The Aviators: Eddie Rickenbacker, Jimmy Doolittle, Charles Lindbergh, and the Epic Age of Flight

by Winston Groom

Rickenbacker had now broken into the big-time race car circuit as a serious player, and his photograph, grinning and mud-spattered, was flashed on sports pages from coast to coast and foreign lands as well. Also, as was the custom of the day, sportswriters gave Rickenbacker half a dozen sobriquets, most of them a nod to his Germanic-sounding name: “The Dutch Demon,” “Baron Von Rickenbacher,” the “Big Teuton,” and so forth.

After a trip to Japan Mitchell famously predicted that the next war would be fought in the Pacific after a Japanese sneak attack on a Sunday morning in Hawaii. Eddie Rickenbacker, who had served as Mitchell’s driver before becoming an ace combat pilot, wryly quipped that “the only people who paid any attention to him were the Japanese.”

Doolittle emerged from the wreckage and began to clamber up on the fuselage as the crowd rushed toward him to help, some laughing when they saw he was alive and well. One woman asked if he was hurt, and Doolittle courteously replied, “No, but my feelings are.”

Next morning Rickenbacker was sworn in as a sergeant in the army and given his uniform and gear. The advance party shipped out on the White Star Line’s RMS Baltic, with Eddie consigned to a hammock in the steerage, which, he complained, was grubby and the mess hall was grubby too. Up on deck he ran into a friendly fellow sergeant and was amazed to learn that this man had been installed in a comfortable second-class cabin. “It’s because I’m a sergeant first class,” the man told him, pointing out that Eddie was just a staff sergeant. Rickenbacker hadn’t known there were different kinds of sergeants. Immediately he sought out his old pal Colonel Dodd, who he figured owed him a favor. When Eddie said he wanted to be promoted, Dodd replied that “promotions come through meritorious service, Eddie. How do you intend to go about that?” “I don’t know, Colonel,” Eddie told him. “That’s why I brought you along.” Dodd burst out laughing and Rickenbacker got his promotion—as well as a bump up to second-class accommodations.

WHEN HE REPORTED TO HIS ASSIGNMENT as engineer at the American flying school he found it was run by five officers whose names, ironically, were Spaatz, Wiedenbach, Tittel, Spiegel, and himself, Rickenbacker. Behind their backs they were known snidely as “the five German spies.”

THE LAFAYETTE ESCADRILLE, organized in France before the United States entered the war, was composed of American volunteers and some Frenchmen. It now provided the backbone of the U.S. air effort, with many of its pilots joining the ranks of the new American pursuit squadrons, where their combat experience was invaluable. They brought with them also a certain joie de vivre that was not always appreciated by the high command.

In Paris they would take over such haunts as Harry’s New York Bar, where someone of their number would play the piano and they would drink and sing: The trip was long, the boys arrived They ripped off shirts and collars. The pretty maid who welcomed them Made thirty thousand dollars.

By this time the international press had begun to immortalize Allied pilots throughout the world, doubtless to the detriment of the many brave infantry officers and others in the combat arms who endured almost unbelievably frightful conditions on the front lines. But the pilots were novel—“knights of the air” was an expression often used to describe them. Besides, they were available for interviews and photographs in relatively comfortable quarters, in contrast to the grimy infantrymen, who lived day and night at the very dangerous front.

The skies clouded up again. About three o’clock in the afternoon he saw a long shape ahead. He was flying only a hundred feet above the water but it looked like a coastline. After so many illusions Lindbergh took it with a grain of salt, but he climbed a thousand feet for a better look. Slowly, like a time-lapse photograph, the coastline materialized before him—barren islands, bays, rocky fingers of land, inlets, low rounded mountains, green fields. He checked the map on his knees. Dingle Bay and Valentia fit snugly, as in a jigsaw puzzle. Lindbergh had struck the southwest coast of Ireland where, as usual, it was raining. But he was right where he wanted to be, and two hours ahead of schedule! Through all the storms, the spoiling winds and fog, the crude instruments of navigation, sleep deprivation, uncertainties, fears, phantoms, mirages, and haunted heads, if this wasn’t a miracle it ought to be.

After thirty-four hours and thirty-six hundred miles in the air, Lindbergh was bumping along toward he knew not what in the darkened part of the runway. “What” turned out to be perfectly good grass, and Lindbergh let himself roll to a solid stop on terra firma before turning to taxi back toward the hangars. That was when he saw the crowd, or mob, and they saw him, more than a hundred thousand of them, men, women, and children, rushing toward him screaming things in French, of which the only thing he understood was his name.

LINDBERGH HAD PLANNED TO CHECK into a cheap hotel or pensione for the night when he landed in Paris, and then spend a week or so fooling around the aerodromes and flying fields, perhaps meeting some French pilots and engineers. Instead he became the object of the greatest celebration in France since the end of World War I, and which became possibly the greatest public outburst in the history of the world.

Lindbergh turned down a gift of 150,000 francs that the Aéro-Club had offered him, instead (once more) diplomatically asking that it be given to help the families of French fliers who had died “for the progress of aviation” (doubtless with the mother of the missing Charles Nungesser in mind).

Afterward, on the terrace, he met Winston Churchill, then chancellor of the exchequer, who later told the Parliament, “From the little we have seen of him, we have derived the impression that he represents all that a man should say, all that a man should do, and all that a man should be.”9

on Thursday evening, June 14, at the Hotel Brevoort on Fifth Avenue, Lindbergh was presented by Raymond Orteig with the Orteig Prize, consisting of an elegant scroll, a medal, and a check for $25,000. In accepting it, Lindbergh generously congratulated Orteig for issuing a challenge that initiated the construction of, and consequent improvements to, so many aircraft seeking his prize.

There were art pieces offered, depictions of Lindbergh in all mediums and stages of excellence, and sculptures “made of pure silver, ivory, plaster, and soap; airplane models of solid gold as well as fragile silk.” In all, there were more than fifteen thousand gift items,16 inspired by everything under the sun—from an ivory inlaid billiard cue to a copy of the Gutenberg Bible.

It is noteworthy that the Spirit of St. Louis Organization (the backers) refused any claim on or share in the gifts to Lindbergh, which remain highly valuable.

Two weeks later, in a similar hearing before the Senate, Lindbergh testified against the lend-lease bill on grounds that sending vast quantities of U.S. armaments abroad dramatically weakened America’s ability to defend herself against an enemy attack from any quarter—including the Pacific. But his refusal to take sides in the present conflict, with most of Europe occupied and England under heavy attack, made him sound unpatriotic. The only moment of levity in the proceedings came when Florida’s senator Claude Pepper, who considered Lindbergh a “fifth columnist” and was a little dotty even then, began his questioning by asking stupidly, “Colonel, when did you first go to Europe?” When Lindbergh replied, “Nineteen twenty-seven, sir,” the gallery erupted in hilarious jubilation.18

The fact remains that what he had said was true, that as a group Jews were lobbying for the United States to go to war with Germany. But as Lindbergh’s friend former president Herbert Hoover instructed, “When you had been in politics long enough, you learned not to say things just because they are true.”21

What allows an aircraft to take off from the ground (or, in this case, the deck) is a factor called lift, which is a direct function of the speed of the airflow over the wings. Every plane has a takeoff speed—the speed at which it can become airborne—depending on atmospheric conditions. On a carrier, there is the added factor of the speed of the vessel, plus the speed of the wind, as the carrier will always turn into the wind to launch. In the experiment Duncan conducted with the B-25s, the speed of the ship was 20 miles per hour, and the speed of the wind was 25 miles per hour—a total of 45 miles per hour of airflow over the wings. Since the minimum takeoff speed of the B-25 was a low 68 miles an hour, the pilot had only to accelerate to about 23 miles per hour to get airborne. In fact, a takeoff by a 25,000-pound plane in less than 500 feet would have been impossible except from an aircraft carrier. Wind at sea, then, would be an important factor in the raid.

At first, aboard ship, there was some resentment between the army and navy personnel. Seeing the bombers on deck, the navy people assumed they were merely part of some sort of ferrying operation that would take the B-25s to Hawaii or another Pacific island. Since the army men wouldn’t tell them any different, they felt put upon. Then, on April 2, at noon, the carrier slipped her moorings and steamed westward beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. By late afternoon when they had rendezvoused with the cruisers and destroyers and were out of sight of land, Captain Mitscher sent a signal to all ships: “This force is bound for Tokyo.” Within moments a chorus of cheers from five thousand throats rose up toward the darkening Pacific skies.

King’s own daughter said of him, “He is the most even-tempered officer in the United States Navy. He is always in a rage.” Upon his promotion to admiral, King is said to have remarked of himself, “When they get in trouble, they send for the sons-of-bitches.”

Adamson, using a kind of code because of the presence of the crew, reminded Rickenbacker that if it was Japanese territory they put down in, because of what they knew about the upcoming North Africa invasion, they can’t afford to be taken prisoners. Adamson whispered that during his intelligence training he’d learned the Japanese had acquired some kind of “truth serum” drug from the Germans. Rickenbacker acknowledged that “if the Japs find us on the rafts you and I have only one way to go, and that’s down.”8

Ford needed Lindbergh as a troubleshooter, which in the argot of the manufacturing world translated to “technical consultant,” but in fact meant “test pilot.” Charles told him he’d better check with the War Department and White House first, but Henry Ford, being Henry Ford, did not appreciate the notion of having to “check” with anyone—up to and including the White House—when he wanted to hire somebody.

The Japanese gunners on Rabaul were considered the best in the South Pacific, Lindbergh said, for the simple reason that “they have had the most practice.”

Kenney was “very decent” about it, Lindbergh said, and told him he would cut orders so that he could remain in New Guinea but asked him to refrain from any more combat flying. Lindbergh replied that he didn’t want to go back to the front and just sit around, that the best way for him to properly evaluate the problems associated with the P-38 would be to test the plane under combat conditions, and that his recommendations might save lives. Wasn’t there some way around the regulations? Suddenly Kenney “became thoughtful and his eyes twinkled,” Lindbergh said, and “the ice was broken.” Kenney told Lindbergh he would put him on observer status, which allowed flying but no shooting, adding with a wink that “no one back in the States will know whether you use your guns or not.”

He flew over to Palermo, Sicily, one day, where Patton was in temporary exile as a sort of potted plant for various ceremonial occasions. Doolittle identified himself to the control tower and requested permission to pay his respects to the general. When he landed, Doolittle found Patton waiting for him on the runway in his jeep, with the three-star flags of a lieutenant general adorning the hood, wearing his polished helmet and famous ivory-handled revolvers. Patton, his face beaming like a harvest moon, rushed to Doolittle as soon as he climbed down from the plane, threw his arms around him, and broke into tears exclaiming, “Jimmy, I’m glad to see you. I didn’t think anyone would ever call on a mean old son of a bitch like me!”

Eddie had the kind of personality, backed up by his well-known flying and racing record, that made people want to take him into their confidence. This, coupled with the copious amounts of vodka that the Soviet officers consumed, made for interesting and enlightening conversations. When Eddie once asked a group of high-ranking Russian officers why they were being so frank in discussing with him what surely must have been secret technical details, he was told, “There are two kinds of foreigners we entertain. One kind is those we must. The other is those we like.”

Rickenbacker’s first combat patrol is documented in the Herndon tapes; Rickenbacker’s autobiography; Davis; and Rickenbacker’s Fighting the Flying Circus. Understandably, over time stories differ—stories even get better, as is their wont.