Viewing page 137 of 162

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

town of Horta greeted us on the quay and we were driven about the island in open cars to see the view of the other islands and the extinct volcano of Pica, which rises majestically 7,000 feet out of the sea. Mrs. Trippe and I were fortunate in having for guides a delightful Englishman and a very cordial Portuguese woman who spoke English. They told us that we had the best chauffeur on the Island of Fayal, but after an hour of whizzing along the narrow, curving roads at terrific speed, dodging farm carts, donkeys, and children, I began to think that life was much safer in the air. 
Later we all met at the largest and most beautiful club in Portuguese territory. Strong drinks were offered, but the nicest was the delicious white wine of the country, served with sponge cakes. In a tiled patio, gay with palms and flowers, we had an entertainment as festive as a children's party. The men had been given straw hats shaped like firemen's caps, and the women had white straw sailors trimmed with black ribbons on which "Fayal" had been painted, and large bouquets of wild blue hydrangeas. A few lovely senhoritas tried to amuse the gentlemen and make them feel at home.
I hated to leave such a lovely and hospitable place. Fortunately the passengers did not have to be weighted in as we left, for it seemed as if every man had a collection of bottles under his arm. It was not long before ice was jingling cheerfully in the glasses. Ben Smith was one of the most delightful men on board, was thoughtful enough to add some bottles of Scotch to the commissary, although he had never tasted liquor or tobacco in his life.
The six hours to Lisbon passed quickly, and many disappeared into their berths for a nap. Mrs. Adams found herself in a dilemma. She was worried about what she was going to do when met by the reporters, for the interviews she had had printed to hand out had been left by mistake. Another problem was her freckles, which she said photographed like brown spots. So she spent a long time before dressingroom mirror applying liquid powder and rouge to exactly the right degree for the afternoon light. Messrs. Smith and McDonnell became engaged in a long and very serious game of chess. The former, being an expert, took his defeat gracefully. Though his favorite author on aviation is Anne Lindbergh, Sonny Whitney sat in a corner and tried to read Wind, Sand, and stars by Saint-Exupery. [Much of this book first appeared in Town & Country.] I say "tried" because he was constantly interrupted by radio messages and conferences with Clipper officers. Mrs. Whitney was busy getting her passenger list signed by each of the twenty-two travelers. This started an epidemic of signing which spread to the crew. 
Setting foot upon European soil after twenty-two and a half hours over the Atlantic was one of the most stirring moments of my life, but as the landing ceremony in Portugal has been adequately described by the press, and as the beauties of Lisbon are well known, I restrain my enthusiasm and say only that we assembled promptly at 6 A.M. the next day for the take-off to Marseilles.
The clouds floated in and out between us and the coasts of Portugal and Spain so that we could see land only part of the time. This was very disappointing because what we did see was lovely. Before landing in Marseilles Mrs. Adams made a historic speech, first in English and then in German, to her fellow passengers and as many of the crew as could be mustered at the moment. Upon arrival she was confronted with a new problem: the moving-picture people had given the films taken at Port Washington to her to deliver to their representatives in France, and she couldn't decide whether she should make a ceremony of it or merely hand them over. I never did know the outcome, for she left us in Marseilles to take off for the next lap of her record-breaking tour around the world by commercial airplane. We missed her very much. 
AT LEAST nine of our company returned to America on the Dixie Clipper two days later. Juan Trippe, who had flown over on the northern route and joined his wife in Paris, was also with them. Eddie McDonnell, having been of an adventurous turn of mind, was hurrying home to pilot his own plane to Hudson Bay to shoot polar bear. I am told that there was plenty of champagne, and that an extraordinary combination of events-- July 4th, Colonel Carroll Cone's birthday, and the completion of the first commercial passenger flight from Europe to the U.S.A--caused an unprecedented celebration 8,000 feet in the air. The conservative gentlemen aboard, being up early in honor of the day and to get the first glimpse of home, began "Happy birthday to you" in highballs at 6 A.M. At seven they were joined by the ladies, who of course also had to join in this important toast.
Mr. and Mrs. Whitney and the "Three Musketeers of the air," as they call themselves, Colonel Donovan, Captain Rieber, and Mr. Lapham, flew on a chartered Belgian plane to Germany, Danzig, Norway, etc., but landed in Ireland in time to take off on the Yankee Clipper for the first western passenger flight over the north Atlantic route. Louis Ginbel and I were the only others who came over on the Dixie and returned on the Yankee. Rumor had it that Mr. Rapaport was so well amused in Paris that he had not yet gone on with his world tour.
The trip home on the Yankee Clipper was very amusing. The mos colorful people aboard were Amon Carter, the millionaire cowboy, president-publisher of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, and his side-kick, Ed Swasey, vice-president of the Pacific Railways Advertising Co. of San Francisco. When my English friends and I first saw these famous first-flighters in the station in London we lost an eye: Mr. Carter, tall and lean in his tan suit, cowboy boots, and white ten-gallon hat; Mr. Swasey, short and fat in the greenest of green shirts, the reddest of red ties, brown checked suit, and broad-brimmed hat. Both had belt buckles of gold and silver set with rubies. (Mr. Swasey, a constant traveler, is nominated champion postcard-sender by Louis Sobol, who claims that he gets an average of 200 a year from him.) As a contrast in sartorial niceties, Roy Howard, president of the Scripps-Howard newspapers, wore a dapper checked suit, blue checked shirt, tie and handkerchief to match, a panama circled with a band of cockfeathers worn at a rankish angle, a boutonniere and walking stick. 
When we landed at Foynes, Ireland, the first thing we say was a launch full of men and one woman carrying signs like "Foynes Cowboys," "We Want Carter," and as the motor dies down the strains of a bagpipe burst upon our ears. When we reached the dock Mr. Carter was seized by the crowd and mounted upon a poor little donkey. His long legs almost touched the ground and he looked thoroughly bewildered. Everyone adjourned to a neighboring pub where the Irish whisky was handed around in generous quantities. After almost two hours of celebrating, the Irish and the Americans were friends for life. James Furay, vice-president of the United Press Association, could trace his ancestry back to the Kings of Ireland. Bill Van Dusen of Pan American acquired a cart bell and rang it all the way back to the Clipper to call the passengers together. Mr. Swasey "hated the damned Irish whisky," but drank it to be polite. He was very proud that his mother's family were Irish and hoped he wouldn't forget to send his new friend, Mrs. O'Toole, a belt buckle like this.  
ALL nigh the Clipper flew at a low altitude bucking headwinds. I missed the moonlight and clouds of the southern flight, but just before dawn the mist cleared and revealed Mars and Venus in all their glory, shining on either side of the wing like two great beacons.
Our meals were delicious. Because it is difficult to boil coffee and eggs at high altitudes, they are prepared before leaving port. The coffee is kept in a thermos, and the eggs, boiled several minutes on shore, are put in the galley steam table when the time comes and are cooked to the individual taste. (Heat for the galley is supplied by the exhaust from the motors.) It was hard to realize they had not been freshly cooked, for both were very good.
After breakfast everyone congregated in the smoking salon to watch for Newfoundland. Off the coast two icebergs were slighted and Mr. Whitney ran to show them to his wife. A great sensation was caused by the tall, dark, and handsome Merrill Meigs, publisher of the Chicago Evening American, as he walked through in his beautiful gray silk pajamas and blue silk dressing gown, electric razor in hand. He had spent an hour interviewing Chamberlain in London.
At the airport gate at Botwood, Newfoundland, a boy with an improvised newsstand was selling all the Crowell publications in honor of Tom Beck, president of the publishing company, who was on board. At Shediac, New Brunswick, wonderful fresh lobster was sent aboard for lunch. Over Nova Scotia, when the Whitneys, Mr. Rihl, vice-president of Pan American, and I were still at the lunch table, there was a startling noise outside our window. The oil began to fly from the far motor, which coughed a few times and stopped. Its propeller blades were feathered to cut down resistance, and we lost only about six miles an hour--not much when you are making between 165 and 175.
There was little conversation on the way home. Everyone was tired and the time was short. There was a little poker, and many naps. It was amusing to try to identify the towns and rivers as we swept down the Atlantic coast. Colonel Donovan, accustomed to recognizing topographic contours because of his many flights, was very good at picking out places. As we approached Long Island, Captain Rieber told of his plan to take off agian in a few days for South America. (He flies because it is the quickest way of visiting the vast interests of Texas Oil Co,. and I suppose he had covered more air miles than anyone else in the plane.) Mr. Beck was watching eagerly for Port Washington, rarin' to go. He thought the trip had been pretty slow. Bill Van Dusen was looking forward to a few weeks at home before leaving on the survey flight to New Zealand. Louis Gimbel, who had been a delightful traveling companion all the way, was excited at the thought of seeing his family. Sonny Whitney was saying how wonderful it was going to be not to have to live in a suitcase for a while. One of the men was telling Mrs. Whitney to be sure not to forget to send him a picture of the baby, because he loved babies. Finally Mr. Howard discovered his yacht waiting for him below, and we began to circle.
The sun was setting as the liner came down on the water at Port Washington. It was exciting to think that we had lunched in England the day before and