The Fabulous Flying Mrs Miller

by Carol Baxter

  For the most part, these additional suggestions of tampering were treated lightly by the race officials, although they made a point of communicating them to the investigators. Nonetheless, the race officials took special precautions. They posted guards around the airfield and ordered that all the derbyists’ planes be carefully inspected.

  Most of the derbyists also dismissed the sabotage claims. Some went so far as to suggest that the claims were merely the products of minds overwrought by the hard grind of flying such a long race. Yet tensions remained high. That evening, instead of slipping across the border to enjoy Mexico’s nightlife, the women remained in their hotel rooms studying maps and calculating courses. The next morning, they gave their planes an extra inspection and allowed experts to repack their parachutes.

  Unease hovered like a ghostly presence as they prepared for the day’s flight. Once Chubbie and the other pilots settled into their cockpits, though, they forced themselves to push aside their thoughts and feelings about Marvel’s death. For their own survival, it was critical that they focused on the next leg of their flight. A distracted pilot could easily become a dead pilot. Another dead pilot.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Grim Reaper Stalks Women Flyers’ was the comforting headline in one of the nation’s newspapers that morning. Another published a photo of Marvel with the caption that she was the ‘first fatality’ in the women’s derby—as if, naturally, there would be more.

  On hearing of Marvel’s death, many men jumped at the opportunity to air their views about female aviators. El Paso’s mayor, who was to greet the women when they landed at his town later that morning, told his council, ‘Such races are all right for grown, active, able-bodied men, but they are too much for women.’ One columnist was even blunter: ‘Women pilots are too emotional, vain and frivolous to fly, and are hazards to themselves and others.’

  Chubbie and Amelia had predicted this would happen. While sharing a hotel room in Phoenix on the night Marvel disappeared, they had discussed the public’s perception of deaths in the aviation world. While a male pilot’s death was simply a sad part of the job, a female pilot’s death horrified the public. Why? They decided that the community’s horror was just another sign of the public’s unwillingness to accept women’s autonomy, that society still felt that women needed to be protected from themselves. How long would it take society to accept that women were perfectly capable of making their own decisions and living with the consequences? Didn’t they realise that female pilots took to the air knowing the risks? Since deaths would inevitably occur, surely it was about time the public got used to it.

  Louise Thaden agreed. Indeed, like many other aviators, a part of her almost revelled in the idea of a flaming death. ‘If your time has come,’ she would later write, ‘it is a glorious way in which to cross over. Smell of burning oil, the feel of strength and power beneath your hands. So quick has been the transition from life to death there must still linger in your mind’s eye the everlasting beauty and joy of flight.’

  Of course, her view was idealised, romantic, naïve. It offered a perception of death that ignored the greater possibility of excruciating suffering, along with likely pangs of regret. Importantly though, she and the other derbyists recognised that they were blazing a new trail and that, at some point in any such journey, trailblazers inevitably faced the reality of death. ‘There has never been nor will there ever be progress without sacrifice of human life,’ Louise concluded, with calm acceptance.

  The welcome at El Paso was almost overwhelming. There is nothing like a tragic death to spawn huge publicity and draw out the ghouls. Crowds began gathering from 7 am. By the time the mosquito-like drones could be heard, there were so many people jamming the airfield’s perimeter that squads of soldiers and motorcycle policemen were screaming ‘Stay back! Stay back!’ They feared the crowd would break though and mob the aircraft and pilots.

  The press asked the derbyists how they felt about Marvel’s death and whether the race should proceed. Amelia was the first to land at El Paso and to communicate the group’s view that the race must continue. She made her usual remarks about women being the same as men in the air, that gender was never an issue. As for Marvel’s death, she advised, ‘There is no question as to her ability and there has never been a thought among us that foul play might have caused the accident.’

  The press asked her opinion about the cause of Marvel’s death.

  ‘Marvel had motor trouble,’ Amelia stated flatly. ‘She was flying so low when the motor quit that she had no chance to use her parachute. She took a sporting chance and jumped. She lost. That is one of the tough breaks of the game.’

  As it turned out, the Department of Commerce’s inspector had reached a different conclusion. He could find no evidence that Marvel’s engine or plane had failed before the crash. He had, however, seen vomited matter on the side of her fuselage and suspected that a sudden illness triggered by the extreme heat had caused her to lose control.

  Louise Thaden had her own suspicions about what might have happened. Although it seemed most likely that Marvel had developed sunstroke at Yuma while they waited for Amelia’s propeller, another possibility kept intruding into her thoughts. Vomiting was a sign of nausea, which was one of the symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning. In high doses, carbon monoxide could kill in minutes. Dizziness and disorientation were symptoms as well. The pilots’ seats in the Travel Air cockpits were low. Had Marvel, feeling nauseous, undone her seatbelt so she could vomit over the side? Had she remained there, dizzy and disoriented, with no control of her machine?

  Aviators knew what happened to pilots who were not wearing seatbelts when their open-cockpit planes went into a spin. They were tossed out. If carbon monoxide poisoning was indeed the cause, could there be an intermittent exhaust problem in any of the other new Travel Airs, as there had been in hers?

  The company wondered the same. A factory team was sent to meet the derbyists at their Midland stop the next day. The mechanics were ordered to examine all the Travel Airs and to follow the derbyists for the rest of the race—just in case.

  By this time the other investigations were winding up. The Moth Aircraft Corporation’s expert had found no evidence of tampering in the Flying Fraulein’s plane, while other investigators determined that the telegram warning of sabotage was a malicious prank. Mechanics from the sponsoring oil companies, along with other witnesses, had testified that Marvel supervised her own servicing and that a mechanic had worked all night on Claire’s plane. An inexperienced and now publicly humiliated mechanic had pumped the fuel into Ruth Elder’s oil tank. And interviews with the relevant personnel at the San Bernardino airfield had elicited nothing troubling.

  The only remaining charge was the claim by the Fahys of acid on the bracing wires. When Claire’s husband refused to travel to San Bernardino to be questioned, the authorities decided that the Fahy accusation had no merit either. Seemingly, there was no basis whatsoever for the sinister charge of sabotage.

  Meanwhile, cavalry from Fort Bliss patrolled El Paso’s airport, just in case.

  Swirling clouds of black sand descended on El Paso while the derbyists sat through their luncheon. When pilots from the east reported thunderclouds in that direction, the race officials decided to cancel the day’s remaining flight.

  With day four now completed, Louise Thaden was the fastest of the heavies with an elapsed time of six hours and forty-eight minutes while Phoebe Omlie, at eight hours and thirty-five minutes, continued to lead the light-plane division. Edith Foltz, flying the Eaglerock Bullet, was only an hour behind Phoebe. Chubbie was in third place—a distant third, though, as her elapsed time of eighteen hours and thirty-one minutes was twice as long as that of the other pilots in her division. However, Thea was hot on her trail. The weather-induced delay allowed her to catch up with the other derbyists at El Paso. Thea’s elapsed time was then re-calculated at nine hours and fifty-nine minutes. Chubbie was back in fourth place again.

 
The women used the unexpected free afternoon to make a concerted attack on El Paso’s beauty shops. In the evening, some headed across the Rio Grande into Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, to party. The incorrigible Pancho Barnes was among the revellers. Later, pious prohibitionists would blame her weakness for the evil nectar—she accepted a dare to down a jug of beer—for the problems she would suffer on the next day of the derby.

  When an El Paso journalist asked Chubbie about her chances in the race, she admitted, ‘While I do not think I have much chance of winning, I am going to keep on trying.’

  ‘Keep flying’ had become the derbyists’ unspoken rallying cry. They felt they had no choice but to keep flying the derby. If they abandoned it because of Marvel’s tragic death, the world would instantly diminish them and their achievements. They would be considered too emotional, too capricious, too female to be able to handle the serious life-and-death challenges faced by aviators. Not only would such a judgement affect their own hopes and dreams, it would be detrimental to those of future female aviators. They were going to finish this race whatever came their way.

  Like Chubbie, some of the other derbyists were also refusing to let their individual odds deter them from completing the race. The two Marys—Mary von Mach and Mary Haizlip—kept flying even though their delayed starts meant they had little chance of any honours. And Bobbi Trout, although officially out of the race, had decided to rejoin the derbyists in her repaired plane as an untimed follower.

  The delayed and downed pilots were keen to remain a part of this trailblazing event because a powerful spirit of camaraderie had developed between the women. In the past, they had all coped on their own with the emotional and social burdens that came with their desire to fly, and with the scorn and dismissal emanating from the male-dominated aviation world. But now they were no longer alone. Those trousered, bobbed pilots lounging against the nearby planes were kindred spirits who had experienced a similar journey. They could share stories and offer advice about dealing with difficult family members, pursed-lipped neighbours and disgruntled males.

  Something else was developing as well. The San Bernardino strike had proved that a unified female voice was a powerful force. Out of the Powder Puff Derby camaraderie came an international organisation for women pilots—The Ninety-Nines—that the derbyists would establish in the latter months of 1929. It would outlive them all.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Hunt the ceiling’ was the advice given to Chubbie and the other pilots when they arrived at the El Paso airfield on Thursday morning. With the 6000-foot Davis and Guadalupe mountains ahead of them, the authorities wanted to make sure there were no other fatalities. Thankfully, the forecast was for clear weather ahead.

  Through no fault of the organisers, it would be the most arduous day in the entire derby. In addition to the pre-planned route, the derbyists had to start the day by flying to Pecos, their intended stopover the previous night. From there they would fly to Midland and Abilene, and then rest for the night at Fort Worth.

  The leg to Pecos wasn’t difficult. They flew across the mountains and reached the flat country before the sun could heat the thermal stew. Chubbie was fourth across the finish line at Pecos, beaten only by Phoebe in her division. Although the investigators had dismissed the sabotage claims, Chubbie’s jinx hadn’t lifted. Her fuel gauge had smashed during her landing, which would delay her departure until repairs were completed.

  Stuck at the airfield, she had a firsthand view of the other planes coming in to land on what would prove the most drama-filled stopping point in the nine-day derby.

  Petite Blanche Noyes, a budding actress with large limpid eyes, had only received her pilot’s licence two months previously and had been accepted into the derby by virtue of a fiddled flight history. Like many other female pilots, she had been taught by her flyboy husband. Piloting the Travel Air they both owned, she was placed in the first half of the heavy division when she took off from El Paso.

  Ten miles short of Pecos, while flying at 2000 feet, she caught a whiff of the one smell that made every pilot’s heart race. She whipped her head backwards and forwards looking for its source and saw a wisp of smoke coming from the baggage compartment. She reached over to wrench the fire extinguisher from its brackets. It wouldn’t budge. She tugged at it with increasing panic, but still it wouldn’t budge.

  For a moment she thought about bailing out. Then she abandoned the idea. Marvel’s death had left them wary about relying on parachutes. And she didn’t relish telling her husband that she had smashed their primary source of income.

  Smoke was now billowing from the baggage compartment. She would have to land as fast as possible. She looked down and was relieved to see she had left the mountain territory and was flying over Texan prairie land. She sideslipped to keep the smoke away from her face and lungs, grateful she had remembered this simple manoeuvre from her recent lessons. As she neared the ground, she changed direction just enough to miss the worst of the vegetation, but not enough to miss it all. Her plane slammed into the ground and skidded through mesquite and sagebrush nearly three feet high.

  She leapt from her seat and tugged again at the fire extinguisher. It still wouldn’t shift. Terrified, she mustered every ounce of her strength and yanked it once more. The casing that held the extinguisher lifted up, along with some of the plane’s wooden flooring. She turned the extinguisher towards the fire. The wretched thing wouldn’t work.

  Tossing it aside in disgust, she grabbed her burning valise and pitched it overboard, before jumping down to join it. She scooped up handfuls of desert sand and hurled them at the flames that were now licking the air. When the fire had been smothered, she poked through the burnt clothing and flying equipment in the baggage compartment to try to discover what might have sparked the fire.

  A flaming cigarette butt, seemingly.

  She didn’t smoke.

  She paused for a moment to assess the situation. Her plane still seemed airworthy, but she was in the backcountry and would be out of race contention unless she could get herself into the air again. She had never cranked a propeller before. Ignoring the pain in her burnt hands, she pulled the propeller over and over again with the brute force of the desperate. It was four exhausting minutes before the engine caught and she heard a blessed thrum.

  Climbing back on board, she gunned the engine in an attempt to pry the plane loose from the undergrowth. As it wrenched itself free, she could feel the sagebrush clawing and tearing the fuselage. A downward list in the final stages of her take-off indicated that her landing gear was seriously damaged as well. She had no idea if she would be able to land safely at Pecos or if she had just used up the last of her luck.

  As the derbyists completed their 180-mile leg to Pecos, they were determined to refuel and fly off again without too much delay. Only a few minutes separated the elapsed times of some of the prize contenders, a minuscule difference when the prize for the winner of this stage was $1000. The women were landing so quickly after each other that it was obvious to the race officials there would be little room to manoeuvre if any plane landed badly.

  The landing strip itself was only small. The town’s people had come out in force to clear as much sagebrush and mesquite as possible from the designated area, yet they seemed to be unaware that the planes would need to be stationed somewhere while the service trucks refuelled them. When the derbyists were scheduled to fly in, the locals parked their cars and trucks around the landing strip to obtain the best vantage point.

  The spectators and waiting racers saw Amelia’s orange Vega follow Chubbie’s Fleet down. Hearing another drone, they glanced up and saw Blanche’s Travel Air circling the landing field as if hesitant to land. When they peered more closely, they realised that its lower yellow wing was shredded and its landing gear mangled. Blanche wasn’t just being hesitant; she was warning them that she was in serious trouble.

  Voices yelled, ‘It’s going to be a crack-up! Get fire extinguishers! Call an ambulance!’ Othe
rs shooed back the spectators, fearing that an out-of-control plane might plough into the crowds.

  Chubbie and the other pilots watched anxiously as their friend came in to land, aware that she was one of the less-experienced pilots in the derby. Showing a skill that belied her lack of flying hours, Blanche set her plane down on its right wheel with all the precision and delicacy of a ballerina. As its momentum slowed, it dropped gently onto its smashed left wheel and began to ground-loop.

  She was down and safe. As the spectators cheered, they saw her burst into tears of relief.

  A reporter from the Pecos Enterprise expressed his admiration for Blanche’s ‘death-defying feat’ in landing safely. What also astonished him was that after her plane had been patched up she took off again to continue the race, ‘as game as they can make them’.

  Meanwhile, Pancho had been speeding to catch up with the other derbyists. Forced to return to El Paso because of engine trouble, she had stomped around for two hours until the repairs were completed. Weather issues and engine trouble had already allowed Louise Thaden to take the elapsed-time lead, so she knew she’d have to scrounge every second out of the race if she was to win back the lead.

  Coming in to land, she couldn’t see the ground in front of her. She—and all other pilots—had to raise her plane’s nose to reduce airspeed, which meant that her only view of the landing field came from sticking her head over the cockpit side. In her haste to set down, she only looked over the left side to line up the runway. If she had looked out the right side, she would have noticed the Chevrolet touring car parked at the corner of the landing field directly in front of her. To her shock—and that of the car’s owner—she slammed into it.

  As the horrified owner raced over to his car and drove it off to the city, she assessed her plane’s damage. Both right wings smashed. The struts on the left side broken. Extensive damage to other parts of the plane. She too was out of the race.