According to family legend, when Charles Lindbergh’s paternal grandfather, August Lindbergh, lost an arm as the result of an accident at the local sawmill, he asked that it be buried in its own pine coffin. He had apparently addressed his limb in farewell: ‘You have been a good friend to me for fifty years, but you can’t be with me any more. So good bye. Good bye, my friend.’ Even making due allowance for the magnifying, coarsening and mythologizing effects of time, August Lindbergh’s life was clearly the stuff of legend.
August Lindbergh had once been Ola Månsson. He was born in Sweden in 1808. Despite the lack of any formal education, he became a parliamentarian known for his brilliant rhetoric. He was a farmer who spoke on behalf of farmers, a liberal who defended women’s and children’s rights, and those of Jews. He was for land reform, the lessening of trade restrictions and the expansion of railways. He argued that the Lutheran Church’s sway was too great. He was friendly with the King. He was the director of a bank. At the height of his fame, he was brought down by his enemies on a largely trumped-up charge of embezzlement. Then in his early fifties, Ola Månsson fled Sweden for America, leaving behind his wife and their seven legitimate children but taking with him his mistress Lovisa – a waitress almost 30 years his junior – and their illegitimate son, Karl; a gold medal he had been given by his constituents; a gold watch, Lovisa’s only heirloom; and very little else. In America, as many immigrants did who were starting over, they changed their names. They were now the Lindbergh family: father August, mother Louisa and son Charles August, father of the future aviator. In Minnesota, in typical pioneering fashion, August built his family a log cabin. The gold medal was traded for a plough and August was a farmer once more. There was by now already a second child, and soon a third.
Ola Månsson c. 1850
It was a couple of years after they had arrived in Minnesota that August accidentally fell against the blade at the sawmill. His arm was mutilated and his chest cut through. His beating heart, as well as part of a lung, could be seen through the wound. The doctor took three days to arrive. There was nothing to be done except cut the arm off at the shoulder, an operation that was performed without anaesthetic. August apparently didn’t so much as groan. Soon he was back working on the farm, swinging a scythe he had adapted for one-armed use.
Then, five years after he had abandoned his wife, news came that she had died. August married Louisa. Two of his sons from the first marriage came to join the Lindberghs in Minnesota. And still the family grew. August was to have seven children by each wife, a curious prefiguring of the famous aviator’s outsized life to come. The log cabin over the years grew to be one of the largest properties in the area.
Charles August Lindbergh trained as a lawyer and became a significant figure in the Little Falls community. He married Mary La Frond in 1887. She died in 1898, a few days before her thirty-first birthday, of complications following what should have been a routine operation. Two children survived the marriage: daughters, Lillian and Eva. A third child, Edith, had died aged 10 months.
Charles August’s second marriage was to Evangeline Lodge Land, who now became the even more gloriously named Evangeline Lodge Land Lindbergh. The Lodges and the Lands were patrician families proud of their ancestors, among whom were numbered the first European settlers of America. Lands fought for George III in the American Revolution. Lodges came over in the Mayflower. Evangeline’s father, Charles Henry Land, was a dentist and inventor of the jacket porcelain crown, patented in 1889. Their only child, Charles, was born in 1902.
Like his father, Charles August was a politician and a farmer. He was a congressman for a decade from 1907. He had demanded regulation of the railroads, changes to the democratic process, conservation measures and various economic reforms. He was one of only 50 representatives who voted against America joining the First World War. In 1918 he tried for the Senate and failed, coming a poor third in the election. He had been followed by mobs during the campaign, arrested on charges of conspiracy, dragged from the podium during one speech, escaped another meeting amid a volley of shots and even hanged in effigy.
Charles August and Evangeline split up when Charles was seven. Charles lived with his mother, but his father visited frequently. His half-sister Eva said that her father and Evangeline were not suited to each other. Evangeline was apparently emotionally volatile, Charles August austere and difficult to know. Eva had been left in the care of her stepmother after the separation but ran away from home aged 14, when her half-brother was five years old. Her father wrote to reassure her: ‘I couldn’t live with her, and you don’t have to either.’ In later life Eva said that her stepmother mocked other women in the town to their faces, said she ‘was a cruel and crazy woman’.
Looking back from the perspective of his adult self, Charles Lindbergh considered his childhood to have been one of idyllic freedom. His maternal grandfather, Charles Henry Land, gave him a .22-calibre rifle when he was six: ‘Father thought six was young for a rifle, but the next year he gave me a Savage repeater; and the year after that, a Winchester 12-gauge automatic shotgun; and he loaned me the Smith and Weston revolver that he’d shot a burglar with.’ Charles said that his father shot the intruder as he had tried to make his escape, and that there had been blood on the window-ledge to prove it. This half-sister Eva remembered the story differently, as is often the way with family history. She said that her father had not been able to bring himself to fire at the burglar, even though the burglar had been armed. And so out of such competing anecdotes do family legends fight for precedence. During his lifetime Charles would write about his ancestors on a number of occasions, but as his biographer Scott Berg points out, ‘despite his fascination with detail, [Lindbergh] never examined his family history closely enough to see that it included malfeasance, flight from justice, bigamy, illegitimacy, melancholia, manic-depression, alcoholism, grievous generational conflicts, and wanton abandonment of families’.
When Charles was ten, his mother took him on a trip to Panama. In that same year, 1912, his father bought a car, the soon to be ubiquitous Model T Ford. Neither parent drove with any confidence, he said. It was years before his father was at all competent, and his mother was always a timid and alarming driver. Charles was the designated driver. No license was needed in those early days of motoring. It seemed dangerous, he wrote, but only at first. By the age of 12, Charles spent the summer exploring Minnesota by car; he gives the distinct impression that he went on his own. He was engrossed as mechanics disassembled and reassembled the engine. A seasoned driver by the age of 14, he bought a Saxon Six and drove his mother across country from their home in Little Falls to California. It took weeks to get there – the weather was often atrocious, the going slow and hazardous. And then he drove her back. The car is still used in town parades to this day.
Charles (right) and his father
Evangeline Lindbergh
Charles was a crack shot. He and a friend took it in turns to shoot 25-cent pieces out of each other’s fingers from a distance of 50 feet. He once shot 50 bull’s eyes in a row. Like many an adventurous teenager he bought a motorcycle, an Excelsior. It wasn’t the speed, he said, that gave him the greatest thrill, it was the mastering of his machine. The Excelsior came to feel as if it were an extension of his body. He rode thousands of miles on his own, exploring the surrounding countryside. He was a loner for much of his young life. His mother once revealed – which puts a curious cast on Charles’s assertion that his childhood had been idyllic – that she had at times paid local children to play with him.
Charles August was not a particularly avid, nor competent, farmer. When war came, Charles had little difficulty persuading his father to entrust the farm to him. Various legal exemptions were made for farmers during the war years: for example, they might take their children out of school if they were needed on the land. Charles gave up on school and became a teenage farmer. Already in his short life Charles had taken many risks, but here on the farm he said he felt ‘death brush past several times’. One day a ploughshare shattered and a piece of it flew by his head like a missile. He estimated that it had missed him by inches. He learned then, he said, that danger was a part of life, to be confronted not turned away from – that life is risky no matter what we do. Risk could not be avoided, he said, but it could be assessed.
After the war, now in his late teens, Charles moved to Madison, Wisconsin, to the university there. His mother – who had taught chemistry at the local school – uprooted herself, and moved into rented rooms to be near him. Charles was an inattentive student and left before he’d finished his sophomore year. He had by now, however, had his first experience of flying, and wanted more. As with the motorcycle, it was not the thrill nor the danger he remembered, but the experience of being taken beyond danger, ‘beyond mortality’. To rise above the planet was astonishing. It was as if he were leaving behind his body and the dimensions of earth for another state of being. In the air, from a god-like perspective, he wrote that he was ‘never more aware of all existence’, never less aware of himself.
He moved again, this time to Lincoln, Nebraska, to take flying lessons. His teacher left after he’d had only eight hours of training, but he knew now where his future lay. To earn money Lindbergh had taken up barnstorming. He and a crewmate would fly from town to town coming in low as one of them stood on the wing in an attempt to attract a crowd. Sometimes one of them would stand on his head, or tie himself in a standing position to the top wing as the plane looped the loop. There was something of the circus, of showmanship, about those early days of aviation. A hero among pilots was Roscoe Turner, who flew with a waxed moustache and a pet lion named Gilmore.
Lindbergh was 6 feet 2½ inches tall. He said it was as safe there on the wing as it was in the cockpit. He claimed flying wasn’t as dangerous as the public imagined, that most serious accidents were caused – clearly meaning to exclude himself – by inexperienced pilots who took ill-judged risks. Danger ‘lay coiled in the hidden, in the subtle, not the obvious’. They made their money by taking the braver spectators up for a short flight.
Charles saved to buy his own plane. His father also contributed. When Lindbergh arrived at the airfield to collect and pay for it, he simply handed over the money and the plane was his. No license was required in those early days of aviation. The plane was a wartime training plane, a Curtiss JN4-D, affectionately known as the Jenny. Now that war was over, they were being sold off by the government in large numbers. Fitted out with a new engine, it cost him $500. Though he had barnstormed for months, he had previously only flown a Jenny for a few minutes. He still had only those eight hours of formal training behind him, and that was six months ago now. He had had no experience of flying alone. Despite his best efforts he could not get the Jenny more than a few feet off the ground. Embarrassment being the better part of valour, he brought the plane to earth again. A young pilot by the name of Henderson – what pilot wasn’t young then? – took pity on him. ‘I expect you’re just a bit rusty,’ he said, and offered to go up with him a few times until he’d got the hang of it. Later that day Lindbergh took off on his own and flew to 4,500 feet. He landed safely, if not elegantly.
The underpowered Jenny was hard to master. It had ‘to be wished up over low trees’. It required almost instinctive skill – the ability to synchronize the movement of all the controls at once, and that just to keep the craft in level flight. The Jenny came down hard, often splintering the undercarriage. A pilot had to know more than how to fly the plane; had to be a technician, know how to take apart an engine and put it back together, even had to ‘know how to lock-stitch, how to bind the ends of a rubber rope, how to lap a propeller hub to its shaft. There were hundreds of details you had to learn . . . you were your own helper, rigger, and mechanic.’ A needle and thread was needed as often as a spanner. A surprising flying hazard was cattle, not because they got in the way during an emergency landing, but because cows seemed to enjoy the taste of the dope-soaked wing fabric and might strip the wings in a matter of hours if given the chance.
Both parents were encouraging of Charles’s flying ambitions. Charles persuaded his father, who was at first somewhat reluctant, to join him in the air. They dropped leaflets to help promote his father’s senatorial ambitions. His mother made a number of flights with her son from the start, once joining him on a ten-day barnstorming tour. She was a less nervous passenger than his father, Charles said.
If you could fly a Jenny you could fly just about anything, and Lindbergh wanted to fly everything. He wanted to fly more modern and more powerful planes, and he knew the only way he’d get to do that was if he joined the army (in those days the air force was still part of the army) and train as a pilot. To win his wings, he would have to go through a year of rigorous training at the United States Army flying school.
Lindbergh graduated from his class with the highest marks. Out of an intake of 104, 33 passed the first stage of training and just 18 got their wings at the end of the course. He was now a Second Lieutenant in the Air Reserve Corps. He enlisted in the 110th Observation Squadron of the 35th Division Missouri National Guard and was soon commissioned First Lieutenant, and then a few months later, Captain.
He went back to barnstorming while he looked for a job. The Robertson Aircraft Corporation promised him the position of chief pilot if they won their bid for the mail route between St Louis and Chicago. America’s Air Mail service first began on 15 May 1918 under the auspices of the United States Army Air Service, flying six Jennys that were modified to carry mail. The Post Office took over the service in October and began to employ civilian pilots. In 1925 Congress decided that the business should be put out to private tender. The Robertson Corporation won the St Louis-Chicago route that same year, and Lindbergh got the job.
The life expectancy of a pilot was short, about 800 flying hours. Flying the mail was particularly hazardous. The Robertson Corporation flew modified Jennys and a modified de Havilland biplane salvaged from the army, the DH-4. In the army it had been known as the ‘flaming coffin’. The planes had to be flown from the rear – where the navigator would have sat when the plane was in army service. The mail went up front, which meant that there was no forward window. To navigate, the pilot had to look to the side.
Lindbergh assessed the risks: ‘How tightly should one hold on to life? How loosely give it rein?’ How much risk was he prepared to take? Somewhere in The Iliad we are told that Achilles was offered the choice of the long life of a pastoral farmer or the short life of a warrior hero. Lindbergh gave himself a similar choice: ‘Of course I would like to have become a centenarian, but I decided that ten years spent as the pilot of an airplane was in value worth more than an ordinary lifetime.’ Too much security brings life to a standstill. Without adventure he might as well be a stone as a living human being. There were ways of reducing the risks. One was to know your machine intimately. And then there was the parachute, recently introduced. It drastically reduced the mortality rate of pilots and changed the experience of flying. Now all was not lost if the engine stopped or the plane fell apart in the air. If forced to it, in most types of flying emergency there would be time to think and to take action, the final step being to bail out.
The parachute was still something of an innovation. When Lindbergh attempted his first parachute jump – a double jump, made with two chutes tied together, one to open after the other – he almost died. The wrong type of string had been used, rotten grocery string that could be rubbed apart in the fingers. The second chute opened ‘as a useless wad of fabric’, which only by chance spread out in time. Lindbergh was unaware until he was told afterwards how close he had come to death.
Parachuting brought with it a new sensation, different again from flying. Lindbergh understood now why the Earth is mother Earth. Dropping, weightless, through the air, the sensation was not of falling but of being held. And though he might have disobeyed her laws, strayed too far from his rightful realm, still he was welcomed back to Earth as a frightened child might run to his mother’s arms. First there was fear, but beyond the fear ‘life rose to a higher level, to a sort of exhilarated calmness’. He felt now that he was living ‘on a higher plane than the skeptics on the ground’.
The first time a parachute saved Lindbergh’s life, his plane collided with another in mid-air. The planes locked together, milled around, the wing wires whistling. He unbuckled his belt and climbed onto the damaged wing, pushed himself away from the ship. A second or two of thought, long enough to assess another danger, that the wreckage might fall on him. He jumped. ‘How safe the rushing air . . . seemed when I cleared those planes – like a feather bolster supporting me.’ He waited until he had fallen what he guessed might be a few hundred feet before pulling the ripcord. ‘Next I turned my attention to locating a landing place.’ Both pilots landed safely. It was the first time anyone had survived the collision of planes in the air. Both automatically were members of the Caterpillar Club, founded in 1922 by the inventor of the free-fall parachute, Leslie Irvin. Club motto: Life depends on a silken thread. Charles Dawson McAllister, the other pilot, was member number 12, Lindbergh number 13.
The second time a parachute saved his life, the plane Lindbergh was test-piloting – a commercial four-seater OXX-6 Plywood Special – went into a sudden spin. On this occasion, because he was so much nearer to the ground when he abandoned the plane, he had to pull the ripcord immediately. The plane fell past him, missing him by only 25 feet or so. He saw it crash in a grain field. ‘Then I turned my attention to landing.’
The third time a parachute saved his life, Lindbergh was flying the mail route. He was not far outside Chicago in fog and at night, the twin horrors of early aviation. There was nothing to be done except hope that he could fly out of it, or that the fog cleared. The fog neither cleared nor came to an end. The engine sputtered and died. At 5,000 feet he abandoned his craft. Lindbergh said in later life that he had confronted fear that night at its most pure, as if it were outside him.
Falling through the dark alongside an abandoned plane might be thought terrifying enough, but then suddenly the plane’s engine came back to life. There must have been some residual fuel in the tank that sloshed back into the fuel line. He could hear the plane heading his way, and then sensed it pass close by. He could not see a thing. When should he pull his ripcord? Was there a bottom to this bank of fog? He must not wait too long. He guessed that he might be 1,000 feet above the Earth, and yet still he was in fog. Nothing to be done except pull the cord, keep his legs together and hope for the best. The air was turbulent and there was sheet lightning. The chute became so heavily soaked from the saturated air it kept collapsing, only to refill with air once more when a new gust caught it. He landed in a field. The plane narrowly missed crashing into a farmhouse.
The fourth time Lindbergh’s life was saved by a parachute, he was once again in fog at night not far outside Chicago, and again he ran out of fuel. This time he landed on a barbed-wire fence. His thick flying suit protected him.
Neither of the mail planes he had abandoned burst into flames when they crashed. There was too little fuel left. The mail could be saved. A telegram was sent ahead, a car arrived, a train was met. Most nights, somewhere in America, a mail plane would come down, usually because of bad weather. Lindbergh was the only member of the Caterpillar Club who qualified twice over, three times over, four times over.
Mail pilots risked their lives not for the mail itself, ‘but in obedience to orders which ennoble the sacks of mail once they were on board ship’. The words are not Lindbergh’s, though he would have agreed with the sentiment, but were written by his French doppelgänger, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the author of the children’s classic Le Petit Prince (1943), writing here of his own uncannily similar experiences as a mail pilot working for the Latécoère Company, later Air France. Across the world pilots understood – connected perhaps by that silken thread – that there was something sacred about their task, even when, as was often the case, the sacks weighed more than the letters they contained. Until very recently – until the advent of the Internet, which turned physical mail into something ethereal – mail delivery had a mystique about it. The more incomplete the address, the more isolated the destination, the more sacred the duty of delivery.
There was not much demand for airmail in the earliest years of aviation. Who cared if a letter sent from New York to San Francisco might arrive in 36 hours rather than the four days that the journey by train took? But the time was coming when people would care. Lindbergh had seen it. By the mid-1920s there were 2.5 million miles of airmail routes crisscrossing America delivering 14 million letters a year. In 1926 Dwight Morrow, Lindbergh’s future father-in-law, was appointed by President Coolidge to chair a board set up to recommend national aviation policy. Lindbergh predicted that in a few years the United States would also be covered by a network of passenger routes, a vision he would help realize. There had been a very few passenger planes from as early as 1913 but only the most intrepid travellers would have been prepared to take the risk.
Pilots were bound together like chivalric knights under some sworn oath. ‘A novice taking orders could appreciate this ascension towards the essence of things,’ Saint-Exupéry wrote in Wind, Sand and Stars (1939), ‘since his profession too is one of renunciation: he renounces the world; he renounces riches; he renounces the love of woman. And he renounces his hidden god.’ Fanciful perhaps, given that Saint-Exupéry had both wife and mistress. In this band of knights, if Saint-Exupéry was mystical but worldly Lancelot, virginal Lindbergh was Percival.
More practically, out of intense camaraderie, one pilot’s experience might save another’s life. The animated recounting of, typically, some near-miss was called ‘ground flying’. ‘We were over strange territory on a dark night and with a rapidly diminishing fuel supply . . .’ In those early days of flying, aviators rarely lost touch with each other altogether, unless, of course, separated by death. Wherever and whenever they met, airmen took up conversations that might have been interrupted by years of silence.
And yet the fellowship served only to underline the essential solitariness of being a pilot. Flying alone above the clouds at night, does a human being ever escape the bonds of the world so completely? What could be more magical, Saint-Exupéry asked, than flying on a clear starlit night, ‘its serenity, its few hours of sovereignty’? Lindbergh said that he never saw the Earth so clearly – he meant metaphorically as well as literally – as he did in those early days of flight. ‘I feel aloof and unattached in the solitude of space. Why return to that moss, why submerge myself in brick-walled human problems when all the crystal universe is mine ?’ Lindbergh said that when he came in to land it was as if he were leaving a better life behind: ‘Sometimes I circled to delay my landing . . . I became conscious of a relativity of time that escaped my mind and senses in ordinary moments. My airplane was my world to me: the world itself was quite unessential. I entered a core of timelessness in a turbulence of time, like the eye of a tornado. Permanence lay only in the instant. Outside all was fleeting . . . Riding the wings of power, I realized the fragility of power exposed to the dynamic elements of time.’ Saint-Exupéry once annoyed colleagues on the ground when, coming in to land, he circled the landing strip many times while he finished the novel he was reading. Pilots were frontiersmen in search of a homeland they had not yet found. Up there, Saint-Exupéry wrote, was ‘a silence even more absolute than the clouds, a peace even more final’. The clouds were a frontier ‘between the real and the unreal, between the known and the unknowable’.
To be distracted by the view was to take a risk. ‘One can’t be following a satellite’s orbit and watching these dials at the same time,’ Lindbergh wrote of looking, from high above the clouds, at the moon: ‘I return abruptly to the problems of temperature, oil pressure, and rpm.’ It was a risk then, and it would be a risk still, decades later, to astronauts struggling not to gaze out the window at the mesmerizing view of a receding Earth. They called it ‘Earthgazing’. It was addictive, but a flying machine requires a great deal of attention. Dreams and machines do not mix easily.
Those early aviators were masters of their machines. For most of us our tools remain forever separate from ourselves, something out there to be manipulated as best we can; for them – as perhaps, say, a violin becomes for a great violinist – the tool, instrument, machine becomes an extension of the self. ‘It was as though the wings, nose, and tail were a part of me,’ Lindbergh wrote. ‘They followed my wishes just as did my arms and legs . . . With practice, the handling of a plane becomes instinctive. You move without thinking because you have no time for thought. So long as you have to think to make your plane take action, you have not become its master and its complement.’
Many years later, during one of the regular Saturday recreational flights he took with his youngest daughter Reeve, the engine cut out. ‘What I noticed was my father’s sudden alertness, as if he had opened a million eyes and ears in every direction,’ Reeve said. ‘Are we going to crash?’ she had asked, not out of fear but conversationally. It hadn’t occurred to her to be scared, so confident was she of her father’s abilities as a pilot. She said he coaxed and willed ‘the plane to do what he wanted it to do . . . He could feel its every movement, just as if it were part of his own body. My father wasn’t flying the airplane he was being the airplane . . . Now I knew.’ Afterwards no one could work out how he’d managed to land in such an enclosed space. The plane had to be taken apart to get it out of the field.
There was something magical, too, about the mere fact of flight. ‘There seems to be no reason whatever to keep you from plummeting earthward like a rock,’ Lindbergh wrote. ‘It’s not until you put your arm outside, and press hard against the slipstream, that you sense the power and speed of flight. The air takes on the quality of weight and substance.’
It was to a heightened experience of wakefulness that these aviators were in thrall. ‘It is not danger I love,’ Saint-Exupéry wrote, ‘I know what I love; it is life.’ Flight then had something of the visionary about it; as if consciousness for a moment opened out. Even from the ground and to a non-aviator, there was something other-worldly about man-made flight, at least in those early days when all was new. When Marcel Proust, as the narrator of his long novel, saw a plane for the first time he burst into tears. He felt that for the pilot, and through the pilot for himself too, ‘there lay open . . . all the routes in space, in life itself’. He saw the plane glide for a few moments over the sea, before the pilot quietly made up his mind, seemed ‘to yield to some attraction that was the reverse of gravity’, and returned to ‘his native element’.
Planes were machines capable of ‘annihilating time and space’, Saint-Exupéry wrote, making them tools in our central struggle to understand one another. But it is early days, he warned; we are ‘young barbarians still marveling at our new toys’. Goethe wrote that the human being is the most precise machine that can exist. Perhaps, but which is elevated: the machine or human beings ? As the centuries roll on and our tools, instruments and measuring devices become more and more refined, we might be tempted to suppose, at some point, that our early days are behind us. And yet we should be careful. Science, as the philosopher David Deutsch has said, is at the ‘beginning of infinity’. Should our days turn out even to be numberless, we might, as judged by the elusive and infinite universe, be young barbarians forever.