LINDBERGH BEFORE PARIS

Flight Journal, Feb 2004 by Meyer, Corky

I asked him how in the world he had managed to find the field and land in zero-zero conditions. he said, "I could see the State House dome sticking up through the fog, and when I thought I was about over the field, I flew to the State House, got my bearings and headed for the field. There was a small hole in the fog over the center of the field that I recognized because of the ruts in the mud that the airplanes had made while landing and taxiing. I made my approach from habit and had the plane trimmed and throttled to a high sink rate before I got into the fog. I got a glimpse of the ground in time to make a three-point and used the compass to taxi in."

I asked whether he was going to put the mail on the train, and he replied, "No; this stuff is real thin, and I can get out all right."

I made my "famous" remark, "Hell, Slim, you can't do that" to which he didn't pay any attention. I changed the mail and held a wing while he turned east, taxied along the boundary lights to the center of the field and then turned north. He stopped long enough for his compass to stabilize and took off. A great example of "seat-of-the-pants flying."

Just to buy a helmet

Robertson Aircraft Corp. was based at Lambert Field, St. Louis, where it also operated a pilot equipment and supply store. I asked Slim whether he would buy a pilot's helmet for me. He said, "Sure, but why don't you ride to St. Louis with me on a morning flight and pick one out yourself?" A few days later, I took him up on his offer. I bought a helmet and met many Robertson employees; I was having a great time when Slim yelled, "Lunchtime!" Phil Love and Tommy Nelson, the two other original airmail pilots were at the car; it was a '23 or '24 Ford Coupe, and the three apparently owned it in partnership. Slim was in the driver's seat; "Nellie" sat in the middle, and I sat on the right side with Phil on my lap.

After we had left the airport, Slim got on a Missouri mud road with hub-deep ruts in the middle. he dropped the wheels in the ruts and pulled the ears together (moving the throttle and spark control to the wide-open position). He then pulled a rolled-up newspaper out of his hip pocket, spread it across the steering wheel and pretended to be reading it as we bounced and lurched along the road. Slim was the boss, but I distinctly heard Nellie say under his breath, "Slim, you are a damned idiot." After a mile of this, we turned onto another road, arrived at a restaurant and had lunch. Because Slim hadn't been able to get anyone to "chicken out" on the way over, he drove back with both hands on the wheel. I don't remember who flew the evening flight back to Springfield, but it wasn't nearly as exciting as the ride in the Ford Coupe. This was one of the incidents that earned Slim the reputation of being a practical joker.

Do I still owe him $10?

In 1926 and 1927, most aviation companies were woefully undercapitalized, and it was not unusual for paydays to be missed (Robertson's was Friday). Sum's salary was a fabulous $400 a month, and he always carried a fat roll of bills with a rubber band around it in his right pocket. For some reason, Slim seemed to fly most of the Friday night trips northbound. My $22 weekly wage was always spent by Friday. When Slim would say, "Sorry, Craig; no check tonight," he could probably tell by the look on my face that I was thinking, "Oh no, how am I going to eat until Monday?" he would pull out that big roll of bills, peel off a "ten" and say, "Here; this should hold you over until Monday. You can pay me back then."