Sky Girls

by Gene Nora Jessen

  Even with her seat belt cinched tightly, Thaden lifted almost completely out of the cockpit. She struck her head on the windscreen, shattering her flying goggles and then, regaining her senses, flew into a momentary calm. The worst was anticipating the next hit. When it came, ugly waves of terror washed over Thaden’s soul, depositing globules of fright. Then the next wave rolled in, and another. A reservoir of courage and pride, mixed with that measure of fear, begat tenacity. Thaden set the fear aside and went on. A mist of engine oil bathed her sweaty clothes and exposed skin, adding filth to her miseries of soreness and exhaustion. Thaden was not alone in this inferno. Nineteen other pilots clung to their determination. Thaden and many others later said that they spoke to God about their wish to make it to Phoenix.

  Despite the time clock’s inexorable progress, some racers would likely have landed had there been a decent spot to do so. There seemed to be no alternative to riding it out. There was nothing below but desert, sand, low hills, scrub brush, and wind. The choice between the almost certain disaster of landing in that inhospitable terrain and remaining in the hellish air persuaded the pilots to go on…except for Ruth Elder.

  Tired and frightened, the starlet pilot opened her map wider to search for some sort of checkpoint. The wind grabbed the map from her hands and sent it on its own flight over the side. Exhausted by the rough ride and completely lost, Elder decided to take a chance with the terrain. She became obsessed with parking and getting to her water to both drink and pour over her head. She found a pasture near a ranch house pretty much into the wind and put her Swallow down. Careful, easy, wing down, straighten the nose, stick back, success!

  As luck would have it, she had picked a field with grazing bulls. Suddenly, all Elder could think about was the red color of her airplane. Fortunately, the ranch wife working at her washtub outside took a woman pilot dropping in from the sky in stride. She marched over to the airplane and oriented Elder in short order. Elder was disturbing the cattle. Ranchers don’t want their herds dispersed, losing weight, and scattered in uncertain directions through broken fences. The Hollywood pilot was entirely out of her element. She never shut the engine down. Forget the water; she swung the tail around and was on her way. Elder’s encounter with the bulls became one of the classic, and most embellished, tales of the derby.

  Ruth Elder shakes hands with her instructor George P. Haldeman.

  When the main body of racers departed Yuma, Claire Fahy, Bobbi Trout, and Thea Rasche had not yet arrived. All were known to have departed San Bernardino. The consensus was that their fuel was exhausted, and they were on the ground somewhere.

  German pilot Thea Rasche drew special attention from a fascinated public due to her connection, by nationality, with Germany’s giant dirigible Graf Zeppelin. As Rasche flew alone in her fragile aircraft toward Cleveland, the Graf, with its crew of forty, silently proceeded around the world toward the same destination in Ohio. Rasche was determined to uphold her country’s honor.

  Thea Rasche

  Thea had learned to fly in 1924 in Germany, becoming the country’s first female aerobatic pilot. She became a popular and well-known figure in the United States when she came over to fly air shows. It was not a surprise that the Moth Aircraft Corporation asked Rasche to represent them by flying a Gypsy-Moth airplane in the air derby. She was pleased to do so.

  Rasche’s sponsorship by Moth Aircraft became somewhat muddled when their promised racing plane was not ready on time. Instead, she took loan of an older two-place open-cockpit Gypsy-Moth biplane, which had a hole in the fuel tank. The airplane was repaired so hurriedly that there wasn’t even time for a test flight before the start of the race.

  Just out of Calexico, Rasche had experienced intermittent engine problems, then total stoppage. She made an emergency landing near Holtville, California, that damaged her airplane. The locals were intrigued with this woman pilot and her German accent, and they were certainly sympathetic to her problems. They were outraged that she’d be assigned such a mechanically deficient airplane from the factory. After repairs were accomplished, Rasche proceeded on to Fly Field in Yuma the next day with the following document. It had been drafted by a mechanic and the sympathetic bystanders who were suddenly her friends and supporters.

  We the undersigned were present when Miss Thea Rasche was forced to land at the Thiesen ranch near Holtville and saw her take off gasoline clarifier which contained scraps of rubber, fibre, and many other impurities. I also examined the gas tanks and found them both to have plenty of gasoline but the gas line had some obstruction in it that refused to let the flow come thru. I picked up the pieces of sediment from the clarifier and found them to be the same as stated above. The engine had been missing sometime and finally went dead altogether which sounded like lack of gasoline to me.

  Signed, Gilbert Morgan, and three other witnesses

  Rasche suspected foul play. She told of the telegram from New York about her experience, the warning of sabotage, and also pointed out that her airplane had not been guarded in San Bernardino. However, it was entirely possible that a careless fuel cell repair could have left foreign objects in the tank.

  Lieutenant Herbert Fahy’s airplane arrived in Yuma the next day along with a disappointed Claire Fahy. Adding to the string of mishaps, the wheel of the plane struck the edge of a concrete marker in the middle of the landing field, smashing the landing gear and a wing.

  The pall put on the competition due to Claire’s broken brace wires continued. Herb stated publicly, “The wires show evidence of being burned with acid. I am convinced that there is something rotten in this race. I’ll do everything in my power to have it called off.”

  Bobbi Trout, though missing, was within sight of Yuma, but piled up in another country. Like Crosson, and probably all the other racers, Trout had taken the shortcut across the corner of Mexico heading for the Yuma Airport. Her new Kinner engine had been cutting out, and within six miles of Yuma, it quit. She was too far out to glide to the airport. Trout looked for a smooth landing site, thinking she’d clear some dirt out of the carburetor and be on her way.

  She glided her open-cockpit Spartan to a promising-looking field, which turned out to be near the town of Algadones on the Mexican border. Too late to change her course, she realized she’d be landing across deep, plowed furrows. When the wheels struck the furrows, the beautiful Golden Eagle came to rest on its back. Trout had run out of gas, but now she had a more severe problem.

  Trout’s factory support came to her rescue in Mexico, but it was three days before the airplane was flyable again. Mechanics partially repaired it out in the field. Trout marshaled a team to tow the airplane across the border to the Yuma airport where it was hastily rebuilt. Trout’s family came to lend their support during the repair, then she continued the race. Though breaking in a new engine, three days behind, and with no timers left to time her, Trout was determined to fly to the finish line—much to the satisfaction of her fellow racers and an admiring public.

  By dark, seventeen race planes had landed at Sky Harbor Airport, a rectangular sod field on the outskirts of sleepy little Phoenix, a town waiting to blossom with the proliferation of air conditioning. All the missing airplanes were accounted for, except Marvel Crosson. Another racer had seen her not far past Yuma as they were coming up on the wild Gila Mountains country near Wellton, Arizona, then lost track of her. You couldn’t miss Crosson’s Travel Air with the big number one painted on the side. But where was she now? Nightfall ushered in its characteristic weariness and doubts. The beleaguered aviators had had a big day, but fatigued as they were, their anxiety for Crosson mounted, with speculation of the most hideous sort.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 20, 1929

  Race Day 3

  PHOENIX TO DOUGLAS

  208 MILES

  The women’s air derby started from right close to my shack, and Fred Stone and I were over to the field quite a bit. We met and had a long chat with this Marvel Crosson that was killed. We both talked at the time of
what a fine wholesome type of girl she was, no riding boots or riding breeches or spurs or anything but just a neat gray suit. She had a great record as a flier.

  Yours, Will Rogers

  Syndicated newspaper column

  While Marvel Crosson’s friends and fellow competitors had been struggling with their awful fears for her safety, Crosson’s body was resting in trackless backwoods, no longer suffering from the heat and turbulence of the air race. Crosson had fought off growing feelings of illness, determined that her will to fly the airplane was stronger than her malfunctioning body. Her nasty headache could be expected in such awful air, but soon her stomach joined the rebellion. She unfastened her seatbelt to rise and vomit over the side. Her world went gray as she leaned up and forward, and when she lost consciousness, the airplane responded to the airplane’s center of gravity, moving forward as her body did, and without a pilot’s hand on the stick, it plunged to the earth.

  Anticipating the outcome of a story that was still only speculative, the newspaper front-page stories on the morning of August 20, 1929, read something like WOMAN FLYER REPORTED IN DESERT SMASH-UP.

  The Yuma Morning Sun announced what the fliers had feared all night long:

  While the eyes of an anxious nation are turned toward Wellton, Arizona, where the plane of Marvel Crosson, woman flier, crashed into a Mesquite jungle in the Gila River Valley yesterday afternoon, United States Department of Commerce agents last night launched an investigation of ugly charges that several of the airships had been deliberately tampered with to put them out of the woman’s air derby.

  The fliers, who had managed to get a little sleep, woke to the near certainty of Crosson’s death. Louise Thaden and Gladys O’Donnell were particularly close to Crosson. They alternated tears with unfounded optimism. Crosson’s friends gathered to share the rumors and newspaper reports generated during the night.

  News of Marvel Crosson’s death reached her fellow pilots the next morning.

  Distraught, Louise Thaden read, “Several posses combed the dense thicket on the north bank of the Gila all last night seeking trace of the lost plane. Three witnesses saw it go into a nose dive yesterday afternoon and crash to the ground. The searchers are combing an area of one hundred square miles.”

  “Don’t forget how unreliable witnesses are,” Thaden added, unrealistically reminding the group.

  Vera Dawn Walker commented, “The radio said four ranchers saw her flying at about two thousand feet, wobble in the air, then spin in. They said they could even hear the sound of the crash. That seems like a pretty detailed witness description to me. On the other hand, she was less than twenty minutes out of Yuma and two thousand feet seems pretty high.”

  Gladys O’Donnell had heard that four airplanes would be searching that morning since the dense riparian growth was impassable in many places. “Sometime last night the searchers had to abandon their horses and crawl on their hands and knees. They say this is the worst section in Arizona.” O’Donnell added morosely, “There’s even a report that the race will be halted at Phoenix until the investigation is completed.”

  Chubbie Keith-Miller and Amelia Earhart had shared a room the night of Crosson’s death. They talked about public perceptions that if a male pilot were killed, it was just a sad part of the job. On the other hand, the death of a female pilot was not acceptable—the same reason women couldn’t go to war. They agreed that the public would have to get used to the idea of women taking risks in the air.

  Surprisingly, the gentle Mary Von Mach took a leadership role in rallying the distraught group.

  “If I had crashed and were unable to go on, my worst nightmare would be that I had caused the race to stop,” she said. “I would want my friends to honor me by carrying on my mission to prove the abilities of women pilots and the modern airplane. Would Marvel want us to mope around, wring our hands, and consider calling off the event? Oh, no. She would tell us to carry on where she left off.” Von Mach paused, then, looking around at her friends, she added, “Our pain shall become her tribute.”

  Her companions were moved by the homage to their friend. The group came to consensus even without speaking. Their hearts went out to Crosson’s brother Joe. The race would go on, each pilot more strongly dedicated than ever to fly well, compete fairly, and make a good showing for Crosson.

  Von Mach called out, “Ladies, start your airplanes!” as they headed for the airport.

  Mary Von Mach

  Despite the anxiety and confusion over Crosson, the Phoenix RON proved an oasis—a fertile spot in the desert with cool shade trees and top-grade mechanical sustenance for their “steeds.” After landing, the pilots had remained at Sky Harbor to clean plugs, wipe down engines and airplane surfaces, and change oil and fuel for the next leg. Policemen and Boy Scouts kept the friendly spectators away from the aircraft while essential tasks were accomplished.

  Friendly people, a hot bath, and an extra two hours of sleep in a comfortable hotel rejuvenated the exhausted racers. The takeoff had been moved from 6:00 a.m. to 8:00 a.m., and those two hours meant everything. The women preflighted their ships, signed autographs, and responded carefully to reporters’ questions. Only three days out, they had already fallen into a tempo and pattern. The women lined up to take off in reverse order of their arrivals. Their top standings, from Santa Monica to Phoenix, were led by Pancho Barnes in the heavy aircraft class, followed by Louise Thaden and Gladys O’Donnell. The leaders in the light class were fronted by Phoebe Omlie, with Edith Foltz and Chubbie Keith-Miller right behind her.

  After the unbearable heat of the midday takeoff out of Yuma, everyone pressed to get airborne in Phoenix’s cool morning air. The regular morning weather briefing—a dubious science at best—called for typical afternoon cloud buildups with increasing westerly winds, but the morning forecast predicted winds light and variable.

  Phoenix’s Sky Harbor Airport was just that, a safe harbor for roamers of the sky. Though Phoenix was hot in the summer, the air was clear and dry, and cool palm trees sheltered travelers. Most weather reports across the country did not report visibility greater than fifteen miles even when it existed, but Phoenix loved to casually brag, Visibility, eighty miles. Phoenix could just as well have been named Oasis.

  Louise Thaden had studied her 208-mile course out of Phoenix into Douglas with its initial heading of 120 degrees. She strapped her small overnight suitcase into the two small front seats and settled into the aft cockpit. Amelia Earhart had generously offered to carry some of the women’s larger suitcases.

  Vera Dawn Walker unkindly remarked, “She needed the baggage for ballast. She really did. Amelia is really a grand sport, but there are dozens who can fly rings around her.”

  Thaden had nothing critical to say about Amelia Earhart. Earhart was always a meticulous flyer and cautious. She liked the limelight but never failed to promote all women pilots, and she was invariably flying something new, perhaps one step ahead of her current skill level. Wiley Post was carrying luggage for racers too, as were other officials flying the route.

  The race director had cautioned the pilots to follow roads, railroads, and known landmarks and not try to dead reckon, that is apply computations of airspeed, course, heading, wind direction, ground speed, and elapsed time. Dead reckoning is a mathematical formula, and the old truism “Garbage in, garbage out” was genuine. Without accurate upper winds in the formula, dead reckoning can be an unreliable form of navigation. Nevertheless, Thaden was trying a combination of pilotage, keeping known landmarks in sight, and backing it up with dead reckoning. Once she left Phoenix, she kept the Superstition Mountains to the east and the low San Tan Mountains immediately west of course, skirting the tallest peak. She was coming out of relatively low country with the Phoenix area averaging about a thousand feet above sea level. Her direct course took her right into the mountain/desert country where she would need to detour the higher peaks. The sun was not yet high overhead, and it painted the eastern hills a peachy pink, with the western
sides lightening from mossy green. God’s crayon box contained at least five dollars’ worth of different colors for the desert.

  The visibility was good, making it easy to see Newman Peak, an isolated 4,500-foot hill and the road and railroad coming from the west leading into Tucson. Just north of Tucson, Thaden eased to the east of Mount Lemmon, which at nearly ten thousand feet was too high to overfly comfortably. She picked up the almost dry Santa Cruz River that led her down a nice, wide, high valley in the direction toward Douglas. Thaden’s heart picked up the pace as she entered the high country. All pilots had learned to keep a constant lookout for good emergency landing fields, and the choices were slim in southeastern Arizona—no good pastures, no low-growing row crops, no wide roads, all good for off-airport landings. The only crop that seemed to be in good supply here was rocks.

  Thaden verified her position by crossing the road and railroad southeast of Tucson, threading between Rincon Peak, at about eighty-five hundred feet, and Mount Fagan, just over six thousand feet. Both were coming up right where the chart said mountains that size were supposed to be. She aimed just to the east of what had to be Apache Peak poking up at seventy-eight hundred feet. The valley floor was generally about four thousand feet above sea level, which meant flying between forty-five hundred and five thousand feet mean sea level, five hundred to one thousand feet above the ground. These mountains all showed up “as advertised” by the chart, and in the right relationship to each other, giving Thaden confidence that her heading was valid.

  Thaden idly thought it would be nice if some of those kids who climb water towers to write names would identify some of these mountain peaks with big white letters too. The light winds gave her the opportunity to gain a little altitude where she could see better and keep track of her bearings. By the time she went past Tucson, Thaden had pretty well established that holding approximately 130 degrees on the compass, when she wasn’t detouring around a mountain, would bring her to Douglas. It would get easier. Everybody was nervous first entering the high country, but it would get less stressful with time.