'Formidable!'

I

L-A—C-O-N-F-E-R-E-N-C-E—N-A-V-A-L-E— D-A-N-S—L-I-M-P-A-S-S-E—L-A—M-I-S-S-IS-S-I-P-P-I—D-E-B-O-R-D-E—S-E-S—B-A-NC-S—L-A—R-E-V-O-L-U-T-I-O-N—R-A-V-AG-E—T-O-U-T-E—L-A—C-H-I-N-E . . .

I read the bulletins on the electric news sign at the Place de l’Opéra in Paris on the sunshiny afternoon of May 21, 1927, as I waited for a taxi. The naval conference at Geneva was deadlocked over America’s demand for 8-inch gun cruisers; the song writers’ favorite, the Mississippi, was threatening to burst its levees; revolution was spreading over China. Earl Carroll had had a bathtub party, the Snyder murder case was red hot, Mae West was in jail over a doubtful play. That was the news of the day.

What’s this the slithering, incandescent letters are spelling? I leaned from the taxi window to catch the message: —

A-V-I-A-T-E-U-R—A-M-E-R-I-C-A-I-N—S-EN-V-O-L-E—S-E-U-L—V-E-R-S—P-A-R-I-S

As we turned the corner I wondered what pilot could have hopped off solo for Paris. Commander Byrd and Clarence Chamberlin had both been waiting at Roosevelt Field for favorable weather. But they would n’t fly alone. Noel Davis and Wooster had been killed in crashes. These were the principal contenders for the Orteig prize of $25,000 for the first New York to Paris flight. But this solo pilot? Who was he? There must be some mistake.

At the office of the Chicago Tribune, where I was chief Paris correspondent, I found a cable from the day city editor: —

CHARLES LINDBERGH FLYING ALONE LEFT NEW YORK SEVEN FIFTYTWO SAM FOR PARIS STOP COVER FULLEST.

Who the devil was Charles Lindbergh ?

My secretary did n’t know. My assistant did n’t know. Bernard Ragner, editor of the Paris edition of the Tribune, did n’t know. The Pacific & Atlantic photo service did n’t know. Even the French copy boy who leisurely cycled my dispatches to the Bourse, and usually knew everything — he did n’t know.

‘Cable New York for a complete fill-in,’ I told my junior leg-man.

The Paris afternoon editions came up carrying blackface bulletins under three-column heads with a New York date fine. M. Lindbergh was nicknamed le Veinard, the Lucky One, it seemed. He was a mail pilot. Only a petite beast accompanied him, a little cat. If the hunger attacked him, he had three sandwiches of ham. For the thirst, a bottle of café. He flew an apparcil Ryan with a moteur of the Wright. He had set a record transcontinental from la Californie to New York at 175 kilometres per hour.

Frankly, I did n’t think Lindbergh would make it. Still I had to clean up my end of the early phases of the yarn: the French reaction, preparations for his arrival ‘if,’ quotes from some big shots, what the American colony and prominent tourists thought. First I went to the American Embassy.

‘It’s too bad. I’m sorry he started just at this time,’ said Ambassador Myron T. Herrick with sincere regret. ‘The French are extremely sensitive on the subject of a transatlantic flight. It’s only thirteen days since Nungesser and Coli.’

I knew all about the Nungesser and Coli affair. Rumor that the Frenchmen had reached New York, had ‘circled over the Battery while thousands of spectators on the roof of the Aquarium cheered,’ had been published as fact. There had been anti-American outbreaks in Paris when the story had been corrected.

Next I called on M. Paul Painlevé, French Minister of War, in his dingy little walk-up flat in the rue de Babylone. He had given out a glowing statement on the supposed arrival at New York of Nungesser and Coli. But the fussy little man now only scowled at the Siamese pet cats prowling around on his desk.

‘Mais oui, I express my heartfelt desire that the young man succeeds in his perilous mission,’ he said. ‘But I can give no statement until he actually arrives. Lindbergh,’ he mused. ‘That sounds like a German name.’

I reached the Ritz Bar in the rue Cambon at the peak of the cocktail hour. Frank, the barman, had set odds of ten to one against the success of the flight. Dana Pond and Gilbert White, both well-known painters, insisted the odds were too low. Jo Davidson, the sculptor, and Kim, Duke of Manchester, insisted they were too high. Several bets were made.

Major Billy Bishop, Canadian ace, and Sir Alan Cobham, who had just blazed the air trail to the tip of South Africa, discussed Lindbergh’s chance from the technical standpoint.

Across the corridor in the ‘steam room,’ Ethel Levey, the actress, was talking about the flight to Pearl White, serial movie queen, Margaret Hawkesworth, society dancer, and the Morgan twins — Thelma, Lady Furness, and Gloria Vanderbilt.

I toddled along to the office and wrote 600 words of Paris reaction to the Lindbergh flight. I played up the interest that well-known personalities were taking in it, and carried Frank’s betting odds of ten to one against.

Just after 1 A. M. we got a flash. The ‘Lone Eagle’ had passed over St. John’s, Newfoundland! On the wall map I measured it off. He had covered about a third of the way, a thousand miles, and at better than a hundred miles an hour. Now he faced 1600 miles of open sea to Ireland, the first land on his course. I wondered if this fellow really meant business. Would he — could he — turn back now if he encountered heavy weather over the ocean?

‘More than a hundred men have flown the Atlantic already,’ Ragner remarked. ‘The crews of the English dirigible R-33 and the German “reparations” Zeppelin, Alcock and Brown, the Britishers back in 1920, and the United States Army pilots that went around the world.’

On the way home I stopped in at Jed Kiley’s night club in the rue Fontaine. In a Cossack costume — he had been doing the sword dance — Jed announced the flash I gave him: —

‘Through the courtesy of the Chicago Tribune, I am happy to inform you that Charles Lindbergh, the American aviator flying to Paris, has just passed over Newfoundland. At his present speed he should reach Paris to-morrow — that is, to-night — sometime around ten o’clock.’

Pandemonium broke loose. Ralph Dort sent two magnums of champagne to the jazz band. Worthington Hine led the singing of the American anthem, continuing with ‘America’ and winding up with ‘Give My Regards to Broadway.’ Mary McCormic sang ‘La Marseillaise.’ The French clientele, and the waiters and the wine boys, joined in the applause.

Around the corner in the rue Blanche, t stopped at Chez Florence and gave the news to Palmer Jones, the colored piano player. The celebration broke up Frisco’s Charleston contest, which Lloyd and Carmen Pantages had won for eight nights running.

Big ebony Harvey sang ‘Mademoiselle from Armentières ’ and Mary Lewis did ‘California, Here I Come.’ Mabel Boll, in a ‘sweater’ woven of slender gold and platinum wires, bet Jean Nash Dubonnet 5000 francs the pilot would reach France.

Everybody in the place was making the flight with Lindbergh, marking his course over the sea on the tablecloths with lipsticks and burnt matches. From the stuffy restroom I telephoned the office, dictating a 200-word add on Paris’s reception of the latest news, stressing the lack of any show of hostility on the part of the French. Then I went home.

Next morning there were two cables from my home office. The first one read: —

COVER LINDBERGH PERSONALLY PLENTY HI STOP COOPERATE PANDA FOR PICTURES.

They wanted all the human interest (hi) stuff they could get.. And I was to help Pacific and Atlantic with photos. The other cable read: —

NYTIMES BOUGHT LINDBERGHS STORY FIVE THOUSAND STOP TRY GET HIS STATEMENT ELSEYVHERE.

Holy mackerel! I knew Lindbergh would get across now. I could see his arrival. Jimmy James, the Times correspondent, and his staff would take possession of Air. Lindbergh — kidnap him if necessary; hide him in some hotel; milk the story to the last detail. With the yarn safely in type, they’d invite the rest of us to meet the hero, get his autograph. I groaned at the prospect.

My only chance — if Lindbergh got to Paris — was to get as much of a statement from him as I could before the Times put him on ice. But that would take some help and I was shorthanded. My staff was scattered about Europe on important assignments. The Paris edition was running on a skeleton crew. I phoned Kiley and Harry Arnold, then a private banker, in the Place Vendôme. Both promised to meet me at the Café Napolitain at five o’clock.

Before then there were a million things to do. First instruct all local correspondents at the ports — Brest, Cherbourg, Havre, Dieppe, Boulogne, Calais, Dunkerque — to be on the lookout for Lindbergh. I instructed them to wire the office if he landed in their territory. Then I took an option on a charter plane at Bourget to fly to wherever Lindbergh might land if he failed to reach his goal.

I telephoned the Prefecture of Police. M. Paul Guichard, sous-chef de sûreté, reported: —

‘ We ’ll have a hundred gendarmes on the field and thirty mounted Gardes Républicains. That will be sufficient to keep the crowds back and maintain order. We anticipate no trouble. But we will be ready for any development.’

The Ministry of Aviation in the Boulevard St. Germain stated: ‘All airdromes, military and civilian, between the coast and Paris will be lighted throughout the night. All beacons and searchlights will operate continually. All our technical resources are at the disposition of the American aviator.’

The Minister of Marine said: ‘ Orders have been sent to naval bases to send destroyers to patrol waters in their areas. These vessels will be prepared to guide Lindbergh to the nearest port, or to pick him up if he is forced down.’

I left the Ministry and headed for the Quai d’Orsay. Count Charles de Chambrun, liaison officer between the Foreign Office and the press, greeted me.

‘M. Briand has issued instructions for all help and courtesy to be extended to M. Lindbergh,’ he said. ‘A government official will be at Bourget to welcome the aviator. He will be received by the municipal authorities. Passport and customs formalities will be waived. Sufficient police will be on hand to guard him against any demonstration.’

I telephoned the Embassy.

‘Mr. Herrick will be at the field to meet him,’ said Sheldon Whitchouse, the Counselor.

The story was beginning to feel big, like a real yarn.

II

I was late at the ‘Nap,’ but Kiley and Arnold were later. Several of my English colleagues were having apéritifs. Suddenly there was a wild cheer. Everyone was staring at the electric sign at the corner of the Opéra, opposite. The last words of the bulletin were trailing off: —

-B-E-R-G-H—A-U-D-E-S-S-U-S—L-I-R-EL-A-N-D . . .

‘See that?’ yelled Kiley as he sat down at the terrace table.

‘ He got across! ’ shouted Arnold.

‘C’est formidable!’ mumbled the garçon as he brought three fines à l’eau.

We stopped at Arnold’s bank and I cashed a check for 10,000 francs. I did n’t intend to run out of money. To-morrow was Sunday, and there was no telling where Lindbergh might land.

At the office I knocked off 800 words of advance, right down to the reaction on Lindbergh’s arrival over Ireland. Then we drove out to Le Bourget.

A good-sized crowd was already at the field. A gang of laborers were setting up a fence of chicken wire to keep the people clear of the landing area. A hundred gendarmes and a platoon of mounted Gardes were there, the latter picturesque with burnished copper helmets and long horsehair cockades, and big clanking sabres at their sides.

Le Bourget airdrome is about 1200 yards wide and nearly two miles long. The commercial airport is on the east side of the field. There is a long line of concrete hangars with the Administration Building in the centre. On the ground floor are the executive offices, the customs rooms, the passport control bureau. On the second floor is the restaurant and bar. Opposite, on the west side, is the military flying field, with old wooden and canvas hangars, dugouts, and bombproofs used during the war.

I checked up the communications facilities at once. A couple of ‘taxiphones’ — coin-in-the-slot contraptions which invariably failed to work. The switchboard for the field had only three trunk lines — not many when a couple of hundred reporters start phoning.

There was M. Nugues, manager of the Commercial Cable Company, a subsidiary of the Postal Telegraph.

’Bonjour, Monsieur Wales. We are all prepared to handle your dispatches this evening. We have a direct wire from the field right into our office in Paris. This young man ’ — he nodded toward a youth in a red necktie — ‘will telephone your dispatch to a stenographer. She will type it and put it on the cable, sans délai.’

Western Union had no one at the field. For some time the correspondents had been using Commercial exclusively because it had reduced its press rate nearly two cents a word below the Western Union tariff.

The youth in the scarlet cravat called M. Nugues. ‘The office has information that the aviateur Américain Lindbergh has been sighted passing over England, west of Plymouth, proceeding toward France,’ he read from his pad.

‘C’est formidable!’ said M. Nugues, and I agreed with him. This setup looked pretty good. The news gave me a kick. Lindbergh was now flying toward the Continent. Right into my territory!

Upstairs in the bar they had the news, too, from the Commandant of the field. The big room was crowded. There sat Mister James in the midst of his staff. The rest of the Yank correspondents were lined up at the bar. Scattered about were German newsmen, Italians, Spaniards, Belgians, Hollanders, Swedes, Austrians, Turks, Japanese; and camera and news-reel men en masse.

At a table alongside the Times crew sat the Embassy group, consisting of several secretaries, attachés, and clerks. With them was an American doctor, one of the staff of the hospital at Neuilly. He had his kit and a blanket roll.

‘I’m all ready for him,’ said the physician expansively, almost as though Lindbergh were flying the ocean solely to keep an appointment with him. ’He’ll naturally be exhausted when he arrives. After thirty-six hours of flying you can understand that. First I’ll give him a shot of brandy. Then a hypo. He’ll need it, too. After he reacts he’ll be a bit hungry. I’ll give him some of this bouillon; and some black coffee to steady him. Then we’ll wrap him up in these blankets and give him plenty of rest. I positively won’t let him do any talking to-night.’

We looked covertly at Jimmy James and his cohorts, grim and silent.

It was twilight now. Thousands jammed the airport. Four brown canvas-covered lorries rolled in. Sixty or seventy more gendarmes jumped out. We could hear the clatter of hoofbeats as another squadron of Gardes Républicains drew up.

The Commandant of the airport, in dress uniform, stalked stiffly into the restaurant.

‘Messieurs,’ he said, lifting his right hand to his képi in salute, ‘I have the honor to inform you that the aviator Lindbergh has passed over Cherbourg. He is en route to Paris.’

What an uproar! The crowd was yelling its head off. The last champagne was ordered. The Scotch had run out some time ago. But there was plenty of cognac and vin rouge. The Yank tourists in the café started singing and dancing. A red-headed girl got on one of the tables and proposed a toast to Lindbergh. We reporters tried to take it hard-boiled, as they do in the movies. But it gave us all a boost.

The horde from Paris was pouring into the airport. They came in every sort of vehicle. The wide stone military highway leading north from the gates of Paris was jammed with traffic. Autos were parked in the fields, in courtyards, in gardens, and on sidewalks to make room for the oncoming stream.

That was the populace. But the silkhat crowd was also there in evening dress, costly furs, sparkling jewels, bare shoulders flashing beneath lamé cloaks. En route to the de luxe restaurants, they had ordered their chauffeurs to drive to Le Bourget instead when they learned the latest news.

Ambassador Herrick and his son Parmely drove up in the Embassy car. M. Guichard of the Prefecture convoyed them to the Administration Building. ‘The biggest crowd since the peace parade,’ he said. ‘I’ve sent for five hundred more police, Your Excellency.’

It was dark now. The floodlights marked the field in alternate patches of dazzling white and inky blackness. The Paris highway reflected a silver lane from the headlights of the oncoming cars. From the road a thick black mass of late arrivals scrambled toward the field.

Hawkers had appeared as if by magic. They sold flags and buttons, balloons, paper streamers. Others had set up barrels of red and white wine and kegs of beer for the thirsty ones.

I pushed into the room where the Commercial Cable had its open wire to Paris. The lad in the red necktie sat at his table, a huge packet of copy before him. He was reading a dispatch to the dactylo at the other end of the line:

‘ L pour Louis, I pour Isaac, N pour Nathan, D pour David, B pour Benjamin, E pour Édouard, R pour Richard, G pour Georges, H pour Henri’

Good Heavens! They still had to spell out the name of the principal — and only — actor in to-night’s show! What chance had they of transmitting the copy which we were to pound out on our portables?

I decided then and there to leave the flash of the arrival to the news agencies: my job was to get a comprehensive, human-interest story and file it at the earliest possible moment. And I must get something direct from Lindbergh before the Times sealed him up.

Through the window I contemplated the glut of traffic on the highroad. Blocked solid to Paris, M. Guichard had told me. Like a crook, a reporter always picks an exit. I entered the office of the Commandant next door. There was a large map of Le Bourget on the wall. Slender white lines against the blue background traced railways, power lines, telegraph wires, brooks, ponds, forests, and roads.

‘What’s this?’ I asked after studying the map, pointing to a threadlike line leading off to the west, south of the airport.

‘It’s a lane leading to La Courneuve,’ said the Commandant. ‘I don’t think it’s passable for traffic.’

I looked at it again: the second turning to the right.

It was after ten o’clock. Lindbergh would arrive any time now. Over a sandwich jambon and a café fin, I assigned Kiley to stick with the Times bunch, and Arnold with the Embassy group. They would follow Lin☻dbergh wherever he was taken, then inform me at the office by phone.

III

We went out on to the field through the gate in the chicken-wire fence. Hundreds of persons with police cards were there: politicians, social leaders, theatrical folk, the diplomatic corps, reporters, camera men. Behind the wire were massed thousands of men, women, and children.

I had no overcoat and was chilly despite the brandy. I was nervous, as always when waiting on the edge of a big story with someone else on the inside track.

Suddenly the siren howled. Instantly the multitude was silent. The honking and tooting of the stalled automobiles abruptly ceased. Beside me an army sergeant was operating an acousticon, a contrivance like four giant phonograph horns mounted together on a swivel to pick up the sound of an airplane motor. The sergeant aimed the horns to the west, earphones strapped to his head.

Everyone listened intently. It was astonishing how long that noisy, restless crowd remained silent. Just as my ears discerned a tiny thread of sound, a great hoarse blast emerged from the crowd: —

‘ Le voilà! There he is!’

‘C’est un moteur Américain’ whispered the mechanic to the sergeant. I recalled that in air raids during the war I had learned to distinguish the alternate ‘hum-hum’ of the fixed German motors from the steady ‘whir’ of the Allied engines.

The floodlights drenched the field in ghostly white. Presently in the distance my eyes made out a tiny, silvery speck. It was low, about five hundred feet. Simultaneously the crowd spotted it.

‘ Le voici! ’

Overhead the plane swept on. It veered off to the east, was lost a moment, then threaded its way back and glided lower over the field. Delicately, skillfully, it reconnoitred the drome, feeling out the terrain. It reminded me of a great eagle, tired, lost, circling about warily, seeking a place to perch in a strange country. It made another turn at the far end of the field, was lost to sight a few seconds, then back it came. It was lower now and dropping steadily. It entered the zone of darkness just above the ground and disappeared. The glare of the floodlights obliterated it.

Through the tense silence came a light, muffled thud; then the roar of the motor as Lindbergh gave it the gun to taxi in. The crowd’s pent-up feelings burst!

There was a mighty roar of released emotion and suspense. The host surged forward; the chicken wire stretched and strained. The police joined hands in a living cordon. The wires burst! The gendarmes were engulfed. I looked back to see the mob milling forward.

I set out on a dead run ahead of the wave, straight across the field toward the spot where I had heard the machine land. Police waved their arms to motion me back. A Garde Républican! spurred his mount at me. I kept going.

Just then the floodlights were shut off. The field was in darkness.

I galloped on. To right and left I could hear the thud of footfalls and the stertorous breathing of others racing with me. With every stride my eyes were becoming more accustomed to the darkness. Soon I could see the dim outlines of the military hangars and an indistinct mass moving slowly on the field. Then I made out moving figures coming from the other side of the drome. By this time my opponents in the race had been left behind. I was out in front in the sprint for Lindbergh.

Suddenly I was within a few yards of the plane. But before I reached it the figures from the opposite side of the field swept up and surrounded it. In the next second I was among them.

They were in uniform. One was a commandant with four gold galons on his sleeve; another a lieutenant; the rest were sergeants, corporals, mechanicians. They were pulling and twisting at the door to the cabin of the slowly moving plane. Released from the inside, it sprang open. I looked in and saw the occupant, Lindbergh, the man who had flown solo across the ocean!

He sat on a cushion, practically on the floor. His legs were stretched out before him. He was bareheaded. He wore a leather jacket, breeches, puttees. He was manipulating instruments on the panel before him.

The soldiers swung the door too wide. It cracked ominously.

’Careful, there, don’t break it,’ were Lindbergh’s first words.

The motor was still turning, the propeller flailing in staccato bursts. The plane moved slowly, jerkily.

‘ Coupez, coupez,‘ yelled Weiss, the Commandant.

Like a Niagara the rumble of the onrushing multitude could be heard. The advance guard was almost up with us. In another instant it would be charging into the whirling blades of the propeller.

Peering out, Lindbergh cocked his head, listened. Then he cut the motor. The prop snapped stiffly to rest.

The sergeants reached inside, seized Lindbergh, and slid him out carefully. They placed him on their shoulders; his feet never touched the ground. They babbled words of encouragement and praise — ‘formidable, formidable!’

‘That’s all right. Let me down,’ said Lindbergh. He wanted to stretch to start the blood circulating in those cramped limbs. Not understanding his protests, the soldiers patted him affectionately on the back.

‘ Let him down! He wants to walk! ’ I shouted to them in French. But there was no escaping the homage of that group. Lindbergh reached over and slammed the cabin door shut.

‘They want to carry you!’ I yelled above the din, grabbing his sleeve. It was the first word he had heard in English, the first he could understand. He looked down and I had a clear vision of his countenance, youthful and determined, clear eyes, set lips, firm chin. I thought of the doctor waiting to give a collapsed hero a syringe of morphia.

‘Say,’ he spoke anxiously, ‘this is Le Bourget all right?’

He knew he had arrived at his goal. He was certain. But he wanted final confirmation.

‘Sure, this is Bourget.’ I repeated his pronunciation of the word with the hard g. He shook his head with satisfaction.

‘I knew it was,’ he began. ‘There’s another . . .’

His remark was drowned in the brisk orders of Commandant Weiss. Already the outposts of the mob were upon us. There was no time to lose. I could see them coming through the darkness. And what was that in their hands?

Knives! I could see them gripping their short-bladed couteaux. The moonlight glinted on the steel blades. My heart nearly stopped beating. Did they resent this man succeeding because their own compatriots had been lost?

Weiss grasped the situation in a flash. Barking orders, he assigned his men to protect the plane. They ranged around the machine. A corporal slugged a burly fellow who was slicing away at the fabric where Spirit of St. Louis was stenciled. The mob wanted souvenirs, bits of the covering of the fuselage and wings, as keepsakes.

‘No, no! Don’t do that!’ yelled Lindbergh so forcibly that even they shrank back.

‘It’s all right! They’ll take care of it!’ I called.

‘They sure took care of him,’ said Lindbergh, pointing to the prostrate man who had been socked. Lindbergh was trying to balance himself on the sergeants’ shoulders, like a novice riding a camel.

‘Alions, vite! Bring him this way! Get him away from that plane before they tear it to pieces!’ shouted Weiss. We staggered forward in the darkness, across the field.

I looked back. A woman lifted her child above the shoulder of a corporal guarding the plane and pressed the infant against the fuselage.

‘Kiss it, my little one,’ she said. ‘It will bring you good luck.’

The going was difficult as I plunged after the group bearing Lindbergh. The field was overrun with people, surging about in search of the hero. Those we encountered did not recognize Lindbergh, misled probably by the French uniforms. Occasionally the blinding rays of searchlights swept over the field, illuminating long lanes of twisting, staggering humanity.

‘ Par ici — this way,’ said Weiss, pointing toward the Administration Building. Lindbergh gripped his carriers tightly, one by his curly black hair, another by the shoulder strap of his belt.

My foot sank into a hole; I sprawled forward. Two men fell on top of me. I lost my hat; searched for a moment, then abandoned it. I looked about for Lindbergh.

There he was, a few yards away. I could see him above the heads of the crowd. Bucking and pushing, I fought forward to rejoin him. I plodded along for a few strides to catch my breath. Then I looked up.

Good heavens! It wasn’t Lindbergh! These men were in uniform, but they were n’t soldiers — they were police, They were carrying a girl. She had fallen, been trampled on, was injured. They were taking her to the first-aid station.

I almost wept. I had had Lindbergh right in my hands, and I had lost him! How should I ever find him again? I dashed back and forth. Many persons were being carried off the field.

From the direction of the Administration Building came a wild shout. A searchlight revealed a group of Gardes Républicans opening a lane toward the building, escorting someone in. I started in pursuit, bucking the crowd, stumbling over stones; it was like a dreadful dream wherein one races for his life through soft sand.

Then I was outside the building. Through the windows I could see the figure of a young man, bareheaded, fair, slender, being projected up the crowded staircase. The mob was cheering. I sighed with relief. I had found him again. They were taking him up for the official welcome from Ambassador Herrick and General Gouraud.

No chance to smash through that crowd! The police were too excited to recognize reporters’ cards. But I must get in. He would say something to the Ambassador. That would be my only opportunity to hook him before the Times sewed him up.

There was a trellis for vines outside the building. I went up the flimsy latticework hand over hand as gendarmes below bellowed at me. I got through a window and stood on the sill —just in time to see the young man brought in.

Flashlights exploded and cameras snapped. The crowd screamed in enthusiasm. I stared. Somehow the youth did n’t look familiar. He carried an aviator’s helmet.

General Gouraud came to a magnificent salute. The handsome Mr. Herrick extended his right hand like a Roman senator. But the young man stopped them both: —

‘I’m not Lindbergh. I work for the Radiator Company. I lost my hat on the field, and I found this helmet. They thought I —’

Before the sheepish lad could continue, the Ambassador grasped his hand.

‘ No harm done, my boy. I ’m glad to see you.’

The malentendu was explained to General Gouraud. He dropped his salute. His aide signaled the waiters rattling a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket — not to open the wine. Everyone laughed except the bogus hero. He flushed, embarrassed. At a discreet signal from the General, he was convoyed downstairs. I followed in his wake.

Squeezing inch by inch down the hallway I heard through the transom the red-necktied youth slowly dictating copy into the telephone. It would take days to clear stories that way. An hour had passed since Lindbergh had landed. Should I try to find him or go in to Paris and file what I had? It was Saturday night! Copy had to be in early for those big Sunday editions.

Up to this minute I was n’t scooped; they did n’t have Lindbergh yet. I still had a fair crack at the biggest story I’d ever tackled. I would slap what I had on the cable, then go after the rest.

Out through the gates I trotted, on to the road, and into the chaos of cars and crowds. People were still coming. They had deserted their autos, were on foot. I dodged among them, keeping to the right side of the road.

More than a mile I continued. It was like swimming against a strong tide. I passed one intersection, but kept on. The blueprint had shown that as a blind road. In a quarter mile I came to another corner. It was the lane I had spotted. I turned off to the right along the narrow, dusty, unpaved thoroughfare. There was a glut of cars at the corner; beyond, it was deserted. I jogged along the empty road.

Not a person, not a vehicle, did I meet. I was stranded. It would take me all night to walk to Paris by this indirect route. And I had the biggest story since the war under my belt!

IV

Something loomed out of the night. I drew nearer. Lights! Music! Voices! A little auberge. And a red taxicab outside. Its flag was covered with the black gaine to indicate it was not in service. I went inside. The proprietor was at his zinc bar, playing a concertina. The remains of a meal were on the single table. There were empty bottles everywhere.

‘ Une mariage,’said the proprietor, pointing to the party. They were six — two elderly couples, a girl in a print dress and a bride’s veil, the bridegroom, a middle-aged fellow with a walrus moustache. They were all pretty tight.

‘A hundred francs to Paris,’ I said.

The chauffeur-bridegroom scowled indifferently.

‘Nothing doing; it’s my wedding.’

‘Two hundred francs.’

‘Non, non, et non,‘ he repeated stubbornly. ‘I’m with my femme and la famille.’

I gave him an American cigarette. He sucked in the smoke deeply. I gave him the packet.

‘Hop in,’ said the chauffeur. ‘I’m going to La Gonesse. Maybe we’ll meet someone.’

I jumped in beside him and the bride. Bursting with my story, I told him about Lindbergh, his marvelous flight, his reception, the crowds. But the driver was thinking of other things.

‘ Void, c’est formidable,’he admitted absently. Then he pulled a bottle of red wine from the pocket of his greatcoat. He took a long swig and passed it to me.

‘Prends un coup; it’s good stuff.’

The nip of fiery Algerian wine made me feel better. I passed the bottle to the bride.

At a crossroad we pulled up. I clambered down and the taxi swung to the north, toward La Gonesse.

Two silent figures appeared in the road and moved noiselessly toward me. They carried revolvers; they looked me over with professional interest. I was a foreigner, obviously; hatless, muddy, dusty, in this lonely spot far from Paris. They were bicycle police. My press card established my identity. I told them of my desperate haste to get to Paris, to file my story.

‘Monte là,‘ said the younger one. In a second I had mounted the handlebars of his straight-forked, military bike and we were rolling along toward La Courneuve.

They set me down in the deserted main street of La Courneuve, and proceeded to the poste de police to report. A car rumbled in the distance. It whizzed past as I signaled it to stop. Came the roar of another. I stepped into the centre of the street, facing the blazing headlights. I thought it would run me down. There was a squeal from the brakes, sparks from the locked tires. The long nose of the MercédèsBenz came to rest within a yard of me.

A Japanese chauffeur in livery looked at me, alert, competent. A glass panel slid open. A monocled man in the rear seat asked in strong, Teutonic accents:—

‘ Que voulez-vous, monsieur? ’

‘I am an American journalist. Will you please take me to Paris ?’ I said in my best German.

‘Ach so, you are American,’ said the man in English. He beckoned to the Japanese. The front door opened and I climbed in beside the chauffeur.

We had passed the gates and the Parc Monceau before I knew it. The car pulled up before a handsome private house in the Avenue Hoche. The Japanese sounded the horn. Invisible hands opened the heavy iron gates.

‘Thank you very, very much,’ I called as I got out.

I grabbed a passing taxi. ‘Quatre rue des Italiens!’ I yelled at the driver. I had decided to use the Western Union and write my piece right in the cable office. That would save the delay of my cyclist carrying my dispatch in ‘takes’ to be filed.

The sleepy night manager let me in. I asked for a typewriter and paper. I phoned my office. There was no word from Kiley or Arnold.

‘Not a thing from Lindbergh, either,’ said Ragner. ‘Only that he landed at 10.33. We have some bulletins about the crowd, but Lindbergh seems to have disappeared.’

The manager brought the typewriter. ‘We have n’t had a line about Lindbergh,’ he said, ‘The boys don’t file with us now.’

My plan was working fine. I slipped a carbon between two sheets, stuck them in the mill. Good thing I was used to a French keyboard.

CORANNEX NEWYORK

LEADALL LINDBERGH STOP

It was after midnight when I started to write. Considering that I use the amateur’s two-finger touch, I’ve always been pretty fast with a mill. But my speed amazed me. The rattling keys cleared page after page of copy. Sheet by sheet, in 300-word takes, they carried my running story to the sending machines, sent it on its way to New York over the submarine cable. I never went back to correct typographical errors or to edit copy. My story streamed off the typewriter directly into our office in West 45th Street. It was like having a leased wire across the ocean smack into the copy desk. Even the biggest brokerage houses could never afford that. A leased cable costs something like $20,000 an hour.

Not a single note had I made. There had n’t been a chance. But the yarn ran out through my fingers with never a hitch. The ribbon burst into shreds. Another machine appeared pronto. I skeletonized, dropping the’s, an’s and a’s, and some prepositions.

‘Message for you,’ said the manager.

Cheers from my home office — from Boone, our relay man in New York; from Joe Pierson, the cable editor; from Teddy Beck, the managing editor; from Colonel Robert McCormick, the publisher; from his cousin, Joseph Medill Patterson, publisher of the New York Daily News.

It was a clear beat — the first complete story to get across to America.

Further messages told me that other papers, clients of rival syndicates, were buying my story, unable to wait longer on Saturday night for their regular services. Mr. Beck sent me congratulations from a score of news editors and night editors from all over the United States.

Every cheer spurred me on to thump the machine faster. It was just after 3 A. M. when I signed off—‘more wales.’ The manager estimated my file at close to 4000 words.

Ragner, of the Paris edition, called me on the phone: —

‘ We have n’t a thing about Lindbergh himself, yet. None of the agencies has carried a line on him. The mornings have only his arrival. He’s vanished somewhere. The crowd is leaving Le Bourget as fast as it can get transportation. The field is deserted now. No — no news from Kiley or Arnold.’

Lindbergh had disappeared! Fear gripped me. Had James been able to grab him? Would the cheers I had received change to sour squawks when the pilot’s own story of his flight started to pour in from the opposition?

I thought of all the hotels or clubs — the American Hospital — every spot where Lindbergh might be. And I thought of the endless delay in driving about, ringing night bells, waiting for sleepy concierges, only to be told, ‘ Non, il n’est pas ici,’ and never being sure that the information was correct. It was three o’clock in the morning.

I grabbed a taxi. We swung into the Place d’léna, passed the familiar equestrian statue of George Washington, and pulled up before the Embassy. Half a dozen taxicabs and three or four private cars were at the curb.

I rang the bell; the grille swung open. The concierge, wearing a flannel nightgown, peeped from his lodge, muttered ‘ Bonsoir’ A dignified butler opened the door. He uttered no word as he conducted me along the corridor and up the great staircase. I was bursting to ask if Lindbergh was there; but I could n’t make the words come. We stopped at a door. The butler opened it. I entered.

A dozen of my colleagues were sitting or standing about in the room. In a flash I saw James was not among them. My heart leaped. I could tell by their expressions that they had n’t yet talked to Lindbergh. Mr. Herrick and Parmely were there, too. The twin beds were empty, unruffled. Then I was in agony. Were they really waiting for Lindbergh? Was he in another room with Jimmy, giving his story? Were we to get merely a statement from the Ambassador? Mr. Herrick broke the spell: —

‘ Just in time, Wales. Captain Lindbergh will be right out.’

As he spoke, the bathroom door opened. The tall, spare, blond young man strode into the room. He wore a pair of the Ambassador’s silk pajamas with a handsome ‘ M. T. H.’ monogram on the pocket; and a nifty blue brocade dressing gown with Parmely’s initials on the cuff. His feet were in heelless red leather slippers.

The Ambassador introduced Lindbergh all round. As we shook hands the pilot looked hard at me and smiled.

‘You’re the man who told me I was at Le Bourget O.K.,’ he said. I was surprised at his memory, his alertness, his absence of fatigue. And I noted that already his keen ears had picked up the proper pronunciation of Bourget with the soft g.

‘I tried to tell them to let you down — that you’d rather walk,’ I said.

The door opened. The butler marched in with a glass of milk and a plate of cold meat sandwiches on a silver tray. Lindbergh sipped the milk slowly. He did n’t touch the sandwiches.

‘Captain, I think these gentlemen would like to hear your own story of the flight,’ said the Ambassador.

Lindbergh sat on the bed. He pulled the dressing gown about him. He removed one slipper, slapping it from time to time against the palm of his hand to emphasize his statements.

We did n’t need to guide him with questions or prompting. A few occasional interrogations cleared up technical and unfamiliar remarks. He knew exactly what he wanted to say, and he said it. He was composed, confident, and convincing, and he talked in comprehensive, well-chosen words.

He reached the point where he encountered the blizzard after passing the Grand Banks. He told of climbing to get out of the sleet, then of diving to a few feet above the sea to escape it.

‘I could feel ice forming on the wings,’ he said simply.

Someone interrupted. ‘Is there anything significant, Captain, in ice forming on the wings?’

Lindbergh paused. He gave his questioner a searching, almost pitying look. He was frankly amazed at anyone being ignorant of the import of that statement. He smiled.

‘If anyone finds himself in an airplane in the middle of the ocean and only ten feet above the water with ice forming on his wings, he’ll think it’s mighty significant,’ said Lindbergh.

For a second his countenance was grave. He was living over again those tense minutes when it was touch and go with him and his ship. He digressed to explain that in his opinion ice forming on the wings of Nungesser’s and Coli’s plane had been sufficient to plunge L’Oiseau Blanc into the waves.

From the first, Lindbergh used the pronoun ‘we.’ Someone asked who else he referred to.

‘To the ship,’ said Lindbergh.

‘We had reports that you brought along a mascot, a kitten,’ said one of us.

‘I don’t know where they got any such ideas,’ said Lindbergh. ‘I didn’t have a living thing with me, not even a cockroach.’

He told of flying low over the fishing boats off the coast of Ireland, of calling out and asking the way. The amazed fishermen had made no reply.

‘Perhaps, Captain, they couldn’t hear you on account of the noise of your engine,’ someone remarked.

‘You know, I came to that conclusion myself,’ said Lindbergh.

‘I hit the coast of Ireland within ten miles of the point I aimed for,’ he continued. ‘I picked up the tip of England, and I recognized Cherbourg from pictures I had seen. We followed the railway tracks to Paris. I missed Le Bourget at first, so I flew back to Paris and got my bearings from the Eiffel Tower. Then I picked up the floodlights on the field. ’

We asked how he had been able to reckon so accurately.

‘ I don’t know why everyone assumes I’m not a navigator,’ he said. ‘I learned a good deal about flying by the stars when I was carrying the mails. Beside that, I ’ve studied navigation a lot, for more than two years.’

‘Did your fuel hold out? Did you have any gas left?’ I asked.

‘I figure there’s about sixty-five gallons left,’ he said. ‘Enough for another four hundred miles.’ When it was checked next day they found sixty-five gallons in the tanks.

‘How were you able to keep awake for such a long period?’ we asked.

‘I didn’t have any trouble about that. As a mail pilot I frequently had long intervals without rest. For this flight I practised going without sleep. I ’d prop myself in a chair against the wall and stay awake all night. If you can keep awake without doing anything important, you won’t fall asleep when you’ve simply got to keep going. And I was plenty busy all the time.’

Mr. Herrick gave the signal that the interview was at an end. In ten minutes I was back in the Western Union office. It was about 4 A. M., just before dawn. I knew the Saturday night deadlines had been waived. Papers all over the country were ready to make over and issue extra editions as long as the news came in.

There was a cable from Mr. Beck: —

RUSH MORE HI ABOUT LINDBERGH.

I wrote steadily for two hours. I had plenty of human interest stuff now: Lindbergh’s narrative, our questions, his replies, how he looked, the Embassy surroundings. The whole story. . . .