Lindbergh

by A. Scott Berg

—C.A.L.

  AROUND ONE O’CLOCK ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, MAY 22, 1927, Charles Lindbergh awoke in his room at the American Embassy in Paris. Ambassador Herrick had sent in his valet, Walter Blanchard, who drew a bath and raised the curtains at the windows overlooking the Trocadéro Gardens and the Seine. As Lindbergh opened his eyes, he noticed for the first time the splendor of his surroundings. Standing by the bed, Blanchard held open a bathrobe, announced that the bath was ready, and asked how the pilot liked his eggs. Then he left the wide-eyed young man to the tub of warm water and a large cake of yellow soap.

  Feeling as though he were awakening into a dream, Lindbergh had no idea that the fantasy was just beginning. Unbeknownst to him, the modern wonders of communication had transformed the twenty-five-year-old “boy” into the most famous man on earth.

  While Lindbergh slept, all other news—a massive flood in the Mississippi Valley, rising tensions between Japan and China, Britain’s severance of diplomatic relations with Russia, appeal efforts in the Sacco-Vanzetti Case—disappeared from the front pages of most American newspapers and from most people’s minds.

  After several false alarms, the first authentic report of Lindbergh’s landing came through to The New York Times at half-past five in the afternoon, six minutes after the Spirit of St. Louis had touched down. A bulletin was posted on a window of the Times building; and from there, word spread like wildfire—setting off a chain reaction of cheers and horn blasts. “Ferryboats, tugboats, liners, all the little boats and all the big boats that ply the waters of New York Harbor did honor to the man who had flown continuously over the largest stretch of water ever covered by an aviator,” reported the Times. Every fire company in the city joined in, sounding their sirens and rolling their trucks out on to the streets to spread the word. Several Broadway matinees interrupted their performances to announce that Lindbergh had landed; and later that night, orchestras played “The Star-Spangled Banner” before launching into their overtures. Radio stations played the “Marseillaise.” Six thousand patrons at the second show at the Roxy Theatre that night saw—and heard—the Fox Movietone footage of Lindbergh’s plane taking off from Roosevelt Field, which brought them to their feet, cheering, stamping, and hugging each other. People shredded telephone books and other papers into confetti and threw it out their windows. Preachers hastily rewrote their Sunday sermons. At the Glen Cove Community Hospital on Long Island, Detective Gordon Hurley announced the birth of his son, Charles Lindbergh Hurley; he would be the first of countless babies to be given the same Christian names. Under a three-line banner headline (“LINDBERGH DOES IT! …”), The New York Times devoted its entire front page to articles related to Lindbergh and his flight, as it did with every other column inch of text on the following four pages.

  Because it was a Saturday afternoon when Lindbergh landed, there was little celebration in St. Louis’s downtown business district; but in its suburbs and rural areas, carillons spread the word from steeple to steeple, including the big bells of Christ Church Cathedral, which were rung only on “civic occasions of high importance.”

  So it was in every city and town in America, each looking for its own special connection to Lindbergh. In Detroit, the hero’s mother ended her day of seclusion, coming out to greet the press in a green hat and green dress. Under her cherry tree in the frontyard, she smiled as tears filled her eyes. “I am grateful,” she said. “There is no use attempting to find words to express my happiness.” She said that she had felt nothing but confidence; but even so, “I am happy that it is over, more happy than I can ever tell…. He has accomplished the greatest undertaking of his life, and I am proud to be the mother of such a boy.” When word reached San Diego, remembered young Douglas Corrigan, “the whole town went wild, because the people knew that the plane was a local product.” In Little Falls, Minnesota, “[P]andemonium broke loose” in front of the newspaper office; a “blaring band,” reported the AP wire, “added to the din, whistles shrieked and bells rang.” In chronicling the Jazz Age, F. Scott Fitzgerald captured the era’s pinnacle by writing:

  A young Minnesotan who seemed to have had nothing to do with his generation did a heroic thing, and for a moment people set down their glasses in country clubs and speak-easies and thought of their old best dreams.

  A man in Aberdeen, Washington, got so excited by Lindbergh’s success that he dropped dead on the street reaching for one of the newspaper extras that afternoon.

  Lindbergh captured the attention of people everywhere. Theater audiences and hotel patrons in Berlin burst into applause upon hearing the news; and in Buenos Aires people demanded to know the whereabouts of the kitten alleged to have made the trip. A Hindi periodical outside Bombay observed, “Few things have so deeply stirred the hearts of India and evoked such huge admiration as the marvelous feat of … Lindbergh. The triumph he has achieved is a matter of glory, not only for his own countrymen, but the entire human race.” The Times’s Rome correspondent signaled by wireless that all Italy followed Captain Lindbergh’s flight “with breathless interest” because it showed “with what proud contempt man can defy the adverse forces of nature and hurl defiance at destiny.” Even the British got caught up in the excitement, shifting their attention from the two Royal Air Force fliers still attempting to reach India. “Well done!” exclaimed the Prince of Wales upon hearing the news. “Lindbergh is no ordinary man,” wrote The Sunday Express. “He is the stuff heroes are made of. He defied death and snatched his reprieve and pardon. His daring dazzles the world. It is difficult to imagine anything more desperately heroic than his solitary flight across the ocean.”

  Although feeling a little “stiff,” Lindbergh did not soak in the tub for long, as he realized that he had missed his eleven o’clock interview with Edwin L. James and Carlyle MacDonald of The New York Times. Ambassador Herrick put his guest at ease, assuring him that all of Paris expected him to sleep for twenty hours and that the Times correspondents could easily wait with the two hundred other newspapermen milling on the ground floor of the embassy. Meantime, twenty-five motion-picture camera operators and another fifty photographers set up their equipment outside in the courtyard.

  As transatlantic “radio telephone” service did not yet extend to Paris, Lindbergh said he would like to “fly over to London in my machine” so that he could call his mother. “Oh, no more flying for you, my boy, for a little while anyway,” Ambassador Herrick replied. But he promised to arrange for a telephone hookup between Paris and Detroit.

  Of most immediate concern, Herrick thought, was the matter of clothing, for Lindbergh had packed none and events were already being scheduled that would require more than flying togs. Blanchard came to the rescue with a business suit he had borrowed from a tall friend—who was evidently broader of shoulder and shorter of leg than Lindbergh. The outfit would be temporary as a London tailor with a shop in Paris was summoned to assemble a complete wardrobe—from daywear to tails—as quickly as possible. Nobody around the embassy had feet as large as Lindbergh’s, so he padded about in a pair of clean socks, as two servants polished his tan flying boots. While dressing, Lindbergh invited the men from the Times into his bedroom.

  They talked as he ate his first substantial meal in two and a half days—grapefruit, bacon and eggs, toast, and coffee. While he worked his way through all the plates on the big tray, congratulatory telegrams arrived from several heads of state, including President Calvin Coolidge, who cabled: “The American people rejoice with me at the brilliant termination of your heroic flight. The first non-stop flight of a lone aviator across the Atlantic crowns the record of American aviation …”

  Outside No. 2, avenue d’Iéna, a huge crowd had been forming under the horse chestnut trees since early morning, its rumblings audible through the thick embassy walls. After Lindbergh sat with the two Times reporters and a stenographer in an upstairs salon for the better part of an hour, Ambassador Herrick felt impelled to intrude. Taking the young man by the arm, he ushered him to the front balcony, where
masses chanted “Vive Lindbergh! Vive l’Amérique!”

  Lindbergh was struck dumb, unsure how to react. “The idea of exhibiting myself embarrassed and disturbed me,” Lindbergh would write almost fifty years later. “I had never been asked to do that before.”

  “Just say you’re glad to be in France,” somebody suggested; but Lindbergh found the words too trite. Impulsively, he blurted out three of the few words of French he knew—“Vive la France!” The crowd cheered again, which further embarrassed him. Herrick’s daughter-in-law, Agnes, approached the balcony with a French flag, which Lindbergh and the ambassador held before them, and the cheering increased. Only then did it dawn on Lindbergh that his flight “had taken on significance extending beyond fields of aviation,” and that his notion of spending a few weeks leisurely touring the Old World would have to be changed. “I had entered a new environment of life,” he realized, “and found myself surrounded by unforeseen opportunities, responsibilities, and problems.”

  Shortly after returning inside, Lindbergh was informed that telephone operators were ready to patch him through to Detroit. Although the press would give the impression that mother and son spoke directly to each other, they communicated through an interlocuter in London, who was connected by telephone wire to Paris and radio airwaves to New York, the words finally delivered by telephone wire to Detroit. “Hello, Mother,” Charles said. “The trip over was wonderful. I am feeling fine; do not worry about me.” Evangeline prescribed “plenty of rest, for you have gone through a tremendous strain.” The connection was full of static, but the precise words of their small talk did not much matter—either to the Lindberghs or to the public.

  The “conversation” made Lindbergh want to pay his respects to Charles Nungesser’s mother. While this outing was being arranged, Lindbergh met with the press and posed for pictures with Myron Herrick. By the end of the day, the photographs and newsreels were flown to all the capitals of Europe. Upon entering one salon of the Ambassador’s residence, Lindbergh was shown a huge arrangement of flowers. “Well, that’s nice, and I am glad I am able to receive it personally,” he said with a laugh. “You know flowers sometimes come in the wrong way and you aren’t able to appreciate them.” The newspapermen thrilled at the unexpected joke and broke into a cheer.

  After a few minutes, Lindbergh left the embassy with Myron Herrick and an entourage for the Boulevard du Temple, across Paris, where Mme. Nungesser lived in one of the city’s oldest apartment buildings. Although the visit had not been announced, ten thousand people had gathered outside her residence by the time Lindbergh arrived. Several young women lunged at him in hopes of stealing a kiss; and, Herrick observed, he was “scared to death.”

  Up six flights of stairs, Mme. Nungesser received Lindbergh’s party, kissing the American flier on both cheeks before embracing him. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she said, “You are a very brave young man. I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. I, too, have a brave son, who I have never ceased to believe is still fighting his way back to civilization.” Although it had been more than two weeks since anybody had seen her son, Lindbergh held her hand and told her not to give up hope. Returning to the Embassy by way of the Rue de la Paix, Lindbergh was surprised to see American flags everywhere, even more startled when Herrick explained they were displayed in his honor.

  A dinner at the Embassy had long been planned for that night. Because it was “a rather young affair,” Ambassador Herrick thought Lindbergh might enjoy himself and chose not to cancel it. Lindbergh’s behavior was conspicuous only in its extreme courtesy, which he had acquired during his childhood in Washington. Agnes Herrick had asked some fifty people to arrive after dinner that night to meet the pilot, and every one of them wanted his autograph. The guest of honor smilingly obliged. Lindbergh excused himself early—a little after nine—and retired to his narrow bed, where he was unexpectedly joined by Herrick’s wire-haired terrier, Max.

  “The next day,” Herrick would later write, “serious business began”—what became the official apotheosis of Charles Lindbergh. Salutations would no longer be extended from individuals, but from institutions and entire nations.

  After an early breakfast and a brief meeting with a haberdasher—selecting shirts, shoes, scarves, and spats—Lindbergh asked to see his plane at Le Bourget. He arrived at the field courtesy of the diplomatic cabriolet a little after ten o’clock, unprepared for the ovation he would receive from the airport staff and 34th Aviation Unit. Having braced himself for the sight of holes in the fuselage, his inspection proved more favorable than he had expected. The exhaust pipe had been loosened but not taken, and the motor needed nothing more than some clean oil. A few hours of repair would make the Spirit of St. Louis as good as new.

  Lindbergh’s car returned to Paris for a noon appointment at the Élysée Palace. A military commander greeted him and Ambassador Herrick, ushering them past the cheering crowd. In his borrowed blue suit, Lindbergh was presented to the President of France, Gaston Doumergue, who was in full evening dress. The President pinned the Cross of the Legion of Honor—a gold decoration hanging from a scarlet ribbon—on his lapel. Never in history had the President of the French Republic personally conferred his nation’s highest honor, for acts of military bravery or civil achievement, upon an American. Lindbergh bowed politely and returned to his car, which forged through blocks of cheering Parisians.

  After Lindbergh and Herrick lunched at the Embassy, the Ambassador urged his guest to nap until their next appointment at the end of the day. But rest was impossible with the steady stream of journalists and emissaries from every country in Europe, each proffering formal invitations to visit their nations. By then several thousand cables and telegrams had arrived. The French Post Office Department announced that it was establishing a special service for his mail alone, which would thenceforth be delivered in sacks. Scores of visiting cards were left at the Embassy, through which Lindbergh would barely have time to run his fingers. One read, “You’re a God—Hercules an infant.”

  At five o’clock Lindbergh appeared before the Aéro-Club of France. Its members presented him their gold medal. Champagne corks rocketed, and Paul Claudel, France’s poet-Ambassador to Washington, offered a toast in two languages—“to the happiest woman in America—the mother of this boy.” A bewigged waiter bowed low as he offered Lindbergh a slender stemmed glass from his tray. Lindbergh looked for assistance from Herrick, who whispered, “Oh, go ahead and drink it. A toast to your mother is only indirectly to you.” And with that, Lindbergh tasted his first sip of champagne. The hall full of Frenchmen cheered and twice brought him to the window, which stoked the hysteria of thousands of Frenchmen waiting outside.

  Inside, Lindbergh responded modestly, making his first public address. He said he lacked the words to express his feelings about the wonderful reception in Paris, and he praised Nungesser and Coli “who attempted a greater thing in taking off from Paris for New York than I have done in accomplishing the trip from New York to Paris.” Ambassador Herrick pounced on this moment of camaraderie to proclaim, “This young Lochinvar from out of the West brings you better than anything else the spirit of America.” Everybody recognized that Lindbergh had become a bridge between the two great nations.

  The Aéro-Club offered Lindbergh a gift of 150,000 francs—almost six thousand dollars—which he refused. He asked that the money be used “for the benefit of the families of French aviators who have laid down their lives for the progress of aviation.”

  Lindbergh was whisked to the Ministry of Finance in the Louvre, where they called on Premier Raymond Poincaré for his congratulations, then back to the embassy for more press conferences with the several hundred journalists who had descended on the avenue d’Iéna from all over the world—twenty-five from Sweden alone, eager to claim him as their own. He sportily answered even the most personal questions—revealing that he liked girls but did not know any and that he thought he would like dancing, though he had never tried it. He was happ
iest talking about aviation. “Lindbergh never seemed to weary,” observed one reporter, “of talking about his earth induction compass …” At an appropriate moment, Ambassador Herrick interjected that this “boy is a human being, although we have sort of come to regard him in a much higher light.” With that, he led his guest upstairs for a private dinner. They chatted until eleven.

  Only when he was alone in his room did Lindbergh sample his first bad taste from any of his recent experiences. Before going to sleep he read that day’s New York Times, which contained the first of the articles based on material he had been feeding Carlyle MacDonald. In two double columns, covering half the front page, he discovered that MacDonald had transformed his description of the flight into a first-person diary under a Charles Lindbergh byline. “I was shocked and disappointed,” Lindbergh remembered more than forty years after reading the account. The long piece was written in a smarmy, aw-shucks style, a poor imitation of Will Rogers. “It was neither accurate nor in accord with my character and viewpoint,” Lindbergh recalled. “In other words it made me into quite a different fellow than I was or wanted to be, and it gave quite a distorted picture of the flight itself.”

  It was an isolating moment for Lindbergh, one in which he realized the press had an agenda all its own. From then on, Lindbergh was suspicious, wary of anybody who would write about him. He saw that the press might forever use him for its own purpose, making him into what it thought the public wanted him to be; he saw that even the one newspaper he held up as the nation’s “journal of record” could not be trusted to tell his story accurately. He could only imagine greater distortions that might follow. Lindbergh’s parents and grandparents had long saved their important documents; now he resigned himself to save his as well—every shred of evidence that might document all that he did in his life and all that he did not do.

  Without realizing that his words would be twisted into the first person, Lindbergh had agreed to an entire series of articles; the second such piece would be appearing stateside in the morning’s Times. As there was no time for him to write them himself, he could only express his displeasure to MacDonald and hope he would modulate the articles. The journalist complied, not wishing to upset the flow of exclusive interviews Lindbergh would continue to grant. At the soonest possible moment, however, Lindbergh hoped to begin writing the stories himself. He vowed never again to authorize the use of his byline on anything he did not write.