East to the Dawn (38 page)

Byrd, Guest, and Putnam had made careful and elaborate plans to ensure that the
Friendship
would have the most extensive weather information it was possible to assemble. Dr. James Kimball of the New York Weather Bureau was in charge of the effort. He collected weather data from ships at sea and from weather stations in the United States, Canada, Bermuda, the Arctic, Greenland, and the Grand Banks. In addition, England sent him information covering the eastern Atlantic and Europe. He took all this data and, standing at his high desk in the Whitehall building in lower Manhattan, sometimes watched by George Putnam, plotted it out on an outline map of the North Atlantic. Each day when he had assimilated all the information, he sent it on to Trepassey. Bill and Amelia then took this data and in turn plotted it out—the storms, the winds, the low and high pressure centers—on Stultz's navigation chart. But Kimball was more than weather report coordinator; as the person who knew more about weather patterns than anyone else, he was in a real sense in charge of the expedition. It was he who had picked the takeoff day for Charles Lindbergh and Commander Byrd. As Amelia wrote “We shoved off only when he said go.”

That Thursday June 7, dawned clear and warm, 60 degrees in Trepassey, with a perfect wind for takeoff, west-southwest—perfect flying weather. Kimball had wired them that the transatlantic weather was good enough for them to start, so for the first time since they had arrived on Monday, they could positively look forward to resuming their journey. But thoughts of a nine A.M. start evaporated when Bill noticed that the right-hand float was lying deeper in the water than the left. Slim went out to check and found fifty gallons of water in it. It took until noon to plug the leak, pump out the water (at seven pounds a gallon, that would have been a deadly 350 pounds), and finish loading the gasoline.

By then, the eagerly awaited southwest wind had died down and the water was almost a little too smooth, but highly charged, spurred on by the specter of the
Columbia,
they decided they would attempt a liftoff anyway. They hadn't been able to take off from Boston Harbor with themselves plus Lou Gower and only five hundred gallons of fuel. Aboard they now had nine hundred gallons—an additional 2,800 pounds. Would they be able to lift this heavier load? They went ashore, quickly ate what they hoped would be their last Trepassey meal, refilled their thermos bottles, packed up some sandwiches, and said brief good-byes to local residents
and reporters. Amelia notified Mike Jackman to send off a telegram if they actually became airborne. At 12:22, all motors turning over, they started. The big trimotor gathered speed and roared off down the harbor for more than a mile but never got close to liftoff. Three times in the light wind they tried, three times the pontoons remained glued to the sea. Not willing to give up, they announced they would try again later, at four o'clock, when the wind was expected to freshen. But the wind didn't freshen, and finally, defeated, they taxied back to the mooring. They went ashore fearing the worst, but encouraging news awaited them: the
Columbia
had indeed taken off from Roosevelt field at six fifteen that morning, but it ran into bad weather, got lost in fog, and finally was forced to turn back, landing at noon. It was reported that when Boll returned to Roosevelt field, she stepped from the plane weeping.

Later yet in the day, back checking over the plane, the fliers found a leak in the oil tank. They dismantled the tank, and took it to the shop of local carpenter Joseph Hewitt, who soldered closed an inch-wide hole, caused, they thought, by a dory boat hook. In the end they couldn't consider it an altogether bad day—in fact, they considered themselves lucky, for they realized that if they had succeeded in becoming airborne and started out for Europe, they would have run out of oil and crashed in midocean.

That same day the St. John's afternoon paper,
The Evening Telegram,
carried news of the German aviatrix, Thea Rasche. The Bellanca she had bought, a twin of the
Columbia
powered by a Wright Whirlwind engine, was being delivered to her at Curtiss field on Long Island, “and within the next three days,” she informed the Newfoundland paper, she would take off and fly to Berlin.

On Friday Amelia appeared cheerful,
Times
reporter Ryan said—they were all looking forward to getting a long night's rest, their first, really, because finally “they think everything aboard their craft is in the finest condition.” They seemed unfazed by evening weather reports of no change for the better over the Atlantic, which meant they probably wouldn't start till Sunday figuring the weather would hold up Boll as well.

Thea Rasche's new Bellanca arrived at Curtiss field, and respected transatlantic pilot Clarence Chamberlin took it up for a test flight and declared it “handled very well.” Fraulein Rasche reiterated her plan to fly to Germany by way of Newfoundland as soon as she could.

Saturday June 9. It was still cold, in the forties. The little wind there
was came from the east; a dull, foggy day. The Friendship swung idly at its mooring.

George Putnam tried to lighten the situation with a telegram: SUGGEST YOU TURN IN AND HAVE YOUR LAUNDERING DONE.

To which Amelia replied, THANKS FATHERLY TELEGRAM NO WASHING NECESSARY SOCKS UNDERWEAR WORN OUT SHIRT LOST TO SLIM [GORDON] AT RUMMY CHEERIO AMELIA.

The next evening Kimball reported that from Cape Race across the ocean a series oflow-pressure areas extended nearly to the coast of Ireland, with fog, storms, and easterly winds all the way across the great circle route. As night fell in Trepassey, the wind veered west, and fog rolled in. They thought the fog was just their bad luck—they didn't realize they were in one of the most persistently foggy areas of the world, or that June was one of the worst months, fogbound most of the time. Mariners knew that the fog brooded over that stretch of shore almost “incessantly” in summer, but Byrd had not consulted with mariners.

By this time it was finally getting to Amelia. She wrote in her log that evening, “We have had a cruel day.” The worst of it was that while they were stuck, “our competitors are gaining on us by delay Rasche is the one to fear. I wish we'd have a break.”

And indeed, Rasche was getting closer. At Curtiss field on Long Island mechanics spent the day installing instruments in her new Bellanca. There was no activity in the
Columbia's
hangar. The plane and its fliers were ready—they had done everything there was to do—now they were waiting for a green light on the weather.

Sunday, June 10, was a bad day—cold, with easterly winds. But it wasn't just the weather that was wrong. The scenario Amelia feared most had happened—the men all got drunk.

The second day they were in Trepassey, Amelia had discovered to her horror, driving around with one of the newspaper reporters and Andy Fulgoni, the Paramount photographer, that some of the reporters had liquor with them. She did what she could, exacting a promise from Andy not to let Stultz and Gordon see it, but during the week the fliers and the reporters had gathered in Andy's room, and that was the end of it. “I wish I were a Catholic and could turn over the responsibility of the moment to some deity or demon,” she wrote, “the boys went after bad booze and got it last night.” They didn't get back until six A.M. Bill woke up at twelve thirty, but Slim slept until five PM. She was bitter about the reporter who had made it all possible. “I could choke Frazer. It doesn't matter if he drinks.”

Amelia's log ended on a rare note of despair. “Fog has come in thick and woolly, and rain is now accompanying. Job had nothing on us. We are just managing to keep from suicide.”

To the southwest, in New York, the weather broke; Mabel Boll announced late in the day that she would take off early the next morning.

Monday, June 11, started hopefully in Trepassey. As dawn broke, it was raining and still foggy, but as the morning progressed, the rain stopped, the fog lightened, and it seemed to be warming up. While they waited for the morning report, the wind freshened and hopes were high, but when the telegram came from New York, it was bad news, they couldn't start—“the Atlantic wasn't inviting,” “mayhap tomorrow noon.” The only consoling thought was that the bad weather now extended south down the coast and would hold the
Columbia
up too.

Charles Levine, evidently to keep them twisting, made the announcement, which the Newfoundland papers picked up, that had the
Columbia
taken off, it would have headed “directly” for Europe. Apprised of this, the
Friendship
crew discounted it as a deliberate attempt to mislead them. To pass the time, the trio went exploring, going to see the old cannon at the mouth of the bay, and did some much-needed shopping. They spent the evening working puzzles. Amelia had read the few books and wished for more. By nightfall it was cold again, and she was grateful for a borrowed flannel nightgown. They went to sleep without knowing Mabel Boll had taken off.

The next day the wind was right, the fifteen-knot southwest wind was in fact “the wind we had been praying for,” as Amelia wrote, there was not a trace of fog, and Kimball gave them a green light to go. They loaded their things onto the Friendship, and again said their good-byes. Just past one P.M. Slim Gordon started the motors and they were off, taxiing into position. Stultz gunned the engines, and they went roaring down the harbor. Again the pontoons refused to rise from the water. Stultz tried and tried to get the big monoplane airborne, tried from various parts of the harbor—tried for four heartbreaking hours before he quit. Bill hoped the problem might be water in the pontoons and had Gordon open every single one of the eighteen compartments, only to find that they were watertight and contained less than a gallon in all. Before the last attempt, Amelia wrote, they unloaded everything they could into a waiting rowboat—the moving picture camera, Amelia's leather coat, her boots, bags, even a thermos—in their attempt to make the craft lighter. A watching reporter was not impressed. He thought the
small pile indicative of “the desperate straits to which the flyers were reduced.”

As she got off the plane at the end of the day Amelia kept her feelings to herself, merely saying, “What rotten luck,” to the reporters. In the log Amelia blamed their failure on a receding tide that roiled the sea and threw the spray so high, it drowned the outboard motors. Many of those watching believed the plane was too heavy to ever lift off, according to
Times
reporter Ryan. Amelia was so upset by their failure, she couldn't read the newspapers and letters waiting for her. Then came more bad news—Boll and the
Columbia
had reached Newfoundland. It was, Amelia wrote, “the worst day.” Little did she know that worse was to come. Much worse.

At eight P.M. the
Columbia
circled Harbor Grace, seventy-five miles to the northeast, and landed there on the pebbly airstrip built the summer before, to be greeted by Judge Casey, airport officials, and crowds of townspeople. They had been buffeted by winds, almost forced down by the weather, and they were tired after the ten-hour flight, but Mabel Boll's first question upon alighting was “Has the
Friendship
hopped off yet?” Told no, she had exclaimed, “Great. Our chances are even.” She and her pilots went immediately to the Cochrane House, dined, and then, tired or not, strolled about before retiring. Oliver Le Boutillier was quoted as saying that the plane had averaged 120 miles an hour. That was ten miles an hour faster than the Friendship. But—a ray of hope for the Trepassey crew—he also said they would spend a day or two resting before tackling the Atlantic. Mabel Boll said they would start Thursday.