The Fun of It/Chapter 8

by Amelia Earhart

AVIATION AS IT IS

THE privileges of writing and flying were not the only heritage of the Atlantic Flight. Business beckoned, too, and to me “business” meant commercial aviation, as I have said before.

I had entered the scene when the industry was boiling with new enterprises. Even when the first sizeable passenger lines started, neither the oper­ators nor the traveling public quite knew what it was all about. Aviation certainly had to be “sold” and the operators leaned to the notion that a luxury service was what the public wanted. Thus, the advertising of the period carried descriptions of the amenities to be found in flying.

“Interior decorations and fittings are in soft restful tones with here and there a touch of modern art. For the most part interiors have been designed to harmonize with the natural colors of the country along the route. A wall lamp is above the seat of each passenger and an indirect ceiling light brightens the entire cabin on dark days.”

I think there were several good reasons for this publicity policy. First, it informed people that riding in airplanes was not materially different from travel by other means. By making the trap­pings of aviation as familiar as possible, timid souls were the more easily persuaded to climb aboard.

“Why, they can serve meals in those big planes; they have parcel racks like trains; passengers can read—surely they can’t be so bad.” This was about the thought process hoped for. Second, it seemed logical to stress the point that air travel would not be so unpleasant as the majority of airports looked. And last, but not least, the high fares in effect at the time had to be justified in the eyes of prospec­tive patrons. The more one pays for a car, the more nickel trimming one expects!

My next step, then, was to join one of the pi­oneer passenger lines. Transcontinental Air Trans­port, in the traffic department. My job was to sell flying to women, both by talking about it and by watching details of handling passengers, which were calculated to appeal to feminine travelers. Justly or unjustly, air ticket sellers accused women of being the greatest sales resistance encountered. They wouldn’t go up themselves, said these men, and they wouldn’t let their families do so. One phrased it, “Father won’t fly, if Mother says he can’t.”

In my work, I did considerable flying over the Line on the regular transports, and in addition ful­filled my speaking engagements here and there, the country over, in my own plane. On these flights I sometimes took my mother with me. To her, flying became so commonplace that she took along a de­tective story in order to keep awake when we were in the air for long periods.

With the very rapid development of aviation, a new attitude on the part of the traveling public entered the picture. Airlines began to be accepted as a necessity, like railroads and bus lines. Increas­ingly it became apparent that there was a need for frequency of service and lowered fares. Airplanes sometimes offered no advantages over ground facil­ities in time saving, if they didn’t fly often enough to be a convenience to passengers. For instance, a man who wished, say, to go to Cleveland from New York might find a plane left for the west once a day at nine o’clock in the morning. If he couldn’t leave until noon, he could make better time by tak­ing a train that night and arriving at Cleveland about the time the next plane was leaving from New York. But the operators couldn’t be ex­pected to put on a heavy schedule to accommodate only a few customers. To reach enough to justify several additional trips a day, it was obvious fares had to be reduced.

While some operators were engrossed with the problem of the long haul, others, equally pioneer­ing, studied those of shorter routes at higher speeds. In Transcontinental Air Transport, I came to know Gene Vidal and Paul Collins, both members of that organization. Collins, who was superinten­dent of operations, had been a famous air mail flyer with, as I remember it, 8000 hours to his credit. A great pilot himself, he understood the background of airplanes and other pilots.

Vidal, an ex-army flyer and engineer, had been on the technical staff of T. A. T. His interest and experience chiefly concerned the analysis of prob­lems of passenger carrying and operation costs. At West Point he had been selected for the all-Ameri­can football team, had established track records which still hold there, and was a member of several Olympic teams. He also contrived to play baseball and basketball.

Of Collins and his varied flying career many stories are told. His nickname, by the way, is “Dog”—for some reason. I once asked him whether he’d ever had to use a parachute.

“Yes, I’m a caterpillar”, he admitted.

“How did it happen?”, I inquired.

“Well,” he answered, “years ago when I was fly­ing the night mail between New York and Cleve­land, I got into a bad storm.” Then he described how, in the buffeting that ensued, a wing came off his plane. At first he didn’t know what had hap­pened, as he could not see outside the cockpit. But in a second he realized he would have to jump. Cutting off the motor, he bailed out and waited for his chute to open. Very shortly it did—clear of the disabled ship he had just left.

An exquisite feeling of relief surged over him as he found himself safe and sound several thousand feet above the crowd. When he jumped, he was over a heavily wooded section of Pennsylvania. As he settled down through the darkness, a thought suddenly struck him which spoiled his entire jour­ney earthward. His relief of a few moments be­fore was replaced by anxiety.

“I certainly was worried,” Collins admitted.

“I’ll bet you were,” I agreed. “You might have been heading for a house or a bunch of trees or a lake. It wouldn’t be much fun to come down when you couldn’t see what was underneath.”

“Well, I didn’t mind that so much,” said the “Dog,” “but I got to worrying about meeting a bear when I landed. I had heard from more en­thusiastic hunters than I, that there were a lot of them in that section.”

As it happened, he landed in a clearing unhurt and saw no bears. Just the same, he says, he hopes he won’t have to jump again—in that region.

Vidal and Collins had ideas of their own about airlines. In due course, they left T. A. T. and in­terested Philadelphia capital in the establishment of a different sort of operation between New York and Washington. It was to be an hourly service with ten round trips a day, the first of its kind ever attempted over such a distance.

The plans were really daring when it is remem­bered that this two-hundred-mile stretch is as well served by ground transportation as is any in the world. “You won’t get people into airplanes when they have such good service on trains or buses,” was the warning heard most frequently in the pre­liminary period. However, the organization went forward with the most minute details of cost and administration worked out in advance. As unusual as the original plan was the fact that all cost esti­mates came true!

I was asked to join the project and gladly did so, becoming with Vidal and Collins, a vice-president of the corporation when it was launched. I had the fun of sitting in on all the details of actual com­mercial air pioneering, first on paper and later in practise.

From nothing at all Vidal and Collins created the organization they wanted and administered it later. The result was something new in air trans­port. With the exception of an air ferry service over San Francisco Bay, it was the first really fre­quent service in the world. There were no frills about it. The aim was to carry passengers quickly and cheaply at regular intervals between three im­portant centers—the railroad principle of service applied to air travelers.

The line became a real success, to the surprise of many aeronautical experts who had not believed that passenger carrying without government help in the form of mail contracts could pay its way. In the first year 66,279 passengers were carried and 1,523,400 miles flown. The daily totals exceed, by the way, the combined totals of the various lines flying from London to Paris—a distance about the same as from New York to Washington. I think most Americans don’t realize how far aviation in their own country has outstripped that of England and the continent, despite the longer period of the service abroad.

There are more passengers carried every twenty-four hours, as well as mail, in the United States than in all of Europe combined. The service is as good, if not better, the planes generally faster, and safety records the same as for France, Germany and England. Rates in this country tend to ap­proximate railroad plus Pullman fares. Do you know that every twenty-four hours planes on sched­ule fly at least 150,000 miles? Nor does that total include the uncounted thousands of miles flown by private owners and in army and navy manœuvers. At that, commercial aviation is just beginning to get ready to start.

As with T. A. T., my duties in the New York, Philadelphia and Washington Airway primarily concerned passengers—getting them, and pacifying them when things went wrong. There were end­less letters to be answered, and many many speeches to audiences of various kinds. Always my talks were about flying from one point of view or an­other. During this period of vocal salesmanship, I met college girls, women’s clubs, professional groups and mixtures of these, as well as all sorts and conditions of men before whom I also spoke.

Usually I asked those in the audiences who had flown to raise their hands. In the metropolitan areas among the women, the professional groups led in the number who had been in the air. Fur­ther, nearly all who had not seemed quite willing to go when opportunity offered. As an example of this progressive spirit, I myself ferried four mem­ bers of the Philadelphia Club of Advertising Women (all my plane could accommodate) to a national convention in Washington. The members simply preferred to go by air. At the time, I could not help contrasting their attitude with the reputa­tion the ticket sellers had accorded women a year or two before.

To return to the airline, there were minor prob­lems always cropping up, having to do with the comfort and convenience of passengers. I soon learned the truth of the old axiom that a pleased customer seldom takes the trouble to say he was well served—it is the disgruntled one who takes pen in hand and writes and writes and writes.

Temperatures in the planes were too high or too low; the bumpiness of the air was the Company’s fault. Periodically the matter of baggage came up. With a railroad where weight doesn’t count for much, the individual may have any number of bags and bundles. But in a plane thirty pounds, or one medium-sized piece of luggage, is the usual allowance unless excess is paid. Even then in a crowded plane the Department of Commerce limits must not be exceeded. (Just as on the ground one may not overload trucks on the highways.)

One day a man with thirteen pieces turned up. Maybe the number had nothing to do with it, but it proved bad luck for him as well as for us.

“Your excess charge for this will amount to just about another fare,” said the dispatcher who weighed it.

“What?” exclaimed the passenger. “Another fare? Why, I can take all the baggage I wish on trains and no questions asked.”

“Sorry,” replied the dispatcher. “We have to make this charge. Weight is very important in airplanes.”

“Well, I won’t pay, and I’ll have my money back on my reservation. Railroads don’t make such silly rules as airlines.”

“Ask the gent,” said a voice in the crowd, “if he ever tried to take a trunk into a parlor car.”

As the seat had been reserved for Mr. Thir­teen, and the plane was about to start, the refund was necessarily refused. Needless to say, how­ever, considerable correspondence on “silly rules” resulted.

On the line, we carried some express and odd packages of all kinds. I, myself, chaperoned a canary from New York to Washington. The bird appeared much more frightened in the air than some of the other animals that patronized us!

One of these was a pony. For some reason or other, there was a rush about getting him from Phil­adelphia to the capital. So he was sold two seats (although he had to stand partly in the aisle) and made the voyage very comfortably. To prove he really flew, he had his picture taken wearing a pair of goggles as he alighted.

Dogs, mostly diminutive breeds, were constant passengers. Theoretically no pets were allowed. However, it was surprising at the end of the ride how many demi-tasse dogs emerged from the shel­tering coats and furs of innocent looking feminine voyagers.

When passengers were frank about animals, the rules were occasionally stretched. One day a woman called to say she just had to take a dog from Washington to New York. Could she, please? “It’s a lap dog,” she added, “—my dearest posses­sion.”

Everyone has heard tales of large over-aged children whose parents attempt to pass them off as under the half fare limit on trains and buses. Air­lines have also learned to know the variation of that little act, but the first time the part was played by a dog, it was a surprise.

When the woman of the telephone call arrived, followed by what onlookers described as a young heifer, the men at the airport felt they had been betrayed.

“You’ll have to hold him on your lap, Madame,” said one, eyeing him coldly. “Otherwise, he can’t go.” With an expression of some dismay, the pas­senger boarded the plane and sat down underneath the dog. I think he enjoyed the trip more than she did.

Of course, the operators made their share of mis­takes. One day, a Fifth Avenue florist, wishing to demonstrate the perfection of air transportation, sent a magnificent box of violets to a client in Washington. The messenger unfortunately stored the precious package on the heater and its contents on arrival looked like spinach decorated with silver ribbons.

Some ice cream met a somewhat similar fate. A manufacturer in New York was to supply the des­sert for a luncheon in Philadelphia. At nine o’clock the packed boxes were put aboard at New­ark Airport, and the plane left on schedule. Un­fortunately someone forgot to remove them at the Philadelphia stop and they went merrily on to Washington. There they were held while inquiries were made up and down the line as to where they belonged. After some delay, they started back to Philadelphia. I do not know just what subsequent travels the ice cream made, but about six thirty it turned up in a liquid state at the place where the luncheon had been—mute testimony to airline effi­ciency.

The most routine blunder, at least in the begin­ning, was to sell the same seat to two persons. When eleven passengers appear at the last moment for a ten place plane there is an element of embar­rassment.

With the New York, Philadelphia and Washing­ton Airway, as with all others, weather really held the whip hand. Under certain conditions it is im­possible to fly, as I have explained. When planes had to remain on the ground, schedules were can­celled and passengers reluctantly turned over to the railroads.

However, the bugaboo of weather is being pro­gressively overcome. Experiments are continuously being made to improve instruments for blind fly­ing, and a system of weather reporting and fore­casting has been developed to help meet flyers’ needs.

For instance, at stated intervals every hour the United States Weather Bureau gives a report of conditions to the various localities along the es­tablished airways. Any airport can be equipped with a teletype to get this service.

Not only is weather information available by tele­type but it is broadcast every hour, as well. Thus, any pilot in the air who has proper radio equip­ment can tune in on a specified wave length and learn exactly what conditions prevail in his terri­tory. What he hears aloft can be listened to on the ground, of course. These broadcasts, by the way, are given out verbally and not in code. At many fields they are amplified with loud speakers so that they are easily heard by everyone concerned.

In addition to the weather bureau service, whose distribution for the airways is handled by the De­partment of Commerce, several of the large air transport companies have supplementary service of their own. Their pilots in the air are in constant touch with their control stations and with other pilots, while special reports are received at intervals from observers at key positions adjacent to the route.