Lindbergh

by A. Scott Berg

  At 12:30 on Tuesday, the American Club in Paris threw a luncheon in Lindbergh’s honor. Five thousand members of the American colony vied for the six hundred admission tickets to the dining room at the Hotel Ambassadeurs on the Boulevard Haussmann. Although the event was for Americans, several French luminaries sat at the head table with Lindbergh, including André Citroën, the automobile magnate. Upon Lindbergh’s entrance, the luncheon guests exploded into ten solid minutes of applause. A guard stood by his place at the table so that Lindbergh could eat.

  Moments later, Ambassador Herrick heard that two hundred French masons and carpenters constructing a building across the street had laid down their tools, striking until they caught sight of Lindbergh. Upon learning this, Lindbergh offered to greet them from the hotel balcony. He left the dining room and stepped onto the balcony, where twenty-five thousand Parisians greeted him. The construction workers threw their caps into the air and tooted their steam whistles. Lindbergh’s return to the dining room prompted another ovation. Lindbergh then addressed the crowd, detailing some of the actions that preceded his flight. Summoning Nungesser and Coli once again, he added, “The name of my ship, the Spirit of St. Louis, is intended to convey a certain meaning to the people of France, and I sincerely hope it has.” The demand to see Lindbergh that day was so ardent that some of the hordes outside smashed the huge plate-glass windows of the hotel in an effort to see their hero. Before he was able to leave the Ambassadeurs, a hundred cooks and scullery boys insisted on greeting him, kissing his hand, while he stood there blushing.

  The next day, Lindbergh lunched privately with Louis Blériot at his house, joined only by a few of France’s ministers and leaders in French aviation. “I shall always regard you as my master,” Lindbergh told the gray-haired man who had flown across the English Channel only eighteen years earlier. “Ah, but you are my son,” granted Blériot, “you are the prophet of a new era …”

  The luncheon party proceeded to the French Chamber of Deputies, where the parliament officially received Lindbergh. The president of the Army Commission of the Chamber praised Lindbergh for accomplishing “the most audacious feat of the century.” He added, “It is not only two continents which you have united, but the hearts of all men everywhere in admiration for that simple courage of a man which does great things…. Your victory is over nature, over that obstinate trio of time, space and matter, against which man’s fight must be incessant if he is to progress.”

  Between official engagements, Lindbergh continued to meet with members of the world press and diplomatic corps. The deluge of correspondence had been so great that he finally had to appoint the Bankers’ Trust company to receive the incoming correspondence. He would actually see but a small fraction of the offerings—the praise from the President of Argentina, Mussolini, and Pope Pius XI … and the offer from a Texan to pay the taxes on the Orteig Prize. “There is a hundred and twenty million people in America all ready to tell Lindbergh what to do,” wrote Will Rogers in his column four days after the flight. “The first thing we want to get into our heads is that this boy is not our usual type of hero that we are used to dealing with. He is all the others rolled into one and then multiplied by ten, and his case must be treated in a more dignified way.” He recommended that the government provide Lindbergh with a pension and a high government position in the American aviation program. “He is our Prince and our President combined,” Rogers wrote, “and I will personally pay benefits for him the rest of my life to keep him from having to make exhibitions out of himself. We only get one of these in a lifetime.”

  America clamored for Lindbergh’s return. Major cities spontaneously established welcoming committees, and the whole country was going “air- crazy.” James Dole, president of the Hawaiian Pineapple company, offered $25,000 to the first aviator to fly nonstop from the West Coast to Hawaii; Sid Grauman, the Hollywood theater owner, put up $30,000 for a nonstop flight between Los Angeles and Tokyo; the National Aeronautic Association announced $33,000 in prize money for a series of cross-continental flights: the starting dates of all the contests would remain unfixed until Lindbergh’s return, as everybody hoped he would enter if not win. At President Coolidge’s direction, the Secretary of the Navy offered transportation home for both Captain Lindbergh and his plane.

  “From the moment I woke in the morning to that when I fell asleep at night,” Lindbergh recounted of his first days in Paris, “every day was scheduled.” One day when he thought he had found a few minutes to himself, he was brought one hundred pictures to autograph. Even if he had the time to wander the streets of Paris, he found that he no longer had the “freedom of action” to do so. “I was a prisoner of the ceremonial life that had been arranged for me,” he reflected almost fifty years later, “with uniformed officers always outside the door of the building I was in and, always, newspaper reporters and photographers.” Ironically, he had felt closer to Paris while flying above it.

  Thursday was Ascension Day, a religious holiday for the nation; but Paris continued to celebrate Lindbergh. After meeting informally with the former Commander in Chief of the Allied Armies, Marshal Foch, and lunching with Foreign Minister Briand, Lindbergh rode in an open car down the Champs Élysées, through the Place de la Concorde, and along the Rue de Rivoli to the City Hall. The route was lined with over five hundred thousand—some estimated one million—people. It was the greatest reception Paris had ever accorded a private citizen, rivaling that of President Woodrow Wilson after the war. In the public square at the Hôtel de Ville alone, thirty-five thousand spectators jammed within the police lines.

  Lindbergh entered the hall for a brief ceremony, at which he accepted the small gold key to the city. He offered thanks and brief remarks, noting that “I believe my flight is the forerunner of regular commercial air service uniting my country with yours in a manner in which they have never been united before.” All through the ceremony the crowd outside could be heard chanting, “Au balcon, au balcon”; and the moment the remarks inside were concluded, Lindbergh rose from the golden chair in which he sat and made his way to the balcony, from which he waved an American flag and smiled his now famous grin. Within the week the City of Paris had designed, struck, and presented a special gold medal to Lindbergh.

  He turned in early that night, contemplating offers from around the world—including $300,000 from Adolph Zukor to appear in a motion picture for Paramount Studios which he refused—and invitations from King George of England and King Albert of Belgium—which he accepted. He still mused about touring Europe, especially Sweden, before flying home by way of Greece, Asia, and the Pacific. Those dreams were dashed, however, as his own government pressed for his return.

  The next morning, Lindbergh arose at five for a date that he had kept secret from practically everybody. A car drove him to Le Bourget, where the commander of the airport showed him a black Nieuport 300 h.p. fighting plane. After a quick lesson in the controls, Lindbergh took off, heading back toward the city. He flew on his own private tour of Paris, before the city had awakened. After twenty minutes of sightseeing, he returned to the airdrome, where he presented an impromptu half-hour performance of aerial stunts for the French aviators below. Upon landing, he looked in on his own plane and discovered that it had been completely repaired. The French crew had stripped the fuselage of all its fabric and recovered it like new.

  After breakfast at the airport restaurant with a few of the fliers, Lindbergh returned to the city and his public duties: lunch at the Ministry of War, where General Pershing joined him; a reception of the French Senators at the Luxembourg Palace; a tour of the Citroën factory; a garden party at the Ministry of Commerce; a reception at the Airmen’s Club in the Bois de Boulogne. Ambassador Herrick had invited Raymond Orteig, the hotelier whose prize had inspired Lindbergh’s flight, for a private dinner at the embassy. The money would be awarded at a formal occasion in America. For now, Lindbergh wished to discuss his next-day’s departure for Belgium and how he could best bid Paris adieu
. Lindbergh thought of dropping a message from his plane addressed to the entire city in care of Orteig.

  Later that night, Lindbergh got his first taste of Paris after dark, though it too was an institutional affair—a gala performance at the Champs Élysées Theatre for the benefit of the airmen’s relief fund. The social elite of Paris turned out en masse. When Lindbergh and Herrick entered the center box, the orchestra struck up “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and everybody rose and cheered. “Poor kid was so embarrassed,” observed a young woman from Little Falls who happened to be present that night, “he blushed scarlet.” American diva Mary Garden appeared onstage dressed as Liberty to sing the national anthem; and when she reached the final phrase—“and the home of the brave”—she thrust her index finger toward Lindbergh, and the theater shook with applause. French actress Cecile Sorel read a poem dedicated to the flier and at the end collapsed to her knees, crying, “Leendbear! Leendbear!” The auctioning of Lindbergh’s signature that night fetched $1,600.

  Lindbergh was at Le Bourget at 7:30 the next morning, getting grease on his hands for the first time in a week. For three hours he tuned his plane. At eleven, Ambassador Herrick arrived with a cold lunch, which they shared in a hangar. To avoid a recurrence of the hysteria that greeted his arrival, Lindbergh had announced that Paris would be the best place to witness his departure. Most of the city took him at his word.

  A few minutes before one o’clock, the Spirit of St. Louis took off from exactly the point at which it had landed seven days prior. He headed for Paris, whose streets were lined with hundreds of thousands looking skyward. Lindbergh flew toward the Eiffel Tower, circled it twice, then buzzed low over the Arc de Triomphe; following the Champs Élysées, he looped twice before reaching the Place de la Concorde. “Nothing seemed to be dropped from the airplane,” Orteig remembered; “we were rather disappointed, trying to guess what had happened.” Then the plane returned, and, as Orteig told it, “my hopes came back and very soon I saw Lindbergh dropping the promised message, tied to a beautiful French flag.” Weighted with a little sandbag, the tricolor landed at the foot of the obelisk in front of Orteig’s hotel, the Crillon. The crowd rushed to grab the parcel, but it practically fell into the hands of a friend of Orteig, who safely handed it over. “Goodbye! Dear Paris,” read the note. “Ten thousand thanks for your kindness to me. Charles A. Lindbergh.”

  Lindbergh flew toward the center of the city, over which he performed some of his old barnstorming spins and rolls, thrilling the crowd. Then he headed northeast toward Belgium, flying over miles of war-scarred country. “This week will be a kind of a dream to me all my life,” read Lindbergh’s next New York Times piece, written just before his departure in the new style leaning more heavily on his dictation. “I feel I want to go somewhere quiet and think it over.”

  That was no longer possible. He had less than two hours to himself before reaching the Belgian airdrome at Evere. King Albert had issued orders that the crowd must allow Lindbergh and his plane to land undisturbed. In addition to most of the police force of Brussels, five thousand troops stood guard with fixed bayonets. By three o’clock that afternoon, more than twenty-five thousand people, some said as many as seventy-five thousand, awaited his arrival. Only the Prime Minister stepped forward to welcome the aviator, while everyone behind him cheered. Lindbergh was chauffeured to the American Embassy, where he changed clothes. On his way to the Royal Palace, he was taken to lay a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier of Belgium; then King Albert and his family received him. After a few minutes of conversation in English, the King pinned the Badge of a Knight of the Order of Leopold on his lapel. An appearance before the Belgian Aero Club followed, with the awarding of a plaque.

  The next morning Lindbergh kept a private engagement with the King and Queen back at Evere, where he showed them his plane and answered questions about his great flight. He returned to the city for a day of receptions. The gilt buildings and even the old gray stone of the magnificent Grande Place in front of the Hôtel de Ville shimmered under a bright sun. The square was packed to capacity with thousands of cheering Belgians, the chimes of St. Gaudule Cathedral filled the air, and American flags waved at every turn. Inside the gothic Guild Hall, before a select group of aldermen, veterans, and the American colony, the highly regarded Burgomaster Max welcomed Lindbergh. “In this City Hall, where I have had the honor to receive so many great and illustrious men,” he said, “I am proud to salute a real hero … your victory is the victory of humanity. In your glory there is glory for all men.” Amid the cheers and handshakes, the Burgomaster handed Lindbergh a leather pouch, which contained a gold medal from the City of Brussels. After the leading baritone of the Brussels Opera sang “The Star-Spangled Banner,” Lindbergh asked that he close the ceremony with the Belgian national anthem. Upon its conclusion, the Burgomaster and Lindbergh stood at the balcony to acknowledge the exultant crowds.

  After a week of sixteen-hour diplomatic days, Lindbergh was exhausted. His hours in the air seemed to be the only time he could be by himself. He returned to Evere and pressed on toward England. Over the cemetery at Werington, near Ghent—a final resting place for many American soldiers—Lindbergh flew low. He dropped a wreath of flowers onto the vast sea of white crosses, circled the graveyard twice, and flew under clear skies across the Channel.

  From what he knew of British reserve, Lindbergh expected nothing less dignified than the reception he had received in Belgium. In fact, American Ambassador Alanson B. Houghton had arranged a proper ceremony for the flier, in which he would land at Croydon, thirteen miles south of Parliament, taxi around the airdrome in a victory lap for the cordoned-off crowd to see, then leave the plane in a recess close to where he would be presented to British officials. Two and one-half hours after leaving Belgium, the speck of a monoplane was sighted over the towers of London. Despite all the preparation for Lindbergh’s reception, nobody had anticipated a crowd of one hundred fifty thousand Englishmen.

  That first glint of silver in the sky was enough to throw them into chaos. In an instant, everybody rushed past the ropes onto the field where Lindbergh was meant to land. Above their cheers, the Spirit of St. Louis circled, touched the ground, and started to taxi … only to take to the air again. Lindbergh had in that instant looked out his window and feared plowing into the masses of people. Those on the ground knew to clear a path for him; and to the sound of a second wave of cheers, he landed just beyond the grasp of the crowd. Not until the police had roped off the plane did Lindbergh exit and make his way to an official car. The Ambassador and Air Minister were lost in the melee, while Lindbergh’s driver managed to push through to the control tower. Women fainted, silk hats were crushed, canes and umbrellas went flying, while twelve hundred bobbies helplessly blew their whistles.

  The aviator climbed a ladder to the top of the tower and with a megaphone shouted down with glee, “I just want to tell you this is worse than I had in Paris.” The thousands of people at his back insisted he address them as well, so Lindbergh crossed to the other side of the tower platform and screamed, “I’ve just said this is a little worse than Le Bourget, or, I should say, better.” After the cheers died down, everybody broke into “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Upon its completion, Lindbergh pled with the crowd to allow the Ambassador to pass so that they all might be able to leave. The formal reception was abridged in favor of a retreat to the city. Thousands lining the roads cheered him into London.

  Lindbergh’s next three days were filled with events to which he had grown accustomed—meals at the embassy with special guests, press conferences, a visit to the tomb of England’s “unknown warrior.” On his second night in London he was the honored guest at a large banquet of journalists in the Abraham Lincoln Room of the Savoy Hotel. At Lindbergh’s place were five sandwiches and a half-gallon jar of water; and when he took his seat, the evening’s toastmaster announced, “Captain Lindbergh will now partake of his customary meal.”

  The next day held more pomp
. By then it had been decided that Lindbergh and his plane would return to America by boat. Ambassador Houghton informed him that President Coolidge had “ordered” a warship for his passage. And so, a little before four o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, May thirty-first, Lindbergh was motored to Croydon, where he flew his plane to an airfield in Gosport, near the port of Southampton. There it would be crated for its return home. After explaining how the Spirit was to be dismantled and packed, Lindbergh borrowed a plane in which he returned to London, all in time to change into a blue suit for his next round of ceremonies.

  After a brief stop at Number 10 Downing Street for Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin’s personal congratulations, Lindbergh arrived at Buckingham Palace at 10:45. Presented to King George V, they withdrew to one of the palace salons and sat together, just the two of them. “I was flattered to find his questions showed he had read a great deal about [my flight] and understood it perfectly,” Lindbergh “wrote” afterward in the next installment of his travelogue for The New York Times. “And interestingly enough, I was able to observe that what interested the King about flying over the Atlantic was just about what interested every one else. The conception of a King as a personage of great aloofness and coldness certainly is belied by King George, who treated me in a straightforward, democratic style.” What Lindbergh diplomatically elected not to record was the early fragment of conversation in which His Royal Highness leaned forward and said, “Now tell me, Captain Lindbergh. There is one thing I long to know. How did you pee?”