The Jerrie Mock Story

by Nancy Roe Pimm

  She had been flying for thirteen hours when a break in the clouds exposed land, mountainous land. Jerrie contacted the tower at the Santa Maria airport. Due to the heavy cloud cover, she was told to land her plane using instruments only. The reading from her compass had not been reliable at all, so she tuned in her automatic direction finder and picked up the signal from the beacon at the airport.

  The air traffic controller gave her clearance to land, but then he added, “Three-Eight Charlie. Don’t hit the mountains.”3

  Jerrie couldn’t believe his comment about hitting mountains. Of course she planned to avoid them! But with a welcoming runway before her, she concentrated on making a good and safe landing. As soon as Charlie’s wheels touched the airstrip, she slowed the plane down, and headed for the terminal.

  DID YOU KNOW?

  There are nine islands in the North Atlantic Ocean known as the Azores. Santa Maria, the southernmost island, is thirty-eight square miles. It is believed the island was discovered by a Portuguese explorer in the early 1400s. Myth has it that one of the lookouts on the ship’s crew spotted the distant island of Santa Maria while celebrating mass on the feast of the Virgin Mary, and he declared, “Santa Maria!”

  On February 16, 1493, when Christopher Columbus was returning home from the West Indies, he and his crew stopped at Santa Maria. They went to mass in a small church overlooking the water. At the sight of enemy ships in the distance, the men rushed to one of their ships. In their hurry to leave, they cut the anchor before sailing home. The anchor was recovered from the sea and is now on display on the island of Santa Maria.

  FLIGHT FIVE

  CASABLANCA

  A CROWD OF people at the Santa Maria airport greeted Jerrie. They spoke Portuguese, a clear reminder that she was really far from home, in the Azores, volcanic islands west of Portugal. Tired and stiff from sitting for more than thirteen hours, Jerrie nearly tumbled from her plane. The day was chilly and rainy, but her feet were on the ground and she felt thankful that both she and Charlie were in one piece after the icy flight. She posed for photos and then followed the air force representatives to the terminal building. Jerrie had been awake for twenty-four hours, so, after a snack of tropical fruit and coffee, she was taken to the only hotel on the island of Santa Maria, The Terra Nostra.

  At the hotel, Jerrie wrote to the newspaper, “Airplane brakes are a weak point, and this is not serious. It won’t take more than an hour or so to correct and is not too important in any event since I am using excellent airports everywhere in route.”1 When the article was finished, she plopped down onto the bed. Jerrie craved some sleep after being awake both day and night.

  After a couple of hours of sleep, Jerrie woke to the sound of a piercing bell, so loud that the walls of her room trembled. She didn’t know why the bell had sounded, but she was now wide awake, and too excited to go back to sleep. After all, there was an island to explore! She went to the restaurant to have some lunch and was joined by the airport manager, Alexandre Negrao. She informed him of her failing brakes, so after lunch he took her to the home of Jack Duffield, the Pan American manager, to see if he could help. Jerrie also mentioned to Duffield that her compass might be a few degrees off. Duffield told Jerrie that the small airport did not have a compass rose on the field in order to check the accuracy of the compass, but he had a mechanic at the airfield who would look at Charlie’s brakes. Unfortunately, the mechanic had bad news. The brakes needed to be replaced. This news puzzled Jerrie since she had understood Charlie had brand new brakes installed before they left Columbus. To make matters worse, there were no parts for her plane on the island. The only brakes Duffield had in stock were for a 707, a much larger airplane. His parting advice was, “Try not to hit the brakes.”2

  With no options for getting her plane repaired, Jerrie spent the rest of the day touring the mystical island. Away from the airport, Alexandre drove Jerrie down roads partly covered with fog, which wound around the mountain ranges. Oxen pulling carts traveled down the dirt roads in place of cars. Peasants trudged along the side of the road with packs on their backs. The people of the island lived off the land by growing crops in the fields and catching fish in the sea. Jerrie remembered, “Almost as Alice dropped into Wonderland, I stepped into the past. The people, their clothes, their tools, their houses, all belonged in a history book.”3 After touring the island, Jerrie went back to her room to write letters and get some rest. That evening she enjoyed dinner with Jack Duffield, her FAI observer, and members of a flying group called Wings of the Atlantic. Jerrie made certain to get a few recipes for the wonderful dishes before she left.

  When dinner was over, Jerrie went to a radio station for an interview. Upon her return to the hotel, she joined some people sitting by a cozy fire in the lounge. After a while she went to her room, finished writing a letter to Russ, and fell fast asleep. The next day, she awoke to icy winds and dark skies. At the airport, she was handed a flight plan with the word, “RISK” written across it. Jerrie didn’t want to postpone the flight after being delayed in Bermuda for a week, but the combination of bad brakes and high winds worried her. She didn’t want to take the chance of spinning out again. After all, she had her reputation at stake, along with the reputation of “lady pilots” in general. Some airport men recommended that she take off from a large ramp that had been used for military planes. Crosswinds were blowing across the runway, and the air seemed calmer by the ramp. Jerrie agreed it was the best choice and gathered her things together for her departure.

  Before Jerrie boarded her plane, Alexandre Negrao handed her sandwiches and tomato juice. He explained it was sent from Pedro, a sixteen-year-old boy she had met on the island. Jerrie appreciated the boy’s kindness, and felt sad to have to leave so soon. Along with many wonderful recipes, the local people had given Jerrie a souvenir doll to take home to her little girl, Valerie. Jerrie shook her head. “My dream was to see the world, not to be the first woman to fly around it.”4 But along the way her trip had become a competition, one she wanted to win. She thought of all the folks back home, counting on her success, and boarded her tiny plane.

  Jerrie buckled her seat belt, anxious to begin the one-thousand-mile flight to Casablanca. She took off down the runway and flew over choppy waters before ascending to the 9,500-feet cruising level. The fierce winds pushed Charlie from behind, and the plane bumped along in the stormy air. Jerrie tightened her belts and kept a keen eye on the instruments, as well as on the angry purple and orange sky. Charlie was set on autopilot, but the single-engine plane slowed. Something was not right. On autopilot, a plane goes the speed designated by the pilot. Why was Charlie slowing down? Jerrie looked out of the window only to realize her worst fears had come true. Once again her wing struts and wings were covered with ice.

  A WEATHER MAP OF THE ROUTE FROM CASABLANCA TO BÔNE

  Courtesy of Phoenix Graphix

  She called the tower controller, explained her grim situation, and asked permission to go to a higher altitude. The controller calmly told her to wait. Once again, Jerrie tensed, being forced to stand by while the ice on Charlie thickened. After much back and forth, she finally was cleared to ascend to 11,500 feet, out of the freezing mist, out of danger. Her tension, along with the ice, melted in the warm sun above the clouds. Five hours later, she began her descent to Casablanca, a city of clean, white houses.

  Jerrie landed at Anfa Airport and was met by a large crowd of people with armloads of flowers and plenty of photo requests. The control tower operator, Henri Richaud, helped her get through customs. Before they left the airport, Jerrie sat down with a group of reporters in a huge room and answered all their questions. Jerrie could understand how animals in a zoo felt by the way everyone stared at her.

  Back home in Columbus, Ohio, Jerrie made front-page headlines in the local newspaper with her world-record-breaking flight. The article read, “Jerrie Mock flew into aviation history books Saturday afternoon when she completed a flight from the United States to Africa. No other w
oman has ever piloted a plane over this route according to the international aviation record keepers, the National Aeronautics Association in Washington, D.C. Total time in the air was twenty-five hours and fifteen minutes.”5

  While in Casablanca, Jerrie toured the city. She had pictured Africa as full of jungles and deserts, so she was surprised to see beautiful beaches. That evening, Jerrie’s hosts, Henri Richaud and his wife, took her to the city to enjoy a nice dinner. Jerrie shared the story of her night out with the Dispatch. She wrote, “We drove through parts of the Old City with its narrow, jammed streets and passageways. We stopped at a fabulous restaurant for dinner. . . . One of the main courses was ‘cartilla,’ which is a poultry pie. The top layer under the crust is pigeon meal, and beneath are hunks of chicken, turkey, goose, and, I guess, various other types of food birds.”6 Dinner began with Ramadan soup, followed by the pigeon pie, and couscous. “It was wonderful,” she said, “delicious and spicy.”7 The sights, the sounds, and the tasty meal made the entire evening feel like a magic carpet ride.

  The following day Jerrie received a call from her husband, Russ, asking about her plans. “When are you leaving?” he asked.

  “Not today. Henri just got the weather report and it’s pretty bad: thunderstorms, low ceilings, icing. After flying with ice for the last two days, I don’t want any more for a while.”8

  Russ confessed he had been worried about her. General Lassiter from the Pentagon, who had helped Jerrie chart her course in preparation of her journey, had been keeping Russell Mock informed of her whereabouts. Jerrie and Russ chatted for a while, and he updated her on family events. It was Easter Sunday, and they were oceans apart. She sent her love to Val and the boys. After the phone call, Jerrie decided to spend the rest of the day sightseeing. Turbaned men and veiled woman rushed about on the city streets; some of the women rode on the backs of motor scooters. While she strolled around the shops, Jerrie purchased a baby doll for Valerie.

  A COMMUNICATION MAP FOR THE EUROPEAN MEDITERRANEAN REGION

  Courtesy of Phoenix Graphix

  For Easter dinner that evening, Jerrie feasted on a meal of snails and roast leg of lamb. Dancers with exotic flowing dresses, gold jewels, and bangle bracelets performed at the Richaud house. They danced to the melody of the flute and the tambourines. After the celebration had ended, Jerrie wrote for the newspaper before going to bed. She described her evening and added, “My first stop in Africa is all that you could want for romantic atmosphere.”9

  The next day Jerrie had help with a compass swing, a method used to check the accuracy of a compass. At the airfield they had a compass rose, a design painted on a taxiway or ramp that shows all four points of a compass. The compass swing revealed that for the entire trip her compass had been ten degrees off. For the remainder of her around-the-world flight, Jerrie made a mental note to always subtract ten. She left Casablanca with a feeling that flying through Africa might have more surprises on the way.

  DID YOU KNOW?

  The city of Casablanca is one of the largest financial centers on the African continent. It sits on the site of the medieval town of Anfa, which was built and settled by the Berbers in the twelfth century. In the early fifteenth century, the town became a safe haven for pirates. In 1468, the Portuguese attacked the pirates and destroyed Anfa. They returned to the area in 1515 and built a new town named Casa Branca, meaning “white house” in Portuguese.

  In 1755, an earthquake destroyed Casa Branca, leaving it abandoned. After its reconstruction in the late eighteenth century, the town was named Casablanca, meaning “white house” in Spanish. As Jerrie Mock approached Anfa Airport in Casablanca, she marveled at how white and clean the city looked from the air, and quickly understood the city’s name.

  FLIGHT SIX

  NIGERIA AND LIBYA

  THE NEXT day, fifty-mile-per-hour winds, ice, and squalls were predicted. The trip to Tunis, the capital of Tunisia, would be nearly impossible in the little Cessna. The weather report worried Jerrie, but she needed to press on if she wanted to win the race to be the first woman to fly around the world. She spoke with Henri Richaud. “Henri, I know of pilots back home who are dead because they trusted a weather forecast. . . . If I were even familiar with the area it would help. If it weren’t for the mountains I’d try, because I’m not afraid to make a ‘one-eighty’ if weather deteriorates. But not a ‘one-eighty’ into a mountain I can’t see.”1

  After talking with Henri and the meteorologists, Jerrie decided that the best choice was to change course and leave for Bône, Nigeria. It was a place she had never heard of before, but the weather conditions and visibility were more favorable. Thunderstorms would be a factor, however, and she needed to leave quickly, or the weather could become too severe.

  A HAND-DRAWN WEATHER MAP ALONG THE ALGIERS AIRWAY

  Courtesy of Phoenix Graphix

  Before leaving for Bône, Jerrie asked for her typewriter to be sent home. The cockpit was too crowded and she had never found time to write in the plane. Once the plane was refueled and the paperwork completed, Jerrie took off and flew close to land, along the shoreline. She kept her senses on high alert as she flew close to the Rif Mountains on a foggy, rainy day. She hummed the tunes to her favorite songs as she passed over Oran and Algiers, but they were just cities on a map; due to the murky weather, she saw them only in her imagination. Shortly before she arrived at Bône, a dark black thundercloud blocked her way. Lightning flashed a warning sign. After forty-five minutes of circling, she grew weary. When the storm finally moved up the coast, and out of her path, she came in for a landing. During her final approach, “the last rays of the sun broke through the cumuli and bathed the little seacoast town with its golden radiance. It was an eerie light that often comes after a storm. The white ships in the harbor, the shiny rooftops, and the emerald palms shimmered against the backdrop of a deep purple sky. The rain-swept runway was like a golden finger.”2

  After an easy landing, Jerrie took care of her plane and then set out to find some food. She found the only English-speaking man at the airport. As English was considered the official flying language, all international airports were required to have at least one employee who spoke the language. In some countries, that one controller in the field might be the only person in the town who spoke English.

  The man offered to exchange her money from dollars to francs, so, once she found a restaurant, she could pay for her food. He explained that exchanging money for foreign currency was a crime in his country, and he could be sent to jail. But he felt bad for the “lady pilot.” The banks were shut down for the day, and she would need francs to buy food. He agreed to exchange just enough money so she would be able to eat.

  Jerrie couldn’t understand how a money exchange could be a crime, but her stomach rumbled. She handed him some American dollars and he gave her the correct amount back in francs. Jerrie thanked him and left in search of a place to eat. She walked aimlessly through the dark streets and alleys. Luckily, some boys noticed the woman in Western clothes walking alone. They helped her find the way to the Café Moulin Rouge, a local French restaurant. Later, she learned the part of town she was roaming around in was so dangerous that even during World War II soldiers were instructed to always carry weapons or walk in groups when in that neighborhood!3

  Following dinner she returned to The Grand Hotel d’Orient to get some much-needed sleep. In the middle of the night, Jerrie received a frantic call from Russ, telling her that Joan Merriam Smith was covering two thousand miles a day and she needed to get moving. He couldn’t understand why she was in Bône. After all, it was not on her route. Jerrie tried to explain the weather in Africa, but Russ had only one thing in his mind. He said, “Joan’s on her way to Africa. Get going.”4 Jerrie slammed the receiver down. The added pressure of racing to become the first woman to fly solo around the world, on top of all the trials and tribulations she was facing daily, had become almost unbearable. It also broke her heart to hop from country to country, with so much to
see, and no time to see it. After a fitful sleep, she awoke at 5:30 the next morning, put on her white “drip-dry” shirt and blue cotton skirt, and prepared herself for the flight to Cairo, Egypt.

  The English-speaking man drove her to the airport and gave her a weather report along the way. He reported mild sandstorms near the cities of Tripoli and Benghazi and a bad sandstorm near Cairo. He recommended that she should change her plans and make a stop in Tripoli, since flying to Cairo would be much too dangerous. Jerrie remembered everything she had heard about flying in sandstorms. Sand could clog an engine and cause it to fail. A sandstorm could be so wicked it could peel the paint off a plane. Some had been so severe that the pilots became disoriented and, in a few cases, planes even went missing. What was good about a sandstorm? She knew Russ would want her to go all the way to Cairo, but he would have to understand. She feared running into a sandstorm more than anything Russ could have to say about Joan or anything else. “I wasn’t very happy. I had never heard of ‘good’ sandstorms and I wondered if it might be better to take the day off and go sightseeing until they blew away. Even if the delay meant the wrath of a husband. After all, he was five thousand miles away and the sandstorms were dead ahead.”5

  With clearance to finally take off to Tripoli, Jerrie welcomed the peace of the cockpit and looked forward to the 418-mile flight. All the decision-making had made her hungry. She ate a food bar and washed it down with some water. She looked down at the vast, desolate terrain and imagined caravans of camels plodding along and wondered if they still delivered spices, gems, and ivories to trade in Tripoli. Her daydream quickly turned into a nightmare when a strange smell filled the cockpit. She sniffed again. Something was burning, and it looked like it was coming from behind the gas tank! The motor of the high-frequency radio churned. Had she actually left it on? She quickly turned the switch. The motor stopped cranking, but the smell remained. Thoughts raced through her head. She was surrounded by high-octane aviation fuel. She had to do something, but what?