First To Fly The Atlantic

PrintPrintEmailEmail

The NC-3’ s soaked and tired men were not the only transatlantic fliers in the sea on Sunday the eighteenth. The news of the NC-4’ s arrival in the Azores on Saturday, radioed to Newfoundland, stirred the British to action. They still believed they were in a race, and if they got into the air at once they might make it to Ireland before the Americans finished their two-stage flights. In mid-afternoon, Hawker and Mackenzie-Grieve bumped over their uneven runway and took wing. They flew through the night and covered more than half the distance to Europe, but a faulty radiator allowed their engine to overheat badly. Finally it failed over the eastern Atlantic. Hawker, long forewarned, was able to ditch the plane in a main shipping lane and clamber with his navigator into a small boat attached to the fuselage. After a short time a Danish freighter rescued them, but as it had no radio they were presumed lost until they reached a British port a week later.

Two hours after Hawker’s take-off, Raynham and Morgan tried to lift their fuel-heavy plane from the ground. There is a point in such a flight when engine and overburdened wings strain to the limit, and the plane is neither securely footed on land nor yet a bird, but a gawky, hopping, vulnerable creature rejected by land and air alike. At that critical moment a gust slammed the Raymor brutally to the ground, shattering its undercarriage and instrument panel. Raynham was shaken up, and Morgan’s eye severely injured by glass fragments. So in less than thirty-six hours, between Friday evening and Sunday morning, five planes had attempted the Atlantic passage: one had crashed on take-off, and three, so far as the world knew, had disappeared into the sea.

But by Sunday evening the news was out that the NC-1 crew had been saved. And on Monday, while the world still mourned Hawker and Mackenzie-Grieve, the sea gave up more of its supposed victims. Just outside the harbor of Ponta Delgada, the U.S.S. Harding came upon a bedraggled, broken-backed, droop-winged caricature of a one-time flying boat making for port on two slowly ticking engines. Proudly, Towers and his men answered the destroyer’s hail and disdained an offer to be taken aboard. They had drifted and taxied 205 miles in some fifty-two hours, and they meant to finish in proper naval style, under their own power. Launches were lowered and took positions, at Towers’ shouted orders, under the wings. Then, teetering first one way and then another, like a groggy drunkard being held up by small boys, the NC-3 finished its crossing.

The next day, the ATC-4 flew in from Fayal. By naval protocol, a fleet commander who loses his ship transfers his flag to another, and Read fully expected to hand over his plane to Towers. But on orders from Washington, naval tradition yielded to public relations. An elated America was making Read a hero, and the Navy would blacken its own eye if, on a technicality, it deprived a hero of the chance to score the winning touchdown, inherit the fortune, and marry the beautiful girl. Towers was to go home by ship; Read, would fly the rest of the way. Towers, who deserved better, swallowed the bitter dose, and Read, who fully understood, suffered in mute embarrassment during a period of nearly a week when bad weather kept the two men in each other’s company in Ponta Delgada.

At last, on the morning of May 27, the NC-4 flew eastward once more—almost one hundred years to the day, as the New York Times noted, after the American ship Savannah had begun the first steam-powered Atlantic passage. The Savannah waddled across in twenty-nine days, using paddle wheels to help her sails on only a few of them. The NC-4 had flown some fifteen hours to reach the Azores, and took a mere nine and a half more to finish the journey that had been two years in preparation.

At Lisbon, twilight was deepening when the NC-4 came down through a purple sky to land on a harbor streaked with the silver reflections of ships’ lights. Almost before the hull swished into the water, a launch from the cruiser Rochester was on the way to pick up the six grinning crewmen. They came up the gangplank as the ship’s band played “The StarSpangled Banner,” and the Tagus River resounded with the boom of saluting guns and the ringing of Lisbon’s steeple bells. Thomas H. Birch, American minister to Portugal, stepped forward from a lineup of uniformed and dress-coated Portuguese officials to shake the fliers’ hands. Portugal’s minister of marine pinned on each flying suit the Grand Cross of the Order of the Tower and Sword. There was cheering and champagne; essentially, the flight was over and the Atlantic conquered, though on the thirtieth the plane left for Plymouth, England, so it could end its trip at the site of the Pilgrims’ departure from England in 1620. Perversely, the NC-4 developed its first mechanical flaw—radiator trouble—since Cape Cod, and had to lie overnight at Ferrol, Spain. But on the first day of June, it was all done.