← History That Doesn't Suck
History That Doesn't Suck
181: American Aviation: The Growth of the Industry Through the Eyes of Amelia Earhart, Charles Lindbergh, and Howard Hughes
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Greg Jackson
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See the results for yourself, visit dermalogica.com and use code smooth at cart for an exclusive free gift with $65 purchase. It's about 00 hours Greenwich Civil Time and 10:00am local time on a misty Friday morning, July 2, 1937. Amelia Earhart is seated in her twin engine metallic monoplane, a Lockheed Electra 10e, preparing to take off at Lee Airfield on the eastern coast of Papua New Guinea. Tall, slim and rocking her signature short haircut, the 39 year old pilot looks to her likewise gaunt navigator Fred Noonan. Yes, they're ready. It's time for takeoff. Assuming this rough dirt Runway measuring a mere thousand yards can really get the plane laden with 1,100 gallons of gasoline off the ground that is. Amelia grabs the throttles and pushes them to full power. Both engines roar as her monoplane charges forward, kicking up a cloud of red dust but not taking off. We squirm right along with everyone else, waiting to see if this aircraft will get airborne. Come on, Amelia. Finally she lifts off within the last 50 yards, only to drop out of sight and down toward the Ooong Gulf's waters below. Suddenly, the silver monoplane reappears, flying just above the water. Amelia keeps climbing until she disappears in the sky. What a relief. But now that we've witnessed this heart stopping takeoff, let me fill you in on our daring pilot and her current and equally daring mission. Amelia Earhart is an American aviation icon. Born in Kansas in 1897, she had great adventures with her little sister and proved a brilliant student even as the family moved around in her teen years and navigated her father's alcoholism. When the Great War interrupted her collegial studies at Ogonts, Amelia volunteered as a nurse in Toronto instead, where she often attended to British and French pilots. Shortly after returning to the US to attend Columbia, she visited her parents in Los Angeles and while there attended an air show with her father in December 1920. Ah, and here she got to fly as a passenger for the first time. And that was it. She'd caught the flying bug. Flight lessons and a pilot's license followed. And as the years passed, Amelia became the living example of everything she believed and said about women's rights. By demonstrating to the world that a woman can do just as much as a man in a plane, she became the first woman to fly as a passenger across the Atlantic in 1928, the first woman and second person to fly solo across the Atlantic in 1932, and the first pilot of either sex to fly from Honolulu, Hawaii to Oakland, California. But now, this Purdue University lecturing award winning first lady, befriending international celebrity of an aviator has her sights on her most daring venture yet. Becoming the first woman to circumnavigate the globe. In this attempt, she's also holding to the equator more than any of her male predecessors did, meaning that if she succeeds, her course will be the longest path ever flown around the world. This is Amelia's second attempt at it, and after six weeks spent mostly in the skies, she's nearly there. From Oakland to Miami to Brazil, across the Atlantic to Africa to India to Singapore to Australia, and most recently Papua New guinea, the intrepid aviator has covered more than 22,000 miles and right this moment, she's just started her 2,556mile flight from Papua New guinea to a mere dot in the Pacific Ocean. A less than two mile long barren patch of dirt about halfway between Australia and Hawaii known as Howland Island. And now that you're up to speed, lets get back to Amelia's flight. Things start out smooth enough. Broadcasting from lay radioman Harry Balfour is in contact with Amelia and Fred. Harry recommends to the pair of aviators who are now seven hours and 750 miles into their flight, that they stick to this signal and not change their wavelength as previously planned. But does Amelia and her navigator hear him? Do they take his counsel? We don't know. But Harry loses her soon thereafter. The silence on all sides is deafening. No one hears from Amelia. Meanwhile, why isn't the US Navy's tug the Ontario, which is in place halfway between Papua New guinea and Howland island, making an hourly broadcast of the Morse code letter N on 400 kilocycles to help guide the flight, per Amelia's request. Did the crew not receive her telegram? Amelia can do little more than fly on, hoping that Fred's keeping them on course as he relies on the stars for celestial navigation. It's now early in the pitch black morning. We're in the Pacific, just a little ways out from Howland island aboard the US Coast Guard's Itasca, where Commander Warren Thompson and his radioman are anxiously awaiting word from Amelia. They've received two updates so far via San Francisco, the first of which didn't even get her departure time right. Then at 2:45 local time, they hear something rather garbled, but that was Amelia. An hour later, they hear her again. Airheart Overcast. We'll listen on 3105 kilocycle on hour and half hour. The radio men are trying, but so many things are going wrong. For instance, they keep using Morse code. Yet neither Amelia nor Fred know Morse, which is why she previously specified using verbal communication, nor are their clocks aligned. Amelia is using Greenwich civil time while these sailors are using their local time and due to naval practice, are half hour off from the standard hour. Worse still, they can hear Amelia, but she doesn't seem to hear them. Is her receiver malfunctioning? Around 6:15am Amelia whistles into her radio, hoping that the Itasca can take a bearing on her. But this fails. She's so close that much is apparent. The ship pumps out heavy smoke, hoping she can see it. 7:42am Amelia Radios we must be on you, but cannot See you. But gas is running low. They're unable to reach you by radio. Her voice is strong. She must be within 50 miles of the ship. But with the glare of the sun, that's still far enough to miss the billowing smokestacks, let alone finding that small speck of an Island. Around 8am Amelia finally acknowledges hearing the Itasca's broadcast of the letter A in Morse. All right. But she says it's too weak for her to get a minimum, and she doesn't appear to hear them after this. At 8. 44, Amelia radios again. She's breathless. Her voice indicates that her famously steeled nerves are failing. We are on the line of position 156 to 137. We will repeat message. We will repeat this message on 6210 Kilocycles. Wait. Listening. On 6210 Kilocycles. We are running north and south. Itasca answers immediately, blasting on any and every frequency Amelia might get. But she never answers, and she'll never be seen again. Welcome to history that doesn't suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. On May 6, 1937, the Transatlantic Traversing zeppelin, the Hindenburg exploded in flames just before tying up to its mooring mast in New Jersey. It left 36 dead. Now, only two months later, Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan have disappeared in the Pacific. Fantastic rumors of Amelia being a spy or even being abducted by aliens fill the void of radio silence. But as extensive searching yields nothing, America is left with nothing but mystery and a lack of closure. But despite the horrors of the Hindenburg and the harrowing end of Amelia's last flight, disaster is not our main focus today. We're here to explore the world Amelia loved the world of aviation. Today, I'll regale you with the tale of the rise of American aviation in the early 20th century. We'll start by picking up where episode 123 left off with the Wright brothers making flight truly viable. But now see them compete with Glenn Curtis as the aviation economy enters its infancy. Until Orville and Glenn come together, that is. As the Great War takes airplanes to new heights. We'll then reconnect with Amelia Earhart as she takes her first flight. And don't forget to grab a stamp as we talk about the growth of airmail, which leads to the rise of the airlines, you and I will later know we'll also meet a handsome young lad who flies that mail and is looking to prove that he can fly across The Atlantic Ocean. That's right. We'll join Charles Lindbergh on his famous transatlantic flight. After that, we'll see how airlines go from delivering mail to delivering people, even as crashes like the one we'll witness with genius playboy philanthropist Howard Hughes are scaring Americans away from the skies. And we'll wrap our episode with Howard as he sets a new speed record for circumnavigating the globe. It's a packed episode, so please make sure your tray tables are up and that your seat is in its full upright position. It's time to take off with a return to the early 20th century. Rewind. Ah, the Wright brothers. I trust you recall Wilbur and Orville, or just Orv as the younger of the two is known from episode 123 in which we followed these two Dayton born bicycle loving brothers on their years long and hard fought journey that led to their historic flight on North Carolina's sandy beaches at kitty hawk in December 1903. I know it was a transcendent moment, but how did American aviation develop from there? Well, to start, the Wright brothers want to make some money with their newly invented and quickly improved upon heavier than air gas powered piloted flying machine. And as I mentioned briefly in episode 140, one of the first places they go is the U.S. army. Yes, the military is interested in flight, primarily for reconnaissance. Now the demonstration at Fort Myer, Virginia in 1908 couldn't have ended worse considering that Orff crashes, severely injuring himself and killing his passenger, fellow aviation enthusiast Lieutenant Thomas Selfridge. But this tragedy didn't derail anything. The next year the army is completely sold as Orff takes another passenger on a 10 mile round trip, moving at an average speed of 42.5 miles per hour. But the Wright brothers aren't the only ones in the flight game. By this point. As of 1907, the telephone's inventor, or at least its patent holder, Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, is heading up the Aerial Experiment association, or the aea. Now the good doctor's interested in flight, but the one nipping at the Wright brothers rudder is an AEA member with a killer mustache and soul patch named Glenn Curtis. Similar to the Wright's, this mustachioed New Yorker first started as a mechanic working on bicycles. But he then made a pit stop in the realm of motorcycles before moving on to aviation. In 1907, Glenn uses his V8 to become the fastest man on earth, riding his motorcycle at 136.4 miles per hour. The next year, the AEA slaps Glenn's 40 horsepower V8s into its planes. Now these planes can only fly for a few minutes, Nothing close to Orv. Wright's multi hour trips. But the AEA's great accomplishment isn't getting their new planes. Rather, it's getting Glenn Curtis thinking about flight. He starts designing planes with something called ailerons. It's a French invention that, like the Wright's wing warping described in episode 123, enables a pilot to control the aircraft's rolling movement, which is particularly important during a turn. But instead of flexing the entire wing of the aircraft, as the Wright's system does, it relies on hinges at the trailing edges of the wings. This method is far more intuitive than wing warping and is simpler both in design and control. Ah, but given that it addresses the same problem that Will's and Orb's wing warping does, the protracted legal battles over supposedly stolen patents soon follow. But litigation aside, the world of aviation is growing rapidly as we enter the 1910s. Everyone wants to be the first with all sorts of milestones. Like Frenchman Louis Bleriot, who in July of 1909 becomes the first to cross the English Channel successfully by air. In August that same year, the first international air meet takes place in Reims, France. And soon another aviation record is broken and set in Southern California. It's late in the afternoon, January 10, 1910. 30,000 spectators are enjoying the sight of flight as they sit in a makeshift grandstand encircling a two mile long corner force at Dominguez Ranch near Compton, California. And just out of sight is the internationally renowned pilot and innovator Glenn Curtis. Covered in grease, he's tinkering with his 50 horsepower V8 Curtiss biplane, nicknamed the Rance Racer. It has to be in top form before his coming race with French flyboy Louis Poland. See, Glenn and his Rance racer got the better of Louis last year year in France, which resulted in Glenn winning 25,000 francs. So the Frenchman is coming at him today with a bit of a grudge. And oh, does the crowd love a good rivalry. As Glenn works, his foe is putting on quite the show. The grandstand explodes with squeals of excitement and horror as Louis allows his Farman 3A plane nearly twice the size of Glenn's ranch racer to get tossed by the gusty wind as he dives below the tree line on a distant hill, disappearing from the crowd's sight. And of course, he gets a bigger cheer than ever when he suddenly reappears flying directly over their heads. But enough showboating. Let's see how the Frenchman and the New Yorker do together in front of this California crowd. With both planes at the starting line, Glenn hollers to his manager, a former AP Report reporter named Jerome Fanchulli, to hop into the Ronce racer. Talk about a story. Jerome quickly climbs in. Glenn takes off in a wide circle in front of the grandstand, twisting his plane with its rudder disabled. To demonstrate that his plane, unlike the Wright brothers planes, doesn't need a rudder to keep equilibrium when turning. Ah, yes, subtle jab at his lieutenant competition. But keeping his focus on beating Louie, Glenn really opens up on his second time around. The V8 engine roars as his plane speeds around the two mile course, Glenn lands expertly right where he started. And as he does, the crowd goes wild. Army Lt. Paul Beck calls out that they've calculated his speed at 55 miles an hour. It's the first time anyone's flown so fast. It's a world record. And the crowd sends hats flying as they cheer for Glenn's achievement. Glenn Curtis aviation career keeps gaining altitude with Wilbur and ORV Wright holding a monopoly of sorts on the US Army. Glenn goes to work with the Navy, but the litigation gets nastier between the aviators. Things also get personal. Glenn blames Orb for for the death of his friend Lt. Tom Selfridge back at that army demonstration in 1908. And Orv blames Glenn for stressing Wilbur to death in 1912. As the inventor of flight's weakened body fails to fight off typhoid fever, though, ORV soldiers on with the Wright company. Initially, it isn't the same without his beloved brother. He sells the business in a few short years. But in the Meanwhile, World War I settles the legal battles between Glenn and Orville. Not having time for their bickering, the US government waives enough money to settle matters and get the focus on manufacturing planes. And so Glenn and Orff find themselves working together to provide over 13,000 aircrafts and 40,000 engines for the war effort. Indeed, the Great War provides the biggest boost to aviation since Kitty Hawk. As we know from episode 140, some American flyboys joined the war before the US does. Flying in France's Lafayette Escadrie, aces like Germany's Red Baron become legends. America mourns the loss of former President Theodore Roosevelt's pilot son Quentin. And through it all, Glenn and Orff have flight schools churning out pilots, while the Curtiss Aeroplane and Motor Company becomes the largest manufacturer of planes in America. When the war ends, America finds itself within an abundance of planes and Experienced doughboy pilots who have little to do well. Still loving the air, these veteran flyboys, as well as a few civilian men and women, buy surplus planes for pennies on the dollar and start traveling, offering to show them off to anyone who will pay to look. Called Flying Gypsies initially, they eventually pick up the same name as those traveling baseball and basketball teams we met back in episodes 165 and 67, respectively. Yes, they're called barnstormers. These barnstorming pilots stage dogfights and otherwise exhibit their flying prowess and most famously perform some hair raising stunts. For instance, while one pilot flies, another wing walks, which is exactly what it sounds like. The daredevil goes on the wings on foot, while in the air, they'll also dangle from the landing gear, parachute, even switch planes mid flight by interlocking wings or or dropping a rope ladder. These barnstorming exhibitions are thrilling and inspiring, especially to one particular young and often moving girl from Kansas. From her first exposure to a plane at the 1908 Iowa State Fair to watching demonstrations while nursing wounded Great war veterans and 1918 flu victims in Toronto, Amelia Earhart loves to see planes in action. And as I mentioned ever so briefly in the opening of this episode, it's in December 1920, as Amelia hits pause on her studies at Columbia to visit her reunited parents, now living in Los Angeles, that the aspiring medical professional gets different ideas about her professional goals. Ideas that never would have occurred to her had she not attended a barnstorming exhibition while juggling a complicated relationship with her alcoholic f. It's an unspecified afternoon, December 1920. Amelia Earhart and her father Edwin are at an airstrip known as Rogers Field, just off Wilshire Boulevard in Los Angeles, California. The area will later be known as Miracle Mile, but that's all yet to come. Right now, Edwin Earhart is here with his 23 year old aviation enthusiast daughter, Amelia, who couldn't be more excited. Perhaps it's a Christmas present, perhaps it's an effort to make up for lost time. But whatever the impetus, her father has arranged for her first flight ever. He set it up yesterday when they attended the air meet at Long Beach's Doherty Field. Edwin and Amelia approach their handsome barnstorming trick flying pilot Frank Hawks, the same age as Amelia. Frank flashes a smile at the father daughter duo as he says a good day to go up. Delivering his obligatory dad joke, Edwin quips that he hasn't found a day good enough for a first flight. If he got a laugh, the historical record doesn't mention it. Frank motions to another pilot by the plane and tells the pair he'll go up with us. Puzzled, Amelia questions why, but the exchange of grins gives her the answer. They're afraid a girl like her would will get scared and try to jump out of the plane. Thus, as she'll later recall, there had to be somebody on hand to grab my ankle as I went over. Regardless, Amelia's still elated. She's going up. After some instruction, the pilots and Amelia climb into the biplane, likely an army surplus Canuck or Jenny. Then all at once, the engine roars to life and they take off. They fly over oil derricks, soar above the Hollywood Hills, glide through the heavens right over the Pacific Ocean. Frank idles the motor at this point so Amelia can hear him as he shouts through leather caps and goggles to let her know that they've reached 2,000ft. At this height, she can't feel the speed of the plane, nor tell which of the many fields below they departed from. It's hard to pick out small details up here. It's a skill that she'll later develop. Upon landing, Amelia whips the goggles from her dust covered face with a big grin as she later writes, as soon as we left the ground, I knew I myself had to fly. Over dinner that night, Amelia tells her family that she wants to pursue flying lessons. Her father, Edwin, had hoped for the exact opposite, that an actual flight would extinguish her interest in aviation, not ignite it. But having lost the battle and seen how badly his daughter wants to take to the skies, he simply answers, not a bad idea. When do you start? You ever hit that moment when your kid asks for help with homework and you're like, wait, when did long division get this complicated? Or maybe your child's flying through lessons and getting bored in class? Yeah, been there. Whether they're struggling or soaring, IXL can make a real difference. IXL is an award winning online platform that helps kids really understand what they're learning. It covers math, language arts, science and social studies from Pre K through 12th grade. And it's actually fun, engaging, personalized and packed with encouraging feedback to help keep them motivated. IXL is used by 96 of the top 100 school districts in the US and it's no surprise it's backed by research. Kids using IXL are scoring higher on tests, and studies from almost every states show they're consistently doing better. Make an impact on your child's learning. Get IXL now and listeners of this podcast can get an exclusive 20% off IXL membership when they sign up today at ixlearning.com audio visit ixllearning.com audio to get the most effective learning program out there at the best price. Want to pull off the season's freshest trends? You just need the right shoes. That's where Designer Shoe Warehouse comes in. Loving wide leg jeans. Pair them with sleek low profile sneakers. Obsessed with the sheer trend? Try it with mesh flats. Feeling Boho Comfy sandals. Nail the whole free spirited thing. Find on trend shoes from the brands you love like Birkenstock, Nike, Adidas and more at DSW this summer Instacart is bringing back your favorites from 1999 with prices for from $19.99. That means 90s prices on juice pouches that ought to be respected, 90s prices on box Mac and cheese and 90s prices on ham, cheese and cracker lunches. Enjoy all those throwbacks and more at throwback prices only through Instacart. $4.72 maximum discount per $10 of eligible items limit one offer per order expires 95 while supplies last discount based on CPI comparison. Barnstormy makes aviation visible to the average American and puts a bit of coin in the pocket of a select few pilots. Bigger Johnson, and yes, that's really what they call him, earns $70,000 in just six months. But most of these daring aviators are risking their lives for very little reward. The aviation economy also includes crop dusting, air photography, recreation, business flights and more. But the main economic driver in this new post World War I era of planes begging to be put to use is mail delivery. While exhibition pilots had toyed with delivering mail in earlier years, it is once again the Great War that explains this airmail expansion. It was during the buildup to America's entry in the war that that Congress appropriated $100,000 for airmail. And now in 1920 there are complete transcontinental routes. More deliveries lead to bigger planes that can accommodate more mail too. Unfortunately, none of this means greater safety for pilots. In fact, their boss, second Assistant Postmaster General Otto Prager, who has zero flying experience, might I add, tells the postal flyboys that when confronted with no visibility fog, they can, quote, fly by compass. Visibility not necessary. Auto fires those who refuse, leading to a full blown pilot strike and horrible bosses. Isn't the end of it. The Liberty engine and the DH4s that these pilots are flying has a tendency to just stop. Sometimes. Yeah, it's bad when your car breaks down, but being in the air. Well, let's just say that between 1920 and 1921, there are 89 crashes and 19 airmail aviator deaths. But even with the risks, the air Service continues to operate. Its system is quite similar to the Pony Express. If you remember that 1860-61 mail delivery strategy for the American west from episode 83. Like those young, light, skinny riders of yestercentury, air service pilots relay mail from stop to stop along their designated routes. Initially, it's the federally run U.S. post Office Organizing flights. But during the Coolidge administration, the Contract airmail Act of 1925, or the Kelly act as it's also known in honor of its house sponsor, clears private companies for postal takeoff. One pilot named Eddie Hubbard sees serious opportunity. He talks to his boss, a Seattle local who made a fortune in the timber industry, then transitioned into airplane manufacturing during the Great War. A man by the name of William Boeing. Yeah, I'm sure that name sounds familiar. Well, Eddy thinks their Model 40 plane with a 425 horsepower Pratt and Whitney Wasp radial engine, which would be more powerful, lighter and reliable than the 350 horsepower Liberty engines in the post office's DH4s, would enable them to beat out the competition on the Chicago San Francisco route. William is hesitant. But after talking with his wife Bertha, the bespectacled, mustachioed industrialist of the Pacific Northwest decides to go for it. He underbids the competition so much that the Post Office almost drops his offer. But ultimately, the Boeing Aircraft Company gets the bid. They now number among the select few private companies, covering a total of 12 post office airmail routes by 1926. Uncle Sam realizes that the blue skies are getting a little busy and that perhaps some governance regarding licensing air traffic and such would be helpful. The Air Commerce act creates the aeronautic branch within the Department of Commerce to do this. Down the road, that small branch will evolve into the Federal Aviation administration or the FAA airmail regulations. It sounds like 1920s American aviation is really growing up. But perhaps nothing would prove aviation's growing abilities like a flight across the Atlantic Ocean. At least that's what Charles Lindbergh thinks. Born in Detroit, Michigan, in 1902, Charles Augustus Lindbergh Jr. Or Charles C.A. and eventually, Lindy or Slim didn't have a perfect childhood. Though not divorced, his parents separated by the time he was five. His mother took him to live on a farm in Little Falls, Minnesota, while his father went off to Washington as one of Minnesota's Congress Congressional representatives. He didn't get to play with other kids here as much as he would have liked. Not to solely disguise Little Charles would later love with a modern analogy, but his mother was what we'd call a helicopter parent. Nonetheless, Charles found plenty to enjoy about his farm life. And while still a young teen, that included a Ford Model T. Keeping it running gave Charles his first taste of mechanic work with better looks than grades. Charles eeked by in high school and graduated, but promptly dropped out of college with dreams of becoming a pilot. Unfortunately for Charles, his first paid lessons turned out to be a scam. Luckily, the financially strapped youth then met barnstorming pilot Errol Ball. Errol took the down on his luck, aviator wannabe under his wing, so to speak, teaching Charles how to parachute wing walk and fly. Charles was an immediate success and managed to raise enough money to buy his own plane for his very own barnstorming act. From there he was persuaded to join the Army Air Service, which led to further flight training in Kelly Field, Texas. After graduating in 1924, the flyboy was placed in the reserves and became a pilot for the Robertson Aircraft Corporation, transporting mail between St. Louis and Chicago. And it's in this position in the mid-1920s that Charles, the airman mailman sees a newsreel at the movies that describes the Ortigue prize offered by French American hotelier Raymond Orteig. This prize is an award of $25,000 and it'll go to the first flyer or flyers, quote, who shall cross in a land or water aircraft from Paris to New York or from New York to Paris without stop. Close quote. On September 20, 1926, four French aviators hoping to win the prize crash upon takeoff from Roosevelt Field in Long Island, New York. But Charles, who saved his own life with a parachute a few times by this point, hence his nickname, Lucky Lindy, isn't dissuaded. He's going for it with significant support from St. Louis businessmen and Great War veteran pilot Major Albert Lambert, the namesake the of soon to be opened St. Louis Lambert Airport. Charles has $15,000 to build an airplane. He opts for Orion Airline Company aircraft with the Wright Whirlwind engine. While that's being constructed, the daring aviator studies charts and listens to Navy pilots lecture on long range navigation. By April 1927, he's got a gorgeously sleek silver single engine monoplane. He dubs it the Spirit of St. Louis in honor of the city so generously supporting him. The aircraft is built to be light, to hold 400 gallons of fuel and most importantly, to fly. So let's see if this barely 25 year old can do what no one else has yet done. Soar across the Atlantic Ocean. It's about 7:30 on a chilly, misty morning, May 20, 1927. We're at Roosevelt Field in Long Island, New York, where tall, slim Charles Lindbergh, aka Lucky Lindy, cuts a fine figure in his leather flying suit as he trudges through the wet clay residue of last night's rain. Passing many onlookers, Charles presses toward his silver custom built single engine high wing monoplane. His Spirit of St. Louis Mechanics check over every single inch and fill her gas tanks to the brim. The sheer weight of all this fuel causes her wheels to sink into the clay. Charles is admittedly nervous as he climbs into the cockpit and settles into his wicker seat. Frank Titchener of the Aero Digest calls out a question to the intrepid aviator, asking if the five sandwiches he's taking are enough. Charles smiles and replies, if I get to Paris, I won't need any more. And if I don't get to Paris, I won't need any more either. By 7:40, Charles is ready to go. Mechanic Ed Mulligan spins the propeller and the engine fires up. The gauges come to life. Charles must be thinking back over the 1,790 hours he's spent in the air across 7,189 flights in the past four years. Will all that experience be enough? At 7:51, our intrepid pilot puts on his safety belt, crams cotton in his ears and pulls on his goggles. Turning to his mechanics, he says, what do you say? Let's try it. They remove the chocks. Charles eases on the throttle and The Spirit of St. Louis starts forward. Aided by men pushing at the wings. The plain fishtails. The weight of all the gasoline is holding this bird to the ground. As Charles later remembers, the Spirit felt more like an overloaded truck than airplane. But as he passes the halfway point, the point of no return, he feels the weight shift off of the wheels and onto the wings. He makes a split second do or die decision. He's going for it. With only a thousand feet of Runway left, The Spirit of St. Louis bounces once, then twice, and as Charles picks up speed, finally is off the ground, the aviator pulls up sharply, clearing a tractor below by a mere 10ft, then disappears into the morning sky. Though now in the air, Charles still isn't alone. Not at first, at least. Press planes fly alongside him, snapping final photos. But soon they fade away and it's just him among the clouds. By 9:52am Lucky Lindy starts over the Atlantic Ocean with no radio and no contact between him and the outside world. All he has are his trusty charts. The pilot has prepared himself for the many potential mechanical failures he might face. But there's one challenge no provisions can truly stave. Exhaustion, preparations and anxiety robbed him of any sleep the night before. And now, only three hours into this historic and dangerous flight, the lack of sleep is taking its toll. It's only the dips toward a potential watery grave that snaps the pilot back to full alertness in the tiny cockpit. Across the nation, anxious Americans await news of Charles and his flight. In New York, a prize fight pauses for an update on Charles progress. In Pennsylvania's small town of Indiana, the 19 year old future actor Jimmy Stewart lies in bed with scarlet fever, moving a whittled airplane along a homemade map with each radio update. Twenty years from now, Jimmy will famously star in the film the spirit of St. Louis. And I trust you can guess what the plot of that movie will be and who Jimmy will play. The famed newspaper humorist whom we've heard from several times in past episodes. Will Rogers writes for his column that he'll make no attempt at jokes. Today, old Slim, tall, bashful, smiling American boy is somewhere out over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean where no lone human being has ever been before. If he is lost, it will be the most universally regretted single loss we ever had. But that kid ain't going to fail. Gliding into the night, Charles is amazed by the icebergs below. He's terrified when he hits a storm that tosses the Spirit through ice filled clouds without enough fuel to fly around it. Not feeling so lucky, Lindy is forced to go through even as ice gathers on his frigid silver plane. But as terrifying as the storm is, he's soon soaring in the moonlight and calm skies. He finds the sun at three in the morning and discovers that a tailwind has actually pushed him farther forward than anticipated. After 27 hours, he sees a porpoise jumping out of the water. It's a magnificent sight, but not nearly as great as seeing fishing boats and then land. He shouts down to the fishermen but gets no response. Soon Charles spots rolling green hills with those iconic, majestic cliffs. He's reached Ireland and a full two hours early as well. With only 600 miles left until he reaches Paris, Charles isn't tired anymore. He's got a second wind. And the Spirit of St. Louis is flying light now that she's burned through more than half of that heavy fuel. Reports that Charles has conquered the Atlantic are flooding the globe. In France, they prepare for Charles to arrive after sunset and order that his landing strip be illuminated while they mourn the disappearance of their own pilots, Charles Noumgasserre and Francois Couly, over the Atlantic. Just two weeks before the French set out to greet Lucky Lindy the way they feel that the Americans would have greeted these two aviators flying over the mouth of the seine. After nearly 30 hours in the air, Charles finally eats one of his sandwiches. Through the dark of night, he watches as the rural landscape transitions to urban, with lights dotting the ground like the stars in the sky above. At around 10pm local time, he circles over the Eiffel Tower, which is wrapped in lights spelling out the name of a recently founded car company, Citoren. But then Charles realizes that while he's found Paris, he still needs to find the landing strip in nearby Le Bourget. He heads just north, northeast of Paris, which is where Le Bourget is supposed to be. But the lights around it are sporadic, not uniform like a normal landing strip. In fact, a long string of lights seems to lead all the way to Paris. Flying lower, he realizes that the lights are from the headlights of thousands of cars. He follows, then lands. It's 10:22pm May 21, 1927. Charles Lindbergh circles the Spirit of St. Louis into the wind and cuts his speed, slowly sinking the closer to the ground until his aircraft touches the earth for the first time in 30 hours and 30 minutes and for the first time ever in France. The transatlantic pilot rolls into a dark section of Le Bourget. But as he turns towards some floodlights ahead in the distance, he's greeted by a most unexpected sight. 150,000 French men and women have flocked to the airstrip. They've piled on top of cars crammed onto the roof of the airport's buildings. And now they're storming over the fence, past the police and two companies of soldiers who have decided it's not possible to hold back the wave of congratulating Parisians. As a New York Times reporter on the scene will later recount, soldiers and police tried for one small moment to stem the tide. Then they joined in, rushing as madly as anyone else toward the aviator and his plane. The first to reach Charles are the airstrip's workmen, who shout out to him, c' est vois sava. C' est froi savain. Or in English. This time it's done. Shouting uselessly over the roar of the crowd. All Charles has to say is, are there any mechanics here? Before he can even get out of his plane, Charles is grabbed and forced into crowd surfing, still unable to touch the ground after so much time in the air. But soon some quick thinking Frenchmen rescue Lucky Lindy by putting his helmet on a nearby American reporter. The hoodwinked crowd turns its attention to the aviator's new body double as Charles is whisked away to a waiting car. Ultimately, Bucky Lindy is taken to the residence of the U.S. ambassador to France, Myron Herrick, whom we met amid the temperance movement back in episode 157. And here, after 63 consecutive consecutive hours of fighting off sleep, the exhausted pilot finally gets to lay down at 4:15am for some much needed shut eye. Forget movie stars or presidents, Charles Lindbergh's celebrity is on a whole nother level. He isn't just a celebrity, he's a hero. It's not just Charles's life that changes with his successful landing in France is the whole aviation industry. I hope you don't mind some layovers, because the story of flight is no longer just about pilots. It's now also the story of passengers. Put us in a box. Go ahead. That just gives us something to break out of because the next generation 20202025 GMC terrain elevation is raising the standard of what comes standard. As far as expectations go, why meet them when you can shatter them? What we choose to challenge, we challenge completely. We are professional grade. Visit gmc.com to learn more. Summer is coming right to your door with Target Circle360 get all the season go to's at home with same day delivery snacks for the pool party delivered sun lotion and towels for a beach day delivered pillows and lights to deck out the deck that too delivered just when you want them summer your way quick and easy. Join now and get all the summer fun delivered right to your home with target circle360membership required Subject to terms and conditions applies to orders over $35 at New Balance. We believe if you run, you're a runner, however you choose to do it. Because when you're not worried about doing things the right way, you're free to discover your way. And that's what running is all about. Run your way@newbalance.com running as we already know, pilots have carried passengers ever since Wilbur and Orville Wright first made aviation truly viable. As for paying passengers, this started with the St. Petersburg Tampa Airboat line, which began offering scheduled flight flights over Tampa Bay in 1914. More such small companies followed by 1919. Arrow Limited was, to quote aviation historian Tim Brady, shuttling passengers between New York City and the steamy flesh pots of Atlantic City. Passengers also paid to fly alongside the mail, although most people found the cost, the discomfort and the risk too high. And the feeling was somewhat mutual. Most airlines preferred to haul sacks of lucrative stamped envelopes than a passenger. This started to change with Western Air Express. Its founder, Harris Pop Hanschue, got the airmail contract for Salt Lake City to Los Angeles in 1926. And he was happy to charge $90 to fly up to two people along the eight hour route. Incredibly, 200 people took him up on the offer that first year alone. But the idea of flying passengers takes on a whole new life in the aftermath of of Charles Lindbergh's transatlantic flight in 1927. People all over America are finally grasping the astonishing speed at which an aircraft can travel compared to other modes of travel like ships. Thanks to Lucky Lindy's success, businessmen are ready to invest. Over $400 million is poured into aviation securities between 1927 and 1929. I suppose you could say America is playing crazy. That is, America is crazy about planes. And one millionaire is bringing more than aviation craze to the table. It's time to meet the literal inspiration for Tony Stark from Marvel's Iron man comic books. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Howard Hughes. Let's start with some background. Howard Robard Hughes Jr. Was born in 1905 in Texas. His father, Howard Hughes Sr. Took the family from Houston's mosquito infested bayous to easy street. When he made a fortune in 1909, patenting a drill bit that revolutionized the oil industry. With an ability to cut into hard rock 10 times faster than anything else in the world, the family quickly became millionaires as money poured into the Hughes Tool Company. But money doesn't mean outgoing and shy, Howard Jr. Struggled to make friends. The youth did not struggle, however, with math or mechanics. When his mother refused to buy him a motorcycle, he simply rigged a gas powered engine to his bicycle. Later, while a prep student at Fessenden, his Harvard alum Pops promised that if Harvard beat Yale in an upcoming boat race, he'd buy young Howard anything his heart desired. The Cambridge crew did indeed prevail and the 14 year old cashed in with a ride in a Custis seaplane. That was all it took. Howard Jr. Had caught the aviation bug. In August 1921, Howard left for California's elite Thatcher boarding school. Tragedy struck shortly thereafter. Only Months later, in March 1922, his mother, Aileen Hughes, underwent minor surgery at Houston's Baptist Hospital and never woke up from her anesthesia. For the rest of his life, Howard refused to speak about his 38 year old mother's untimely death. Meanwhile, heartbroken, Howard Sr. Followed his wife to the grave with a heart attack. Less than two years later, on January 14, 1924, at just 18 years old, Howard Jr. Was an orphaned millionaire. With the help of his Los Angeles based uncle Rupert, Howard ditched school to take control of his dad's company. He bought out the rest of the family, something his grandmother would resent to her death, purposefully not leaving him anything in her will. Oof. But Howard wasn't only using his fortune to make Thanksgiving super awkward for the whole family, he also used it to jumpstart a career in the movies. His first film, Swell Hogan, didn't make money. Howard hated the movie product so much, he ordered it thrown in a vault. Yeah, Hollywood types can be touchy. Movie two, Everybody's Acting was a hit with audiences, even though critics were more likely to call it. As Hughes biographer Tony Thomas writes, a piece of well made fluff. And that brings U.S. back to 1927, the year of Charles Lindbergh's transatlantic flight. It's also the year that Hollywood produces its first film about the bravery of great war pilots. For the Silver Wings. Amid the post, Charles Lindbergh, except excitement wings, unsurprisingly, wins the very first Oscar for best picture in 1928. Remember that one for your next trivia night. Well, that picks at three of Howard's flying films and making money. He in turn starts production on an aviation war film of his own, as you might recall from episode 162. Yes, this is Hell's Angels. Indoor scenes are finished by the end of 1927. But Howard is very particular about the flying scenes. So particular, he might just have to do some of the flying himself. It's mid afternoon, January 6, 1928. Howard Hughes is standing in the middle of Mines Field, later to become Los Angeles International Airport, better known as lax. But those developments are a ways down the road. Right now this is the set for Howard's new high flying film, Hell's Angels. And it's about to become the site of a major argument. Here's the deal. Howard has ponied up plenty for this film and is technically its producer. But he's also frequently overstepping the professionals. He's already informed director Luther Reed that he intends to direct all the dogfight scenes. He's taken issue with the pilots and now wants a shot in which low flying planes swoop over the camera before performing a left bank turn and landing. It's a dangerous maneuver, and chief pilot Frank Clark, AKA Spooks, and his fellow stunt pilots know it won't end well. One of them tells their producer turned director, it can't be done. Howard, you bring that plane in on the left bank and It'll side slip two or 300ft. Sure shooting. We can do it at 1,000ft, but no lower. Howard's not having it. Remember, he's a pilot himself, or will be when he gets his official license tomorrow. Ah, so he knows just enough about flying to be dangerous. Charles fires back at the outspoken pilot. Ridiculous. You can't tell me that you can't counter control the side slip. I'll show you it can be done. Howard starts out toward a Thomas More scout biplane as he tells Spooks, I want to fly that. Spooks, answers the playboy aviator, go ahead, Howard, fly it if you like and break your ass. See if I care. Go ahead and do it. Confused, Howard asks him to explain. Spooks elaborates, explaining that scout biplanes have a rotary engine, and if you bank the same direction as the rotation of the engine, it can cause the plane to stall out with very little time to correct if you're flying at too low of an altitude. Even still, Howard waves the experienced chief pilot off and climbs into the plane, eager to prove himself to these stunt pilots. All the crew can do is watch. The camera begins to roll as Howard turns the plane to start the stunt. It sweeps overhead, then banks to the left and oh no. This is just as Fuchs warned. The plane is spinning out of control. Watching it happen, someone on set mutters, my God, there goes $50 million in my job. Howard and his Thomas Moore Scout fall 300ft into a nearby hillside, crashing in a cloud of crushed metal and dirt. The crew races to the accident site. They find Howard unconscious and battered in the rubble. When the self declared director comes to, he rambles incoherently about golf. Howard is rushed to the Inglewood hospital. Plastic surgery restores much of his handsome face, but he's forever lost his cleft chin. Before this film is finished, three pilots will die performing Howard's stunts. Hell's Angels premieres in Hollywood at Grauman's Chinese Theater on May 27, 1930. Even if it isn't able to recoup its $4 million in production costs, a cost reflecting Howard's decision to reshoot all the dialogue scenes and replace the main actress amid the rise of talkies. As we detail in episode 162, the final film is a success with critics and audiences alike. There's more to say about Howard Hughes in aviation. But first, let's round out some of the other monumental changes coming to the aviation industry after Charles Lindbergh's transatlantic flight. The frontiers of flight expand in 1928, when our friend Amelia Earhart proves flight is safe for women by being the first female passenger on a full transatlantic flight. In a nod to Lucky Lindy's transatlantic travel and frankly, their somewhat similar facial features, she soon dubbed Lady Lindy as an adamant champion of women's rights and equality. It's a nickname that Amelia Richard really doesn't love. Meanwhile, the passenger experience is getting better. We soon have in flight meals, headrests on the seats and more routes opening. Still, Americans are hesitant to fly flight horror stories like that of Howard Hughes's crash or the deadly crash that ends the life of episode 167's Notre Dame football coach Knute Rockne, our favorite fodder for the newspapers. Americans question why risk flight when train travel is so much safer? Not to mention that at this time, train travel is often a part of air travel. Airlines like Charles Lindbergh's Transcontinental Air Transport, or tat, team up with railroads to fly portions of a trip and then turn to trains at night or in bad weather. But even though passengers enjoy all the amenities provided by what is dubbed the the Lindbergh Line, so much is done by rail that people say TAT stands for take a train. Worse still is the stock market crash in October 1929, which leaves most airlines struggling to get people on board, literally. In response to this decidedly financial, not aviating crash, the new Postmaster General, Walter Brown, wants to get out from under the airmail contracts. He calls a conference in May 1930, where, as historian Daniel Rust puts it, he single handedly cajoled or threatened various contractors to merge operations and ensured through rigged bidding that the largest companies were left with the prized long term contracts. This will later be seen as a scandal, but at the time, the primary outcome is merging small airlines. For instance, Transcontinental Air Transport and Western Air come together as a company in which Howard Hughes will later heavily Invest. TransWorld Airlines, or TWA. Boeing Air Transport and National Air Transport become United Aircraft, or as we'll later know it, United Airlines. And several smaller lines form American Airways, which of course you and I will know as American Airlines. Meanwhile, one small southern airline called Delta Air Service, so named for the Mississippi Delta, nearly goes under as it loses its bid for an airmail route, but something tells me it's going to pull through. Amid all this merging, air travel also significantly improves in the early 1930s. The Boeing 247 and the Douglas DC1 and 2 reflect improvements in everything from landing gear to wings, as well as better construction. In a word, they're safer than yesteryear's aircrafts. Radio navigation has become the norm for guiding planes. And on top of it all, in flight, meals are getting downright elaborate, ranging from lamb chops to Yankee pot roast and country fried chicken. Initially, all the extra care for passengers comes from the co pilot, but they complain that they've got enough of a job actually flying the plane. So stewards are hired to provide pillows, coffee, and, of course, peanut service to passengers. Stewardesses enter the picture shortly thereafter. Turned down for a co pilot gig because she's a woman, Ellen Church suggests that she could nonetheless serve passengers and that as a trained nurse, she would be particularly useful in an emergency. Though still with reservation, United Airlines gives her and seven other nurses a chance in 1930. They not only pass out magazines, but also ratchet the seats to the floor, refuel the plane and load luggage. With Ellen's input, their wool uniforms are designed to fit over their nurses uniforms. There are yet so many other developments in aviation during these Great Depression years. But the key thing is that Americans are becoming more and more at ease with flying, especially as more daring records are set. In 1931, Wiley Post successfully flies around the world in eight days. Two years later, he breaks his own record with a time of 7 days, 18 hours and 49 minutes. Other high flyers like Amelia Earhart, Charles Lindbergh and Howard Hughes slowly convert the American public to the safety of air travel. Even more comforting is the fact that our very own first lady, Eleanor Roosevelt, flies with Amelia in 1933. And rumor has it that Eleanor even took over the controls for a few minutes. We started this episode with amelia's attempt in 1937 to become the first woman to circumnavigate the world. We know that tale ends sadly and without closure. But it's not long after that Howard goes for a new circumnavigating record of his own with a more positive outcome. So come on, let's head back to New York and end this episode with one more historic flight. It's around 6 in the evening, July 10, 1938. Amid a cheering crowd, New York World's Fair President Grover Whelan's car car pulls into hangar number seven at Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn, New York. But it isn't just New York's dapper official greeter who exits as the vehicle comes to a halt. No, he's joined by that handsome millionaire celeb and aviator, Howard Hughes. Donning a double breasted suit, black tie and his lucky fedora, Howard flashes a golden smile as he waves to the spectators and reporters all here to see him depart on a globe circling flight. Tony Stark, eat your heart out. Now, standing before Howard's smooth, sleek metal Lockheed 14, Grover Whelan engages in some not so subtle marketing for next year's fair as he officially christens the new aircraft as the New York World's Fair 1939. He then hands the microphone to Howard. Despite his charm, the notoriously shy Hollywood flyboy pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and reads out. We hope that our flight may prove a contribution to the cause of freightship between nations and that through their outstanding fliers for whom the common bond of aviation transcends national boundaries, this cause may be furthered. Howard and his four crewmen then board the plane. He pushes on the throttle. The crowd cheers and tosses hats as the New York World's Fair 1939, heavily laden with not only its crew, but 1500 gallons of fuel and 150 gallons of oil, takes off for France. The flight over the Atlantic faces turbulence, but after 16 hours and 38 minutes, Howard arrives at the same place where Charles Lindbergh finished his famous flight across the Atlantic just over 10 years ago, the Bourget airfield. Unfortunately, a broken strut delays them eight hours back in the air. The New York World's Fair 1939 flies at an elevation of 12,000ft over Germany. This is in accordance with Adolf Hitler's new requirement intended to stave off espionage. Even still, the Luftwaffe escorts Howard's Lockheed aircraft just in case the reception in Moscow is friendly. Here the Russian people greet Howard and his crew with corn flakes and milk, to say nothing of the can of caviar from Joseph Stalin himself. On the afternoon of July 12, 1938, 48 hours into this around the world flight, Howard is tired, very tired. He's insisted on flying the plane practically by himself and is starting to take its toll. Now in northern Siberia, crewman Harry Khan are testing Howard's mental acuity with a series of questions. They have to stop in Russia's far eastern city of Yakutsk for fuel, but are in complete awe of the jagged, beautiful mountains where both the sun and the moon appear at the same time. They're soon back in the air when Suddenly, Tom Thurlow screams. All turn to see that the mountains are right in front of them. Howard pulls back on the controls. But the way down with throw fuel plane climbs slowly. A deadly collision with hard granite looks all but certain until the last moment as they clear the mountain by a mere 20ft. They're so close, Richard Stoddard is able to make out the individual rocks they've narrowly avoided. Now, riding high on adrenaline, the crew flies with ease to Fairbanks, Alaska, the same place that took the lives of fellow world circumnavigator Wiley Post and famed humorist Will Rogers just a few years ago. They have to dodge Manitoba's bad weather, leading to an unplanned stop in Minneapolis. But finally, it's time to return to New York. On July 14, 1938, Howard prepares to put the plane down, only to see an excited crowd of 20,000 people below that looks like a headache. He opts to purposely overshoot his landing strip and land on the other side of the airport. It does look good. The people come charging. Howard and his trusty New York World's Fair, 1939 have done it. In just three days, 19 hours and 8 minutes and 10 seconds, the famed Hollywood flyboy has flown around the world, from the innovations of the Wright brothers, Glenn Curtis and William Boeing, to aviation's growing usefulness, first in war, then in delivering the mail, and finally in transporting passengers, to the daring pilots who embodied the idea that the sky's the limit. Be that in a dogfight, barnstorming, crossing the Atlantic, or circumnavigating the globe. Aviation grew from a curious new achievement to a crucial part of American life across the 20th century's first few decades. Risking it all, some pilots also ended up sacrificing it all. Rest in peace, Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan. Others, like Charles Lindbergh and Howard Hughes, were rewarded with fame and glory, even if their later controversies and eccentricities will complicate their legacies. But those are stories for another time. For now, the key thing is war. Waging, mail delivering and passenger carrying aviation has changed both the United States and the world. And those changes will only become more important in the following decades as we enter the Second World War. Indeed, while we've spent the last 30 episodes roaring through the 1920s and enduring the Great Depression as we've faced down a resurgent Ku Klux Klan, smuggled booze, met gangsters, witnessed labor wars, and pushed engineering to new depths and heights, ranging from dams to bridges to skyscrapers, Authoritarian, militaristic rulers of varying political persuasions have risen across the globe. I'm talking about Italy, Germany, Soviet Russia and Imperial Japan. In coming episodes, we'll hear all these nations interwar period stories as we trod the path to the most catastrophic life destroying war humanity has ever seen. History that Doesn't Suck is created and hosted by me, Greg Jackson. Episode researched and written by Greg Navruck Jackson and Will Iceman King Production by Airshift Sound design by Molly Bach Theme music composed by Greg Jackson Arrangement and additional composition by Lindsey Graham of Airship. For a bibliography of all primary and secondary sources consulted in writing this episode, visit htbspodcast.com HTDS is supported by fans at Membership. My gratitude to you kind souls providing funding to help us keep going. Thank you and special thanks to our patrons whose monthly gift puts them at producer status. Ahmad Chapman, Andy Thompson, Art Lane, Bob Stinnett, Brad Davidson, Bronwyn Cohen, Bruce Hibbert, Carissa Sedlak, Charlie Mages, Chloe Tripp, Christopher Merchant, Christopher Pullman, Dan G. David Rifkin, Durante Spencer, Donald Moore, Ellen Stewart, Elizabeth Christianity, El cheviado, Ernie Lomaster G2303 George J. 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