The year is 1939, two years after Earhart and Noonan disappeared. San Francisco, thirty three years after the great earthquake of 1906 has completely recovered. Not a trace of the fire and the torn and crumbled buildings are left.
Cable cars climbing up and down the steep slopes of the city came to San Francisco because of an incident that happened in the Spring of 1869. In that fateful year two horses were dragged to their deaths on the cobblestone San Francisco streets when they slid backwards under heavy loads. Several years later, the disaster caused Andrew Hallide to test the first cable car system near the top of Nob Hill at Clay and Jones Street. It was the direct result of a patent Hallidie’s father had filed in England for the manufacture of wire rope. The younger Hallide immigrated to the United States in 1852 and brought the wirerope technology with him. Initially, he built cars for the pulling of ore out of underground mines and the building of a suspension bridge across Sacramento’s American River. Now, it was being used to pull cable cars up and down the streets of San Francisco.
If there ever was an air conditioned city, it has to be the city by the bay. Sitting on hills, high above the sea, it never seems to suffer from the summertime heat waves of Oakland or the inland cities. It basks in the windy ocean breezes off the Pacific. The heat and the air pollution seem to blow across the inland waters toward Oakland. Good riddance they would say. However, San Francisco suffers constantly from the fog that pours in across the Golden Gate and envelopes the city as it rolls across the bridge. There is another problem San Francisco suffers– earthquakes. However, most San Franciscoans shrug them off as some type of necessary evil. They happen every now and then.
The offices of The San Francisco Daily News are on California street just down the avenue from Grant Avenue and China Town. Street traffic, cable cars, and pedestrians move by the front of the building. On both sides of the entrance there are large brass signs, “The San Francisco Daily News.”
On this day in 1939, a newsboy is selling newspapers on the street next to his wooden stand. Inside the News building, up the circular stairs to the second floor City room, teletype machines are spewing out their staccato clicking noises as they roll out sheets and sheets of press information. The stockmarket, Washington, Germany, Japan, the threats of war, it’s all there inching its way off rolls of beige tinted paper.
Two proof clerks, Jonsey and Schmidt, are sitting at their desks with green plastic visors covering their heads. Proof sheets about four feet long are clipped to boards on the walls. There is a counter at the front of the office. To the left of the scene is a closed door with a transom. The words “City Room” appear in large reverse type on the glass insert door. Over the door the transom is open for air circulation. Large windows face outward toward the street. In the background of the windows is a view of San Francisco Bay. Below the windows is Fisherman’s Wharf with fishing boats and sail boats tied up at anchor. In addition to the two clerks, there are three large oak desks and chairs. Hermoine Daphne, secretary, has the desk closest to the front counter. John Brushman, reporter, sits directly behind Daphne. Mack Brown, the veteran editor, has a large desk to the rear surrounded by conference chairs. All the desks have in and out baskets overburdened with mail and proof sheets.
John Brushman is Jewish. Nothing about his appearance suggests his Jewish roots. He has auburn eyes and dark brown hair, a very striking appearance. His mother claimed it was the pot roast and the mashed potatoes that made the difference. Brushman is a fine old name in the San Francisco Jewish community. Brushman Wholesale Liquors survived the 1906 earthquake, and the fire that followed, by rolling barrels of whiskey and beer to the boat docks and onto waiting ships. Fire consumed the warehouses and the waterfront. Jake Brushman made sure the disaster didn’t get his lager or his whiskey. In the Orthodox synagogues on the festival of Purim, the Jews would get roaring drunk. It was a case of Brushman’s best whiskey and some goot German beer that kept the place rolling. The Jews would say, “God said we should celebrate!” So they would all get drunk by heavenly decree. A few of the men spent the night in the Schul trying to sober up. The next day their wives would pick them up and usher them home after a night of rollicking. John Brushman all of his life liked to write stories. He graduated Stanford School of Journalism with high marks. He was a natural for a reporter’s job at the News, and he was good at it. The thought of delivering beer barrels to the local bars in the middle of the night didn’t hold much attraction for him. In fact, he hated it, but he did like the whiskey and the beer. An empty fifth of bourbon with a candle in the top adorned his desk at the office.
Brushman moves over to the window of the city room and looks down at the newsboy on the street below. He thinks to himself, “It was almost two years to the day we were selling papers about Earhart crashing at sea.” He pauses for a minute, then he turns to Hermoine Daphne sitting at her desk.
“How are we going to do a story on Earhart? No one knows what happened. We don’t have anything new.”
Daphne looks up at Brushman, “Don’t worry about that Mack should be here any minute. I can smell the cigar smoke coming down the hall.”
Outside the City room, Mack Brown marches down the hallways with mail tucked under his arm belching smoke from his ever present Havana cigar. He’s overweight but muscular. He has gray hair and a huge gray mustache. A veteran of the Cuban-American War, he fought with Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough Riders, and he doesn’t mind telling people about it. He’s a no nonsense newspaper man always after headlines. He lives and breathes for the printed word. Someday, he believes, he’ll win a Pulitzer Prize. So far it has alluded him.
In the City Room, Daphne and Brushman are having one of their periodic conflagrations.
Brushman, “Daffy don’t you have to be in Journalism school tonight?
“My name’s not Daffy! You’re going to have everyone thinking I’m some kind of a nut!
Brushman, “Well, you are a little nuts, aren’t you?
Daphne, “Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I can’t be a reporter. Women have the right to vote!”
Brushman, “Well, it’s just one of those things.”
Daphne, “One of those things! Uhhh, men. Raincoat please.”
Brushman takes Daphne’s coat and affectionately holds it for her. She cuddles up to him. Suddenly, Mack Brown comes rolling through the door puffing his cigar. He sets his mail down on the nearest desk. Daphne goes prancing around in her raincoat.
Daphne, “Don’t you think I look cute in a raincoat?”
Brown, “What is this a smooching session or a fashion show?”
Brushman, “There’ a cable car coming down the street. I can hear the bell clanging.”
Daphne, “I’m going to be a full fledged reporter someday.”
Turning her head in triumph, Daphne marches out the door and down the stairs. Brown picks up his mail and heads for his desk. He seats himself determined to solve the situation.
Brown, “Johnny, she’s a pretty girl she is. The only trouble is I’m afraid the day is coming when she’ll show up for work wearing pants.”
Brushman, “Pants! Since when do women wear pants? I don’t understand why she didn’t go to work for the Society Column. The City Room is no place for a girl like that.”
Brown, “Maybe she thinks she’s Amelia Earhart.” As Brushman speaks, the telephone on his desk rings.
Brown picks up the phone. “City Room, Brown speaking.”
Paul Smith, Managing Editor, is on the line, “Mack, I want you and Brushman up here before you leave for the day.” Brown answers, “Before we leave? We’d better get up there in the next few minutes. Too much goin’ on around here.” Smith, “All right, come on up. The door’s open just walk in.” Brown hangs up the phone and stares at Brushman, “Smith wants us upstairs.”
Brown and Brushman head for the stairway. They climb one flight of stairs to the third floor and the Managing Editor’s office. As they open the door, Smith takes off his glasses and motions for the two men to sit down
Brown, “What’s up Chief?”
Smith, “You’re working on the Earhart story. What have you got so far?”
Brown, “Nothing really new except a Pan Am Clipper ship mysteriously disappeared. Probably hijacked by the Japanese.”
Smith, “What does that have to do with Earhart? So, a Clipper ship disappears. You can’t prove anything with a statement like that. How do you know it didn’t explode in mid air?”
Brown, “One Pan American Clipper scratched off the face of the map. In a few more years we’re going to be at war with the Japanese. Clipper ships just don’t disappear into thin air. Okay, so it blew up.”
Smith, “Who says we’re goin’to war? Would you care to bet a box of cigars on that statement?”
Brown, “Thanks but no thanks.”
Smith, “You guys in the City Room have to be very careful with the Japanese. Accusations can get us into a lot of trouble.”
Brown, “So what is this supposed to mean? No more stories on missing airplanes?”
Smith, “NEVER MIND MISSING AIRPLANES! I CAN’T WORRY ABOUT TWO OR THREE YEARS FROM NOW, I’M WORRIED ABOUT TODAY! Mack, I’m sorry, I know you’ve been with the paper for a long time.”
Brown, “Twenty-eight years to be exact.”
Smith, “Here’s the problem. A Japanese consular officer was over here this morning along with a representative from the State Department.”
Brown, “WHAT! WHAT THE HELL FOR?
Smith, “They don’t like our newspaper articles. The News is being accused of printing too many war stories about the Empire of Japan.”
Brown, “Well that’s too bad about them. Whatever happened to freedom of the press?”
Smith, “Who said anything about freedom of the press? We have to tone it down. Diplomacy, you have no idea of what goes on. It’s the next thing to a poker game.”
Brown, “I can imagine.”
Smith, “I’M ON EDGE, I DON’T WANT THEM OVER HERE AGAIN. NOT FOR ANY REASON.”
Brown, “I understand.”
Smith, “What’s happening with Earhart? I want a story for the Sunday paper. But watch your step. I don’t care what you say just don’t get Earhart mixed up with the Japanese. WE”RE NOT IN A WAR … YET!”
Brushman, “We can get you proof copies up here as soon as they’re ready.”
Smith, “I DON’T WANT ANYTHING OUT ON EARHART WITHOUT MY PERSONAL OKAY.”
Brown, “You’re the boss.”
Smith, “I’m really tight on this. Everyone is asking about Earhart.”
Brown, “We’ll scoop the scooper.”
Smith’s phone rings on his desk. He answers, “Who? Oh they did huh, we’ll see about that!” As Smith talks, he waves Brown and Brushman out of the office.
In the hallway Brown motions to Brushman, “Let’s get back downstairs. Wait a minute, I have to fire up my cigar. It’s food that’s what it is!”
Brushman,“FOOD? DID YOU SAY FOOD! HOW ABOUT SMOKE SIGNALS?
Brown and Brushman head for the stairway and the City Room. Once inside, Brushman follows Brown to his desk. behind a trail of smoke.
Brushman, “Maybe the Navy will have something in the morning.”
Brown, “It’s possible. We’ll have to see.”
Brushman, “You haven’t changed your mind about any of this have you?”
Brown, “Look at this pile of letters on my desk.”
Brushman stares at the letters, “You mean those are all on Earhart?”
Brown, “Do you really believe Earhart crashed in the sea and plunk that was the end of it?”
Brushman, “Who knows what happened? If it was me I’d crash her in the ocean. It’s the easy way out.”
Brown, “OH, YOU TOO? SHE DITCHED IN THE OCEAN. FACTS, WE HAVE TO HAVE FACTS. WE CAN’T PRINT A COLLECTION OF OPINIONS. IT WON’T WORK. Besides that my neck is bothering me again, arthritis.”
Brown grabs his neck and rubs it with the palm of his hand. He winces with the ever present pain and walks over to one of the windows. In the distance a view of San Francisco Bay seemingly takes his mind off his problems. He stares at the Bay Bridge and Fisherman’s Wharf. “She ditched in the ocean, did she? Why didn’t the wreckage wash up on the shore of one of those islands out there? It doesn’t make sense.”
Brushman, “The public doesn’t know what to believe unless they read it in the newspapers.”
BROWN, “I need my eight hours for the Navy. Tomorrow Ed Kelly is going to be here. He’s got a press release. Somethin’ new. Whatever it is.”
Brushman, “Yeah, let’s knock off.
Brown, “I want you here by nine in the morning.” Brown stares at the empty whiskey bottle on Brushman’s desk.
Brushman, “So, one little drinky winky won’t hurt anything.”
Brown, “Never mind with one little drinky. I should be leaving myself, but I’ve got too much on my mind I can’t relax for a minute. It’s got me uptight it does.”
Brown paces the floor nervously. He puffs on his cigar and rubs the back of his neck. “Havana Cigars, there’s nothing like ’em. I swear they fortify your soul. That Earhart, when she flew non-stop Honolulu to San Francisco, she landed at the Oakland Airport across the bay.”
Brushman, “I remember that. How’d you get the interview?”
Brown, “The interview? I got one. It was an accident. I never expected it. There must have been ten thousand people at the Oakland airport. When Earhart landed, it was like an explosion.” Brown pauses and walks around.
“All those cars out there, they started honkin’ their horns. It was about one thirty in the afternoon. The crowd stormed the airplane. The propeller was turning. My God, I thought someone was going to get killed. You can’t imagine what was going on. I never saw such hero worship. Earhart is a lady, a woman in pants. She has refinement. She has class. I’m telling you she charmed that crowd. I was amazed.”
Brown walks over to the typsetters working on proofs in the back of the office and informs the men they can quit for the day. The two clerks look up and nod their heads. They take off their visors and turn off their desk lights.
“So, John Brushman, you want to know how I got the interview with Amelia Earhart? Well, it was January 12th, the year was 1935. I remember the day, it was gray and overcast. I was there with a cameraman from the paper. A huge crowd lined the parking lot at Oakland Airport. A snack stand was selling its wares on one end of a row of parked cars. You could smell the coffee in the air. It was some kind of special brew. Good tasting stuff. It had almonds or something in it, whatever it was. It was different. The weather edged the crowd on for something hot. Some of the onlookers were walking, some were in cars. I was ready with my camera man. Suddenly, coming in low off the end of the runway is a Lockheed Vega. It was a red high wing monoplane, fixed landing gear, only one engine. It seemed to bobble up and down and swing to the sides. First one wing would dip, then the other wing would dip. Finally, at the last minute as it crossed over a barbed wire fence, the plane looked as if it locked onto the runway. It came in on a straight line, landed, and rolled to a stop. The propeller was still turning when the crowd rushed the airplane. It was insanity. Cars started honking their horns. Then, suddenly, Earhart throws up the hatch on her airplane, climbs out over the top, and waves at the crowd. Someone thrust a dozen roses into her hands. There is a roar of approval from the crowd. They all yelled, ‘EARHART, EARHART.’ What a scene that was. She finally came out the rear door of the airplane and stepped out on the runway. Fred Goerner, a reporter from CBS news pushed a microphone under her nose. Earhart was dressed in a flying suit with a life vest and a parachute over her shoulder. She stopped and smiled and she started to speak.”
Goerner questions her, “How was the flight?” Amelia replied, “Am I on the air?”
Goerner, “Yes, we’re on the air. My name is Fred Goerner, and I’m with KCBS radio in San Francisco. Were there any problems with your flight?”
Amelia, “Problems! You want problems? I almost didn’t make it off the runway at Honolulu. The ground was covered with a thick layer of mud. I ran into heavy fog, but it finally cleared about half way across.”
Goerner speaks into microphone, “I see you made it to Oakland and right on time.”
Amelia, “Everything went smooth after the takeoff. I would like to say hello to my husband George, and to my mother Amy, and my sister Muriel.”
Goerner, “And I’ll bet there are people in Hawaii you would like to mention.”
Amelia, “I’ll say there is. Paul Mantz and a Navy Lieutenant, George Sparhawk, who was a big help with the weather. Also, I would like to mention Major Clark and the Army people at Wheeler Field.”
Goerner, “You know, Miss Earhart, you are the first person, man or woman, to fly non-stop Honolulu to Oakland.”
Amelia, “Flying is something a woman can do Mr. Goerner. You will have to pardon me I’m very tired.”
Goerner, “I’ll bet you are. PLEASE STAND BACK AND LET MISS EARHART THROUGH! STAND BACK PLEASE!” The crowd gives way at Goerner’s urging. Amelia makes a departing remark, “It was a great flight.”
Goerner speaks into the microphone, “And there she goes, ladies and gentlemen, one of America’s finest pilots surrounded by armed guards walking toward the hangar. This is Fred Goerner, at Oakland Airport, returning you to KCBS News, San Francisco.”
Brown, “The interview? You want to know about the interview? Well, I followed her into an airplane hangar. The ground crew was busy pulling her Lockheed inside the place, and I had on my old hat on with the press pass tucked in the rim. I was standing there rubbing my neck as usual and guess who walks by? It was Amelia Earhart. Yes sir, she walked right by me while I was standing there. She still had on her flying suit and boots. Over her shoulders was a parachute. She was carrying a bouquet of flowers. There was a scarf around her neck. She stopped and turned as soon as she saw me.”
Amelia, “You’re from the press?”
Brown, “The San Francisco Daily News, ma’am. Best paper on the West Coast.”
Amelia, “The Daily News, I already made statements to the press. Are you a reporter?”
Brown, “Mack Brown, Ma’am, editor in charge of the city room. Not the managing editor, just the city editor.”
Amelia, “So I got the boss this time. Uh Mack, please call me Amelia.”
Brown, “How did your interview go with Fred Goerner?”
Amelia, “Who is Fred Goerner?”
Brown, “Fred Goerner was the radio announcer from KCBS. He’s a top notch journalist. Someday he’s going to write a book about you.”
Amelia, “A book? Well, I’ll have to be careful what I say.”
Brown, “I know you’re tired Miss Amelia. Do you think you could add a few more comments about your flight?”
Amelia, “Something new? What else can I say? The rest of the trip was in and out of fog, but it cleared.”
Brown, “Then what happened?”
Amelia, “I spotted the track of an ocean liner headed for the United States. It turned out to be the Dollar Liner President Pierce. I radioed San Francisco for a position report and discovered I was exactly three hundred miles out from Oakland.”
Brown, “Nice going.”
Amelia, “You think it was nice going? Let me tell you if you think flying is simple you had better guess again.”
Brown, “I said the wrong thing.”
Amelia, “I’ll say you said the wrong thing. It’s true I was the first man or woman to fly non-stop Honolulu to Oakland, but New Jersey to Ireland was a reign of terror.”
Brown, “What happened?”
Amelia pauses for a minute. She slowly starts to tell the story, “The first thing that happened was the altimeter failed. You know you can’t stop an airplane in the middle of the sky and start making repairs. There’s a time when it’s terrifying. Just outside Newfoundland the fuel gauge in the cockpit cracked, and I proceeded to get a stream of aviation gasoline down my neck for the rest of the trip. Then on top of that the exhaust manifold split on the seams. I sat there for fifteen hours and watched blue flames from the engine dance in front of my face for the rest of the trip. It wasn’t fun I can tell you that. The weather reports were upside down and backwards. There were times when I didn’t know if the plane was going to explode or fly. But I didn’t have any choice. I had to fight icing conditions all the way. The air speed indicator froze. The airplane must have stalled at least three times and tailed off into a nosedive. One of the stalls dropped the plane at least three thousand feet. The only thing that saved the day was a gyro compass a mechanic installed before the flight. If it wasn’t for that compass, I would have never made it. The crossing was supposed to have been New Jersey to Paris. But I lost so much fuel, I had to terminate the flight over Ireland. I didn’t have any choice.”
Brown, “You’re a beautiful young woman. Why are you risking your life on these hair raising adventures?”
Amelia, “I’m out to prove that women can be as good at this as the men. What do you want me to do sit in the kitchen all day cooking green beans?”
Brown, “Well, maybe not beans, how about baked apples? I love baked apples stuffed with raisins.
Amelia, “My home is in the sky.”
Brown, “What does George Putnam say to this?”
Amelia, “George? G.P.? He loves it.”
Brown, “I can’t imagine anyone trying to get in your way.”
Amelia, “Look, Mister Brown, I’m awfully tired. Do you realize what I just did?”
Brown, “How about coffee and a chocolate bar? There’s a vending machine over there against the wall.” Earhart and Brown walk over to the vending machines in the hangar.
Amelia, “I don’t drink coffee. Hot soup would be more like it.”
Brown inserts change in the vending machine, a chocolate bar pops out. He offers it to Earhart.
Amelia, “I don’t know why it is but every time I’m off on a long flight, I start craving hot soup. For some unknown reason, it calms me down.”
Brown, “Calms you down, you need something to speed you up.”
Amelia, “You’re not Amelia Earhart.”
Brown, “What’s it really like up there in the sky all alone by yourself?”
Amelia, “At first it’s scary. The maps are wrong The radios don’t work. The fuel gauges are all messed up up. You think you’re going to crash.”
Brown, “But you don’t crash.”
Amelia, “No, you don’t crash. It takes a while to settle down. Gradually your confidence level starts to rise. The radios establish contact. The hum of the engine begins to setup a rhythm. If it’s at night the stars will sparkle like diamonds. Then the beauty of the flight takes its effect. You see things… clouds… maybe lightning from a storm. Over the ocean there’s a glow at night. The sea is almost iridescent. It’s beautiful once you realize you can live through it.
Brown, “And you lived through it.”
Amelia, “Yes, I lived through it. But every time I go up I take my life in my hands. What can I do? I’m a flier. I know someday I’ll have to pay the ultimate price. It haunts me like a ghost, a ghost that never disappears. It’s always there.”
Brown replies, “It’s hard to get away from a ghost.”
Amelia, “You never get away from it. You have to live with it. There are times when I can smell wildflowers and fresh cut grass from the fields when I am taking off from a runway. I dream at times, but my home is in the sky.”
As Earhart and Brown talk, a taxicab drives up outside the hangar. A guard emerges from the cab and walks over to Earhart. Amelia turns her head and picks up her parachute. She smiles and shakes hands with Brown.
For a few brief moments Mack Brown was there in an airplane hangar with Amelia Earhart.
Brushman, “Mack, you’re in the City Room, remember?”
Brown, “The City Room? Uh? We’re in the City Room. The years must be taking their toll.”
Brushman, “She must be quite a woman. For a minute I thought you were in outer space. So, that was the interview with Amelia Earhart.”
Brown, “That it was. Amelia Earhart is very much a lady, a woman with a purpose. She’s outspoken. She has a friendly small town way about her, and she’s very brave. How many people would take the risk of sitting behind a flaming airplane engine half way across the Atlantic? It’s no wonder the crowds flock to her the way they do.
Brushman, “It’s beginning to sound like Mack Brown fell in love with a lady pilot. Pants, she wears pants. You know, women aren’t supposed to wear pants.
Brown, “So, pass a law women can’t wear pants.” Brown picks up his cigar and bites off its end.
Brushman, “So how are you going to check out the legs of a woman wearing pants? It’s impossible.
Brown, “Yeah, so Johnny, we have to knock off. It’s getting late.”
Brushman waves his hands in the air and kicks out the plug on his desk light. The light pops off.
Brown, “Flaming youth. You know you might start a fire doing things that.”
Brushman answers, “Who me?”
Brown, “Johnny scram, will you please? The Navy is coming… remember?”
Brushman grabs his raincoat and rushes out the door. Brown picks up a telephone to call his wife. As he dials, he goes over to an open window looking for a cable car. He waits for the telephone to ring.
Brown, “Annie, Annie I’m through here at the office. I’m on the way. What’s that? Oatmeal? All right I’ll pick some up at the Safeway. I’m going out the door right this minute. The movies? Clark Gable?”
Brown bestows a kiss on the telephone, hangs up, and smiles. A cable car clang clangs its bell below an open window. Quickly, he turns out his desk light and grabs his raincoat. He rushes down the stairs toward the slow moving trolley.