lies in the bottom of a bowl in the mountains. The wind shifted as much as 180 degrees in a few seconds.

We flew all over Mexico City. I thought of the days when Cortez fought his way into this city; but it no longer resembles the home of the Aztecs. With its long, wide, straight streets and avenues, it looks more as though laid out by an artist.

It is hard to realize that this city is nearly 8,000 feet above the sea; but you realize this when you take off from the flying field. The air is so light that a long run is necessary. The Mexican pilots have this to contend with in all of their flying activities, yet are training students daily, even under the adverse conditions brought about by near-by mountains, variable winds, and high altitude.

SEEING THE WONDERS OF MEXICO

December 18th was one of those wonderful Mexican days. I went to see an exhibition of roping and riding at the famous Rancho de Charros, and in the afternoon I attended a bullfight, where one of the matadors presented me with a beautiful cape.

Late in the evening we went for a motor ride out into this valley of romantic history, amid remains of old Aztec and Toltec civilization.

It is hard to believe now that once the whole valley was a great lake, with small islands on which ancient cities were built.

Always I found something new and surprising, as when they took me to see the “floating gardens” in Xochimilco. Once these islands were said to have floated; to-day they seem well anchored. Moving through the narrow canals among these islands was like a trip through a primitive Venice. Our boat passed many gardens where vegetables and flowers are grown for sale in the cities.

Once all of Mexico City was like Xochimilco, I was told. It was so when Cortez came—just a series of little islands. Gradually the canals were filled up, the lake was drained, and now only these small beauty spots are left. But as we were poled along, it was like moving into another world of hundreds of years ago.

During my visit in Mexico City I had the honor of taking the President of Mexico for his first flight. He was able to look down upon his palace at Chapultepec, into the patios, the gardens, and upon the walks laid out in color beneath him.

It is easy to understand, from the air, why the ancients chose this site for their capital.

We flew over the city and in a wide circle which carried us out over the plains around it.

One day the Mexican Army pilots took me as their guest to Cuernavaca. This gave me a new idea of the beauty of the country. It took us two hours and a half, however, to make a trip which a plane could have done in 30 minutes.

VOLCANIC PEAKS MARK THE ROUTE FROM THE MEXICAN TO THE GUATEMALAN CAPITAL

It was 6:35 on the morning of December 28 when I took off into the clear, cool atmosphere and turned southeast on an airline for Guatemala City.

This flight was unusually interesting, from the viewpoint of scenery, all of which was new to me; but, unfortunately, the ground was not always in sight.

Soon after leaving Mexico City low fog and clouds appeared, covering many of the valleys. Some fog areas were as much as 50 miles long. They lay chiefly over the lowlands, especially toward the Gulf. I did not see the Gulf, but did get a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean, at one time, about 50 miles away.

Mountain-peak volcanoes, numerous in this region, were visible everywhere, with mist-filled valleys between them. Several volcanoes, both in Mexico and Guatemala, were smoking—that is, there was a slight vapor of steam rising from their cones.

These mountains are high and very rugged, but almost entirely covered by vegetation. Their difference in this respect from the Rockies was striking. Some of the mountains were entirely covered with palms.

Even more impressive were the small farms which men cultivate high up the slopes of these mountains. Some fields were fully 10,000 feet above the sea, and there were others clinging to the sides of the peaks at an angle of more than 45 degrees.

I flew at an average altitude of 7,000 feet and at a maximum of 12,000; but, as Mexico has an elevation of more than 7,000 feet and Guatemala City 5,000, and much of the intervening area is mountainous or a high plateau, sometimes this was not high above the ground. I flew a few hundred feet or less over some of the higher mountains, passing quite close, occasionally, to the villages.

These villages, which are mostly straw-thatched and quite individual in appearance, are not, however, seen frequently, but are very widely scattered. In fact, for stretches of 50 miles at a time there was not a single sign of human habitation. It seemed to be a vast, virgin, tropical forest, with sharp mountain peaks outstanding in it.

Villagers came outside of their houses to watch me pass. Most of them had never seen an airplane before.

My route did not take me over cities of any size between the two capitals.

TRIPLE-MOTORED PLANES RECOMMENDED FOR DANGEROUS ROUTE

Very few places appeared where a forced landing would be possible, though I did notice some here and there. One got the impression from the air that in the case of a forced landing in much of this region it probably would take weeks to reach any habitation. The jungle in the lowlands, where it was visible through the fog or clouds, seemed extremely thick and extensive.

I believe, however, that the territory from Mexico City to Guatemala City is practicable for commercial flying with triple-motored ships, although it probably would be better to follow along the coast line.

I flew a compass course the entire distance, depending almost entirely on the earth inductor compass.

I approached Guatemala City from the northwest, flying considerably to the north of the big volcanoes which rise between it and the Pacific.

The sky was clear over Guatemala, except for scattered clouds hanging around the horizon and over the volcanoes. The city was visible for a considerable distance. It looked white and beautiful from the air, with its houses built in squares around a court or patio and green with vegetation. The streets are blocked off, as in most cities in the United States, making one, in this respect, seem at home, despite the tropical plants.

The whole city stands out strikingly against the surrounding plateau, fringed with mountains and volcanoes, and against the extensive uninhabited or sparsely settled areas to the northwest.

GUATEMALA CROWD BREAKS THROUGH A CORDON OF SOLDIERS

The flying had been smooth all the way from Mexico City and I made the 675 miles in 7 hours and 5 minutes.

For a moment, when landing at Guatemala, I feared people in the crowd might be injured. The first time I “dragged” the field, which is always done over unknown landing places, thousands of spectators apparently thought I was actually landing. They broke through the cordon of soldiers and swarmed over the field.

When I did land, after dragging the field once more, the crowd had been pushed back; but they broke through immediately and had crowded around the plane by the time I got it up in front of the hangar.

Ever since a trip to Panama, years before, I had wanted to see more of Central America. But in flying one gets to see but little detail of the country beneath. These glimpses from the sky only create a desire to see the land below in a more leisurely manner. So it was with keen pleasure that I rode about, enjoying the city and its agreeable climate. It was hard to realize, amid the palms, bamboos, and strange flowering trees of Guatemala, that up in the States, at the same time, many people were shivering with the cold of midwinter.

THE AVIATOR IS MADE A CITIZEN OF GUATEMALA

As I found later, Guatemala City is not much different from many other Central American capitals. Numerous automobiles and many fine new buildings give this place a very modern air. Yet Guatemala City is one of the oldest centers of Western civilization. Alvarado, one of the lieutenants of Cortez, came here from Mexico 400 years ago and built the first Guatemala City. When I remember all the rough country I flew over on the way here from Mexico, I can appreciate what a difficult march it was for Alvarado and his force early in the 16th century.

The city presented me with a hand-painted scroll, making me one of its citizens; also, I heard a number of speeches in English; apparently many Guatemalans understand our language.

They showed me a remarkable physical map of Guatemala constructed by a native engineer. It shows the entire country on the horizontal scale of 1 to 10,000 and a vertical scale of 1 to 2,000. Some sharp volcanoes, which stand out like teeth on this map, six feet high, represent the 12,000-foot peaks I flew between the day before. This map is said to be unique in the world. It gave me a clear idea of the mountain ranges and the lowlands on my course to Belize, and between Belize and San Salvador, over which I flew later.

At dawn on December 30 I left Guatemala City for Belize. Visibility was not good. The city was covered with fog, and from the air, as I looked down, I could only catch glimpses of houses through holes in the fog bank, which stretched out 60 miles to the base of the mountains.

THE FIRST PLANE TO FLY OVER BRITISH HONDURAS

I set a compass course straight for Belize. This carried me over much mountainous and uninhabited country. Now and then, however, I saw small grass huts with tiny cultivated patches around them; but on this whole flight I did not see one place where I might have landed without injury to the plane.

As I approached the coast, the country became less mountainous; also, a heavy fog set in and I had to fly about 6,000 feet to clear it.

Two or three times in the last two hours I tried to get under that fog, but it hung close down to the tree tops; so I had to get up again, navigating blindly by instruments.

At last I located my position about 25 miles south of Belize. To reach the city, I had to fly low along a beach fringed with coconut palms. I found the polo field and landed. Mine was the first land plane to fly over British Honduras, I was told.

Belize is a British colony and its hospitality to me was of the good old British sort. After a night of festivity—and it was restful to enjoy once more a common language—I was taken for a launch ride up the Belize River.

Looking into the dense growth along the banks, I realized what a forced landing in that region might have entailed. The river on both sides is bordered with mangrove swamps. Even on higher land the vegetation is so dense that weeks might be required to travel any distance, where there were no trails. Several miles up the river we visited the Botanical Gardens, where the Government is experimenting with native trees and plants.

SPLENDID DISCIPLINE AT BELIZE

In the morning the Governor, Sir John Burdon, with a band of music and many people, came to the field to see me start. Perfect order was maintained. With the spectators under control, there was no danger of hitting any of them, for which I was very grateful. It was a fine example of British discipline.

I circled over Belize; then set my course for San Salvador. The rough air joggled the magnetic compass, and without the earth inductor, by which I navigated, it would have been impossible to fly as straight on a course. The line of flight took me along the coast until I entered Guatemala.

The scenery was unusually interesting. There was dense green jungle all over the lowlands, and the Gulf was dotted with tiny keys covered with mangrove and palm trees.

After passing West Saint Anns Creek, I left British Honduras, crossed the Gulf of Amatique, and flew between Livingston and Puerto Barrios. Below, over the lowlands, there stretched out for miles the dark-green foliage of banana plantations. Beyond Livingston I was surprised to see what appeared to be a big gold dredge, which had cut through the jungle, leaving a trail of destruction behind.

The area over which I flew was more inhabited than I found Guatemala, on the way to Belize; yet it was far from thickly settled. Population grew denser after I crossed the frontier into Salvador. In the mountains I saw more of the little grass huts, seemingly lost in the foliage, for I could see no sign of trail or road anywhere near them. Around each hut was an acre or two of cultivated ground. The Indians living here, I was told, use these small patches to grow the corn for their tortillas.

These mountains in Salvador are extremely broken, with a labyrinth of ridges and deep canyons. Most of the valleys were filled with fog or clouds. The map by which I flew was on such a small scale that on it I could cover all of Salvador with two fingers. Navigation was consequently rather difficult.

A CORDIAL WELCOME IN SAN SALVADOR

As I approached the city of San Salvador, I saw one of the planes which had been sent out to escort me in. Apparently, however, it did not see me. I know from my own experience how difficult it is to find and meet another plane when one is uncertain as to the exact direction the visitor is coming from.

Here, as elsewhere in Central America, the people were most cordial and did all they could to make my visit comfortable. When I left, on the morning of January 3, a squadron of Salvadorean planes saw me off.

I struck an airline northeast for Tegucigalpa. In fine weather and with good visibility I climbed to about 4,000 feet and passed over the cities of Cojutepeque and Sensuntepeque; then toward the mountains where the Lempa River forms the boundary between Salvador and Honduras.

THE ROUGHEST AIR OF LINDBERGH'S FLYING EXPERIENCE

Just across the river I struck a norther. It was blowing over the mountains and bringing thick clouds. For fifteen minutes I was in the roughest air I ever experienced. It threw the plane up, down, and on its side; several times it threw me against the top of the cabin. My goggles, hanging on the stabilizer control lever, were thrown against the top of the cabin and fell in the back of the fuselage.

Rough air is caused by currents and not, as commonly supposed, by pockets. A plane passing from an ascending current into one descending is forced downward in proportion to the velocity of the currents encountered. This was the first really rough air I had struck since leaving the United States.

I found much smoother air at an altitude of 6,000 feet, approximately level with the bottom of the cloud field. As the clouds covered the mountains, I detoured slightly to the south. I was now well into Honduras and crossing the Goascorán River.

I had three different maps, and by combining this information was able to keep a fairly accurate location of my position. One map was bought at a stationery store; the second torn from a wall map; the third a page from a magazine. When two wireless towers appeared in the distance, I knew I was nearing Tegucigalpa. Over the city it was raining hard. On a hill near by cannon were being fired. I could not hear the reports, but could see the smoke and flame shoot from the muzzles. I came down, dragged the field three times, and landed.

For two days I visited with the friendly people of Tegucigalpa, and it was with real regret that I took the air on January 5 for the hop to Managua.

Most of the way I flew high—about 8,000 feet. I crossed the Honduras-Nicaragua border near the River Negro, which runs into the Gulf of Fonseca.

SMOKING VOLCANOES MARK THE ROUTE

My course from Tegucigalpa lay straight to León, a city of Nicaragua near the Pacific coast. From it a railroad is easily followed to Managua.

As I came out of the mountains, halfway on the trip, the coast appeared ahead, with the volcanic islands rising from the Gulf of Fonseca on my right. From this point on to Managua the Pacific Ocean was constantly in view on the western horizon.

In Nicaragua I passed over an extinct volcano containing three concentric craters. Several medium-sized trees were growing in the craters and there was no evidence of recent activity. According to my map, I was over El Viejo volcano—5,800 feet. About half a mile away, and perhaps 2,000 feet lower, was another. Its crater seemed about half a mile wide and looked level at the bottom. It had no trees in it, but was covered with a green sod.

Fifteen miles farther on I came to a third volcano. It was active and smoking heavily, with no trace of vegetation near by. One side of the crater was burning and throwing off dense fumes. From here on my route seemed marked with smoking volcanoes. The last one was Momotombo, close to Managua.

I had flown as high as 11,000 feet on this trip from Tegucigalpa. Above the city of León I came down close to earth and could see people running out into the streets to see the plane. I circled over the city two or three times and then headed toward Managua. This city was easy to locate because of its position near Lake Nicaragua. The field was large and well marked with a number of Marine planes lined up along the north side.

An air service between Tegucigalpa and Managua could be simply maintained, as there are plenty of landing places along the route.

At Managua the people of Nicaragua and the United States Marine flyers gave me a warm welcome. While there I was taken by motor to El Tazate, the coffee plantation of a prominent citizen of Nicaragua and a graduate of Cornell. This estate lies fifteen miles from the city, among low hills covered with banana groves, mango trees, orchids, and other tropical vegetation. On the way out we passed a lake in the crater of a dead volcano, which the natives believe to be bottomless and inhabited by a huge dragon.

FLYING LOW OVER THE JUNGLE, OBSERVING BIRDS AND ORCHIDS

I flew across Lake Nicaragua on my way to San José, the capital of Costa Rica. It was raining so hard by the time I reached the south shore of Lake Nicaragua that to keep within sight of the ground I had to fly at an altitude of 50 to 200 feet.

For the next 75 miles I flew over what seemed an impenetrable swamp. The rain clouds were so low that I had practically to skim the tree tops. I knew that, in case of necessity, I could climb up through the clouds and either fly back to clear weather or hold my course by instrument until reaching the mountains, which would probably be clear. In fact, I did not regret the low flying, for thus I obtained a good view of the jungle, including the palmetto, mango, and other types of tropical growth.

I was so close to the ground I could see orchids and air plants hanging in the trees. Then there were birds—scores of varieties of many and various colors. Some were bright green and very small. Bigger ones flew in flocks and I could distinctly see their bright plumage. The most striking of all were those of a brilliant red, yellow, and blue. They had red heads and breasts, with yellow rings on the front of their blue wings, and red tail feathers that streamed out a foot or two behind. Still others were large and black, with a white spot on their backs.

Any forced landing here would have been exceptionally dangerous—first, because at such a low altitude it would be practically impossible to choose a place to crash in; second, because the entire territory is a dense swamp of the type which would make progress on foot impossible.

At one place I passed a native dugout drawn up on the river bank; near a small banana plantation close to another river I saw a small hut; but at no time, flying over this swamp, did I see a human being. After passing the second river I varied my course to the south.

IN COSTA RICA, ONE OF LATIN AMERICA'S MOST PROSPEROUS REPUBLICS

Now the country was getting higher. Small cultivated fields appeared and ahead were the mountains. I found a hole in the clouds and spiraled up to 7,000 feet. Crossing the mountains, I dropped down into a valley and found myself over the town of Alajuela. Fifteen miles away was the city of San José. There was such a crowd on the field that I dropped a note requesting that the people be moved back.

As I crossed the field, flying low, I could see the band in uniform playing on their instruments and the people waving their hats and flags. But the crowd was so bent on sticking close to the edge of the field that the police had to draw their sabers to hold them when I finally landed, after circling for twenty minutes.

There were many Americans living in the beautiful city of San José. Costa Rica is one of the most prosperous republics in Latin America.

I found both natives and foreigners keenly interested in flying. Air commerce must become an important factor in their progress. My own flights, so far, indicate that aviation is peculiarly adapted to transport in Central America. Here railroads and highways are still so scarce that a trip which now takes days or weeks by land could be made in a few hours by plane.

In 1914 I had seen Panama, traveling many days by steamer from New York. I wanted to see it again. As I flew, I could not help but reflect how much of time and distance have been wiped out by science and invention. Though on this flight I had covered over 4,000 miles since leaving Washington, my actual flying time had been about two days.

The country from San José to Panama is broken and wild, but there were several places where planes might land. I followed the valley of the Reventazón River and came to Almirante; then across Chiriquí Lagoon and Bocas del Toro. Striking the Atlantic coast at Mosquito Gulf, I followed the shore a few miles before striking across country toward Panama. Now huts and small plantations became more numerous. I passed between Gatun Lake and Chorrera. Off in the Bay of Panama I could see Taboga Island. Soon many of our Army and Navy planes came out to meet me from their base on the zone.

In the future, flights through Central America, like the one that brought me here, will make travel by air a common means of transport.

AIRPLANES AND AMERICAN HOSPITALS A BOON TO THE ILL AND INJURED

I was astonished during my visit here to find how many Panamanians speak English. Interesting as my trip through these countries has been, it would have been much more so had I known Spanish. I never realized before what a barrier the lack of a common language is to a mutual understanding between peoples. The people of the United States could afford to study more Spanish.

One of the greatest accomplishments Americans have made down here is in hospital work. Patients now come from all parts of Latin America for treatment in American hospitals on the Zone.

Army aviators from France Field have brought sick and injured people to the hospital, in emergency cases, from remote parts of the interior by plane. Ambulance planes, amphibians, and bombers have been used for this work. Often these flyers carry nurses with the patient in the airplane, and sometimes a mother with her children.

When I last saw Panama, the great Culebra Cut was filled with steam shovels and dirt trains. They were carrying out the last excavated earth before breaking the dike that was to fill the Canal with water from the Río Chagres. Consequently it was interesting to fly over now and see this “Big Ditch,” where last year more than 6,000 commercial vessels passed from one ocean to another. As I looked down on the boats using the Canal, and on the many little green islands in the artificial lake—islands that were once the tops of hills—I could not help thinking how much an air-mail service would benefit this great volume of shipping. Any speeding up of communications is of help to the transport business.

GEOGRAPHIC PARADOXES AT PANAMA ARE SIMPLIFIED BY AN AIR VIEW

After resting and hunting a few days, I took off from France Field and laid a course for Cartagena, in Colombia. Several planes from France Field, at Colón, escorted me on the first part of my journey.

We commonly think of the Atlantic as being east of the Americas and the Pacific as being west, but because of the kinks in the narrow Isthmus and the directions in which it twists, one may get the impression that the sun rises in the west and sinks in the east. When you get up in the air, however, and look down on the map of the Isthmus and the Canal, and on the two oceans at once—if the day happens to be clear—then the geographic paradox is plain enough.

For the first few miles I flew over thick jungle; then the Pacific coast appeared, and I passed over open savannas. The coast here was only a few miles off my plotted course, and I deviated enough to follow it for a short distance. The Pacific tide is very high along the Panama coast, and at low tide a broad belt of mud flats appears between the high- and low-water mark.

Pelicans and other water birds by the thousands covered these mud flats. Now and then a grass hut appeared on the shore line. There were numerous dugouts and small sailboats, some of the latter often several miles out at sea.

Flying low over jungle streams, I saw dozens of alligators sunning themselves on the mud banks.

FROM THE AIR A JUNGLE RESEMBLES A VAST GREEN SPONGE

Far to the southeast of Panama City I left the coast and headed over the interior toward Cartagena, on the Atlantic side. This country was wild and almost uninhabited.

Before sighting the Caribbean Sea I flew over a cloud-covered range of mountains—often within a few hundred feet of the peaks and the mountain sides.

Down here, near the Equator, mountains are quite different from those in the United States. Usually even the highest here are completely covered with heavy dark-green growth. Now and then a miniature river appears from nowhere, dashes out over a precipice to fall in a curtain of mist, to disappear again in the jungle several hundred feet below. It is easy to fly over a jungle river without seeing it. High trees grow by the banks and branch out over the water until their boughs interlock over midstream a hundred feet above the water.

Orchids and air plants, together with numerous vines, hanging down like ropes from the tree tops, help to cover the ground and water below. Flying over very dense jungle, you seldom see the ground at all—nothing but a solid green mat of tree tops that look from above like a vast green sponge or an endless field of velvety moss.

I found the Caribbean coast rugged and dotted with small isles. Flying over the north end of Urabá Gulf, I set a compass course across the thirty miles of salt water to the Colombian shore. I wrote my notes in the air, on the margin of my map.

Some 1,800 feet up I cruised along the coast of the Gulf of Darien. Below appeared many small villages, along the shore. Inland the country was hilly, but not mountainous. In fact, from here I could see no mountains at all, perhaps because haze cut visibility to about 40 miles. Along the gulf coast I made about 95 miles an hour, against a head wind, and reached Cartagena at 1:45, on January 26.

FIVE HOURS FROM CARTAGENA TO BOGOTÁ

On the 27th I left for Bogotá, which lies almost due south of Cartagena, in the interior of Colombia. It used to be considered one of the most inaccessible Latin American cities. Now its people get in and out by air, in a mere fraction of the time required by other means. It took me a little over five hours to fly there from Cartagena.

For the first hundred miles the country I flew over was inhabited and contained many places where I could have landed had it been necessary, but after leaving the San Jorge River I struck a rugged country, covered with very dense jungle. The color of the trees here was different from any I had seen. Some bore red flowers and stood out sharply in contrast with the dark green of the jungle. Here and there was one of a brilliant yellow color.

About a third of the way to Bogotá I located myself above the forks of the Nechi and Cauca rivers. Soon after noon I passed over Puerto Berrío. From 2,000 feet up I looked down on many people in the streets. There were river steamers in sight, and at the river bank there was one of the airplanes used by the German company that runs a commercial service from Bogotá down the Magdalena River.

I was flying at about 8,000 feet and was some 60 miles from Bogotá when I found clouds covering the mountains. I had to detour to find an opening, and finally got through the mountains at 9,800 feet.

The Bogotá airport is out at Madrid Field. I passed over it about 2 o'clock, but went on and circled around the city of Bogotá several times, and then came back before landing at Madrid Field at 3 o'clock.

Considering its size and isolation, Bogotá is far more air-minded than many larger cities in America. I understand German commercial planes that serve Bogotá are sometimes booked up weeks ahead. The people with money to fly gladly forsake tedious travel by mule, motor, and river boat for the quick, comfortable voyage by air.

It is 665 miles on an air line from Bogotá to Caracas. The sky was clear when I took off, at 6:48 a. m., on January 29, and headed straight for Caracas.

FLYING 50 FEET OVER THE FAMOUS LLANOS

By the end of the second hour it had become quite cloudy. Finally I had to reverse my course. Though flying at 10,500 feet, I was unable to get over the mountains.

After spiraling for about twenty minutes, I crossed over the ridge between the clouds at 12,000 feet. At this point the mountainous country ended and I passed out over a clear, high region. Detouring once to avoid a local storm, I came finally over the open plains, or llanos, where I could have landed anywhere.

These great plains, about 1,000 feet above sea level, were covered, as far as I could see, with scattered cattle. I flew low, often only 50 feet from the ground. Besides the cattle, I saw near the lakes and streams what I first thought to be herds of pigs; yet they didn't look exactly like pigs; there was something peculiar about them. I circled and passed about 10 feet over one of the herds. Frightened, they dashed into the water and swam across. They turned out to be peccaries. Turning back on to my course, I passed over two antelope. Thereafter, for 200 or 300 miles along my course, as far as I could see, antelope, peccaries, and cattle were scattered over the llanos.

Besides herds of peccaries and groups of a dozen or more antelope, there were birds, larger and different from others I had seen in the Tropics. Some were brilliant red; some of the larger ones were pinkish—probably flamingos.

RACING WITH THE SUN FOR THE MARACAY FLYING FIELD

For 400 miles after leaving the mountains and striking this great open grassy plain, there were no landmarks by which I could check my position. Then mountains began to appear indistinctly on the horizon to my left—the Cordillera of Mérida.

Ahead loomed the cloud-covered lower mountains around Caracas, which I had to cross to get to the city. These clouds were so thick I could not get through. I followed around the south side of the range for over two hours, hunting an opening before I was able to reach the sea.

I located position as about 150 miles east of Caracas. It was then about 4 p. m. The sun was due to set at 6. There might be fog on the mountains surrounding the city; consequently it was necessary to make the best possible time. If I was not able to get through to the field at Maracay, there would be only a few minutes to hunt for an emergency field before sunset.

With a wide-open throttle I flew the distance in order to arrive before dark. As I neared Caracas the coast grew rougher and the sand beach disappeared. The railroad from La Guaira to Caracas was covered with fog. I kept on along the coast for several miles, then backtracked to Caracas through an open valley and landed at Maracay a few minutes before sunset.

The greater part of my route from Bogotá to Caracas was over country where air lines might easily operate, with plenty of excellent places for planes to land.

From the landing field I drove by motor over a good cement road to Caracas. The road wound about the mountains for some 70 miles. The actual distance between the two cities is hardly more than half of that.

This was my last stop on the mainland of South America. No people could have treated a stranger more handsomely. From Mexico City to Caracas I met with nothing but kindness, boundless hospitality, and enthusiastic public interest in my flight.

At Caracas I had the honor of laying a wreath on the tomb of that great liberator, Simón Bolívar, in the National Pantheon.

GOOD-BYE TO SOUTH AMERICA

It was 6 o'clock on the last day of January, 1928, when I took the air from Caracas and said good-bye to the South American Continent. Before me stretched my thousand-mile flight—a big half-circle swing over the Lesser Antilles to St. Thomas, in the Virgin group. To get there before dark, I had to fly at high cruising speed, since a head wind was blowing.

Over Cape Tres Puntas I took up a compass course for the island of Grenada. In ten minutes the coast of South America disappeared from view in the haze. I flew over three small sailboats and then ran into a rain squall. In about an hour Grenada appeared indistinctly on the sky line. Thereafter, for 400 miles, an island of some kind was always in sight.

On almost every island which had any vegetation, there were signs of human life. Some of them were thickly populated.

From Saba Island I steered straight across 120 miles of water for St. Thomas. Altering my course a bit when I saw a big steamer, I glided low down directly over her. She was the Amsterdam. Thirty miles away the Virgin Islands lifted their green heads from the blue water, and I landed at St. Thomas. It was then 4:50 p. m., 60th meridian time, which is 30 minutes ahead of Maracay time. I had made the flight in ten hours and fifteen minutes.

It's only 80 miles from St. Thomas to San Juan, Porto Rico; but, at the request of the Governor of the Virgin Islands, I flew over St. Croix on the way to Porto Rico. It was 11:45 in the morning when I left St. Thomas and passed over two small islands in the West Indies on my way to the town of Christiansted, on the Island of St. Croix. This hop took only thirty minutes. Travel between these small islands by boat is often slow, uncomfortable, and at times uncertain; yet by air they are only a few minutes apart.

Around the islands the water is so clear that I could see many fathoms down into it, when flying low. There were numerous reefs in some places, while only a short distance away, according to my chart, the depth increased to hundreds of fathoms. Between the islands there were many fishing boats. The West Indies offer some of the best fishing in the world.

After circling Christiansted I flew over the middle of St. Croix Island to Frederiksted; thence to the Island of Vieques and over Porto Rico to San Juan, landing shortly before 2 o'clock in the afternoon.

My flight over these islands impressed me with the facility with which an air line could be established connecting North and South America. They are so close together that on a fairly clear day one of them is always visible from another, even from low altitude. The longest water gap would be only a little over 100 miles. In fact, I believe that even short routes between the islands themselves might be profitable.

ADVANTAGES OF AIR LINES IN THE WEST INDIES

In the United States our air lines must, of course, compete with highly developed rail transport. When a plane loses a few hours, due to fog, the railroad is superior. But down in the West Indies conditions are different. Even if a plane lost a day or two, it would still have an advantage over ground and water travel. I believe that the West Indian Islands and Central and South America offer wonderful opportunities for the establishment of regular air transportation.

Flying from Porto Rico to Santo Domingo required but little attention to navigation. There were many distinct landmarks. In addition, a tail wind was blowing, which kept me ahead of schedule, even with throttled engine. Low over the Porto Rican coast I passed a school of sharks; then a big sea turtle floating on top of the water, which dived as the plane approached.

Flying a modern plane under favorable conditions and off the beaten air lines requires very little attention beyond navigating and occasionally checking over the instruments. These record accurately the condition and performance of both ship and engine.

Without difficulty I wrote my newspaper dispatches on the back of a hydrographic chart while passing over the east end of Haiti. Sixteen hundred feet below was the jungle. A few miles ahead were clearings and farmhouses, and farther on a small city, standing out white and distinct against the green background of tropical mountains. Cumulus clouds, floating above, mottled the earth below me with a pattern of broken shadows.

FROM SUMMER TO SPRING IN A FEW MINUTES

I was still far ahead of my schedule. To keep from arriving too early, I made a trip to the cloud layer above. Cumulus clouds usually have many openings between them, so blind flying is necessary only for short intervals. At 7,200 feet I found myself inside of a cloud. Water streamed off my wings and struts. Four hundred feet higher I climbed out of the cloud, above its billowy top layer. Here the sky was clear.

In just fourteen minutes I had changed from the warm air close to the ground to a fine, cool climate nearly 8,000 feet up, where I had to turn on the intake heater to keep up the engine temperature. One of the finest things about flying is that in a few hours you can get from one climate to another; or that in a few minutes of climbing or descending you can often find the temperature you want. I went on up to 9,700 feet. Santo Domingo was only a few minutes away.

“We are the oldest city in the New World,” they told me in Santo Domingo. Work on the cathedral here was begun in 1514; it is the oldest in this hemisphere. It holds the tomb of Columbus; I was shown his casket. His family had a chapel here. Santo Domingo itself, it is recorded, was founded in 1496 by Bartholomew Columbus, brother of Christopher.

Circling above Santo Domingo, as I took off for Port au Prince, I could not help but think how times have changed. What a difference there is between the modern airplane and the Pinta,Niña, and Santa María.

FLYING OVER TWO REPUBLICS ON THE ISLAND OF HAITI

It was February 6 when I flew over that green island which holds the two republics of Haiti and Santo Domingo.

After leaving the tropical plain near the city of Santo Domingo and passing over low mountains, I climbed up over a high, fertile plateau covered with vegetation. Here, in this more temperate clime, stands Santiago de los Caballeros, the largest city in the interior of the Dominican Republic. I flew low over the crowd gathered on its aviation field. Then off for Cape Haitien, passing the famous citadel of Christophe, and on over Saint Marc on my course for Port au Prince.

Much of the country I flew over was very broken. They say here that an old sailor, asked to describe this island, crumpled up a sheet of paper, put it on a table, and said, “There it is.” This was a good way to describe its topography.

Crossing the Dominican Republic and Haiti, I saw many thatched native houses, often perched high up on steep mountain slopes, as in Central America, with cultivated patches around them. Modern villas, trim and comfortable, stood in the plains and valleys near the towns. The countryside in Haiti, I noticed, was much more thickly settled than in the Dominican Republic. The roads were covered with country people walking to and from market.

COTTON GROWING ON TREES IN HAITI

Before landing at Port au Prince I circled over the bay, then back above the business districts. Here I could see crowds of people out in the middle of the streets. The thing that struck me most in Haiti was the change from Spanish to French. This was the first republic on the tour where Spanish was not spoken; but here, as elsewhere on my trip, I found that many of the people spoke English.

Another sight in Haiti that interested me was a type of cotton which I saw growing on the experimental farm of the Damien Agricultural School. Instead of bushes, this cotton grows on trees 8 to 10 feet high and does not require replanting each year. I was told that it often grows wild in Haiti and produces a good grade of cotton. On this same farm there were fields of cane and sweet potatoes and banana plantations—and many young Haitians were being trained in the methods of modern agriculture.

It was the morning of the 8th of February when I left Haiti for Cuba, on my second longest flight since leaving Mexico City, nearly 800 miles. The Spirit of St. Louis had then been in the air, during its life, for more than 459 hours. It had made 167 flights and flown nearly 40,000 miles. Its original motor had never been replaced nor had a major overhauling. Neither plane nor engine had ever had over 5 per cent of replacements; yet both were in fine condition and seemed entirely capable of flying another 40,000 miles or even more. I believe that, with the right care and upkeep, the modern plane and engine should have a minimum life of 150,000 miles.

By 9:20 a. m. I was over eastern Cuba. Below lay a semitropical growth broken by small fields and banana plantations. A few miles away to the south, along the coast, I saw a ridge of mountains rising hundreds of feet above my altitude. To my north was the Guantánamo Valley, covered with fields of sugar cane. Here the whole country looked thickly inhabited and many small towns were in sight.

In the plane with me were three sacks of mail, the first air mail ever carried in the Spirit of St. Louis. One bag was from Santo Domingo. Although I left it in the plane for two days while in Port au Prince, it still got to Havana days sooner than it could have by boat.

This territory is waiting for air lines. It holds opportunities for commerce, and for tourists it has unlimited attractions, both climatic and historical. In a few years, undoubtedly, there will be air lines operating between the two American continents, by way of the West Indian Islands, and, in addition, there will be a route between Mexico and Central America. Herein lies a field open now for development with our existing equipment.

AIRPLANE CAUSES PANIC AMONG WATERFOWL

I flew on over Río Cauto. Ten miles away, to the south, was the Gulf of Guacanayabo. Flat plains extended many miles inland to mountains barely visible on the horizon. Along the coast I saw thousands of waterfowl. They flopped away in panic from my plane. For half a mile out from the beach I could see the bottom of the sea. I saw two sharks, and there were fish in sight up to three feet in length. Some of the larger birds doubled up their wings and fell into the water as the plane overtook them. I flew on, over the interior of Cuba, over many sugar plantations with sugar mills and many good places to land. At 3:40 p. m. I was over Havana.

This beautiful city was very kind to me. It was full of Americans. Its business and social relations with our mainland seemed very close. At its airport I saw the large three-motor planes which make daily trips between Havana and Key West.

Here I inspected my plane. Nothing but fuel was needed to put her in shape for the flight home. The motor was still working as well as ever, and the plane itself showed very little wear, in spite of its long flight through the rains and winds of hot countries.

From Havana I planned to fly to Key West, and then up the Gulf coast to a point where I might take up a compass course for St. Louis. As I have said, I do not believe it wise to make unnecessarily long flights in a single-motored plane over water. That was why, on this tour, I always reduced the water hops to a minimum.

LEAVES HAVANA ON FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF LAST FLIGHT AS AIR-MAIL PILOT

It was February 13 when I took off from Havana. To me this was a significant anniversary. I had taken off from Bolling Field for Mexico City exactly two months before. It was a just a year after I had made my last flight as a mail pilot from St. Louis to Chicago.

I started in the rain and fog and came back in it. Soon after I left Havana, very early in the morning, I ran into rain and poor visibility. By the time I got over north Florida the clouds were so low that I was flying within a few feet of the tree tops. At the Georgia line wisps of fog hung to the ground, and often I had to fly by instruments. It was so all across Georgia and Alabama.

I kept the ground in sight when I could. If the fog got too thick, I flew by instruments, high enough to clear the hilltops, until, through some hole in the mist, I could again see the ground. Once I went up to 7,000 feet before reaching clear sky.

Through Tennessee and Kentucky it got a little better, but as I neared St. Louis it again became difficult to keep contact with the ground.

Picking up St. Louis, I flew along its waterfront; but I could not circle over the city, as high buildings extended up into the clouds. North of town the smoke and haze grew so thick that I pulled up to 1,200 feet and flew several miles before coming down again. Then I followed the Missouri River around to St. Charles. Guided from there by a paved road which I knew, I flew to Lambert Field.

IN THE AIR 125 HOURS ON TWO-MONTHS' TRIP

It was 5:10, central time, when I landed, after a flight of fifteen hours and 35 minutes from Havana.

Flying in the fog is still our greatest problem in air traffic.

My air excursion over Latin America took exactly two months. I was in the air over 125 hours and flew over thirteen countries.

During this time I was treated with the courtesy and hospitality which is traditional of Latin America.

Space will not allow the expression of my gratitude to the countless friends I left in our sister countries, but I have returned home with the feeling that the ties of friendship existing between the American republics are far too great ever to be broken by misunderstanding.

Source: National Geographic, May 1928.