Poor Richard's Printshop

This submarine patrol business was a lot
of baloney-and Roos knew it That
is, until the submarine showed
up to prove he was wrong

SUBMARINE PATROL

By COLEMAN MEYER

THEY'VE got a hangar down in Brownsville. One that’s empty. And it stays that way. Of course it isn’t much as hangars go, just a T-shaped building of wooden frame construction but still it could hold one of the small aircraft that drowse, staked out, on the airfield.

Right in the center, above the intersection of the two doors and above some lettering, is a gold star.

And sometimes you see the pilots wave as they leave on patrol and usually the wave is toward the gold star above the doors.

I was pea-green at Brownsville in those early days of the war; pea-green and slightly unhappy. All I knew was that the army didn’t have much time for fliers with silver in their hair. And I had that—where I had hair.

But the Civil Air Patrol seemed to have need, desperate need, for pilots of almost any age and with almost anything that would fly. Somehow it seemed like a kid’s business for a chap with over two thousand hours, but I was desperately anxious to be in this thing somewhere, and until something else showed up perhaps I could ride it out here.

“LIEUTENANT ROOS reporting, sir.” My bearing was military, I hoped. At least it had been 26 years before.

The man behind the desk wore a silver bar and the red shoulder loops of the Civil Air Patrol. He arose, came around with outstretched hand.

“Glad to see you, Lieutenant. I’m Charlie Bates, Operations and general factotum.”

Bates was browned by the Texas sun, His thin hair was combed smoothly back. I noticed an Argonne ribbon below the pilot’s wings on his breast.

“How soon can you be ready for duty?” he asked. Seeing my startled look at the abruptness of his question, he added: “Sorry to rush you this way but we’re in frantic need of men and equipment. We’re flying men four to ten hours a day and probably would fly them twenty-four if we could see.”

"That bad?” I asked.

He nodded. “Worse. Come with me and I’ll show you around.”

Out on the field I looked over one of the strangest conglomerations of equipment I had seen in many a moon. Fairchild 24’s, 22’s, Stinson Reliants, 105’s, some new, some old—there was even a Challenger Robin; anything that would fly seemed to be there. Some were idling, some had the cowlings off, but they seemed to have one thing in common. Around them all were men and all the men were working.

“Doesn’t look like we need equipment,” Bates said. “But- this stuff comes in for hundred hour checks— sometimes every eight days.

“By the way,” he added, “I haven’t seen your service record yet. Suppose you tell me.”

“Navy pilot 1917-1918, Folkstone base. Presently attorney, San Francisco. 2200 hours. Instrument rating,” I answered.

He smiled his satisfaction. "Fine! Navigation current?”

I nodded assent. “My business takes me up and down the coast and I usually fly on dead reckoning rather than use the beam just to keep my hand in.” I guess he caught some of the wryness in my voice as I added, “I’ve tried to catch on in Ferry, in fact in half a dozen other spots, but the Army doesn’t seem to have much time for fliers over forty. Seems like they prefer to make their own pilots, so...” I guess the implication of my shrug and the bitterness of my tone produced a reaction I was instantly sorry for.

His smile vanished. He looked at me levelly and said, “I think there are some things you don’t understand, Lieutenant.” His voice was a trifle cold and impersonal and he did not continue.

I didn’t pay too much attention to the omission. I was down a little too deep mentally to be critical of trifles. Somehow I had thought that rallying around the flag was going to be like it had been 26 years ago; excitement, color, confusion, and that perhaps the art of war as I had learned it then was to have an application once again. And here I was, in a drowsy Texas field under a robins-egg sky, condemned, so it seemed, to spend endless hours behind eighty tired horsepower staring at the endless hills and valleys of an endless ocean for the accomplishment of nothing. Somehow I felt like a youngster at a grown-up party who has been told: “Take a book and go read in the corner.” Anything to keep me occupied.

BACK in the office, Bates waved to a chair and said, “I’ll try to brief you on this in a sudden mouthful. We've got a hundred thousand square miles o ocean to look after. This gulf 13 tanker alley. No use telling you how badly they are needed. It s also a bowling alley set-up for the subs. Our job is to keep the subs down and the tankers up. The Navy hasn’t any planes for the job; their have another job to do.” I could agree with that, knew how far we were trying to stretch the few Cats and long range kites we had. “We haven’t anything to keep them down with other than the implied threat of aircraft and—” he paused for just the tiniest instant “—some pretty good men. No bombs or guns. All we have is bluff and a radio. If the first doesn’t work you’ll have to use the second. There’s a small fighter-bomber base on shore here that’s always alerted. They can reach you in thirty minutes at the most if you need help.

“Don’t call them out unless you need them. God knows they’re few enough. Sometimes you can bluff the subs down and keep them there—after all, we all look alike through a periscope. Some are smart. That’s when you’ll have to holler for a bomber—quick!

“Patrol legs are roughly maximum range. A hundred miles out to sea, a hundred over and a hundred back. Two planes to a patrol—” At my inquiring glance he added, “You’ll .feel better with two. It’s a hundred miles out and we don’t carry rafts!”

He went on, “We’ve had some good men here, Lieutenant. They are,” he hesitated, touched the Argonne ribbon on his breast, “oldsters like myself...”

“My boy’s at B-17 school—Mather,” I blurted.

He nodded, still impersonally. “That’s fine. I hope he’ll be proud of your job here.” He arose. “Come on—I’ll show you to your quarters.”

REUBEN GILSON was in the right hand seat as I lifted the 105 from the runway. He was tall, sparse and crisped from the Texas sun. Gilson was not, technically, an observer. He had hundreds of flying hours over the Gulf as pilot; but Bates had sent him out on this first trip as a safety factor. Another 105 was on my wing-tip.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been out to sea in a single engine Iightplane. I hadn’t. Not a hundred miles to sea. The shore fades into the shimmering heat haze and you suddenly find yourself all alone in a place where every wave looks just like the one you left and the next one you are coming to. And all you do is look—look for things —anything at all that looks different from those unending waves. Your engine rattles. They always do. And they never sound better until the shore is in sight.

You trim the stabilizer for hands off, toe the rudder just the right amount for the prevalent west wind, and then settle yourself down to listening to the engine rattle.

Gilson slipped an earphone and I matched the gesture.

“Ten minutes more on this leg and then ninety east.”

I nodded and he picked up the microphone for a position check with the 105 on our wing.

I was bitterly disappointed. This had been going on for an hour now an hour of jogging along in an empty sky over an equally empty ocean. An hour of lazing at a thousand feet with nothing to do except listen to the engine rattle and hope that it would keep going. This would go on for hours, days, perhaps months. And if we did see something, what would we do? Cry “Boo!” or perhaps call Bomber Base? Somehow that smacked of calling in my big brother to finish something that I had started. My fervor had vanished. There wasn’t any place in a war like this for a chap like me. The single gold bar on my shoulder was a phony. All I’d need for this would be a merit badge.

I thought of my kid at his base. His letter was in my pocket. “Dad, I’m doing fairly well and feel sure I’ll graduate okay. Perhaps not tops but at least high enough for the left hand seat and that’s all I want. I’m so proud of you that I think I get in the hair of the rest of the guys with my bragging. You’re doing something big—the second war you’ve flown in—and I only hope I’ll be able to measure up to you....”

Somewhat bitterly I was thinking of my answer, the one I’d be writing tonight. We had always been close. I never fooled him. “...Better relax on the bragging, Son. The Old Man’s a Scoutmaster in this one. He’s just riding it out..."

Gilson nudged me. He pointed ahead.“ Something smudged the horizon. "Go to five hundred and circle once," he shouted. “They feel better.”

I dropped the nose of the 105 into an easy glide and just at the leg point we swung over a squat—bellied tanker, waggled wings acknowledgment, straightened out at full ninety to the previous course and commenced to parallel the shore that lay a hundred miles to the north.

The 105 drummed on. I dropped the wing tank into the main and watdled the gauge climb up again, did some mental calculations. Bates had been right on “maximum range”; they cut things a bit fine here on the Gulf.

GILSON was looking at his watch. Suddenly he opened the cabin window and the engine racketed in my ears. He reached behind him and, from a box produced a handful of rose petals, let them ?oat through his fingers into the hundred-mile-an-hour slipstream.

I looked through the window at the wing tank and saw a silvery stream feathering his tail.

MY inquiring glance asked a question. Gilson leaned close to speak. Suddenly the phones crackled in our ears. “Eleven to Nine! Eleven to Nine!”

Startled, I looked at the 105 on our left, saw black smoke pouring from his exhaust! Gilson’s hand was on the transmitter button. “...Go ahead!"

“Reuben—I think I’ve dropped a piston!”

Gilson shoved the microphone to me; barked, “Keep the button down!” His lean hands were flipping the computer. He leaned over, talking to both micro-. phone and me. “It’s too long a shot for shore. Swing 180 for the tanker. We’ll cover. Over!”

The voice that snapped, “Roger!” was cool and concise. No questions were asked. I thought of the sea below. And that hundred miles from shore. And then I thought of the rubber boat that wasn’t there and something started to stir inside rne.

I swung 180 as Gilson called Base. “...Eleven't going in!” He snapped a position report “...And send a duck—if you have one. Over!”

There was nothing but a brief “Roger!” from Base. I inched back the throttle to keep on the wing of the smoking 105. The altimeter read 800. I hoped he could keep it on three cylinders.

Eleven called once. Gilson shut them Off with: “Stay out for Base.”

It was Base after a few minutes“...No ducks. We’re trying to get a Cat from Corpus Christi. Can you last?”

Gilson had just pressed the button to answer when I shouldered him. Eleven’s prop had stopped! Was standing straight up!

“...Never mind,” he said wearily. “Eleven! Dump your doors! Have the tubes ready. We’re going for the tanker!”

We carried doors with loose pins and an emergency cable jettisoned them. I watched the doors swing below the tail and then saw fat edges of giant inner tubes peek near the suddenly revealed opening. Eleven was close to the water now. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Gilson wasn't watching; he was figuring hastily on the computer. The transmitter button was still down. "...Stall it in—stall it in!”

Eleven's tail dropped. There was a momentary white streak as the tail wheel hit first, then a splash as the fuselage glided for a split second. Eleven lay sprawled on the Gulf waters, then vanished with hardly a ripple. I could see two heads near the fat, red inner tubes.

Gilson turned to me. The throttle was on the panel between us. His hand jammed it all the way in and the 105 jumped ahead. “Tanker!” he shouted. There’s sharks and those tubes won’t keep a man all the way out of the water!”

It was twelve minutes to the tanker twelve minutes at 115. Probably three hours for the tanker at probably eight knots.

GILSON was writing now. We could see figures gazing upward at us from the deck. He spoke into the microphone twice, then shrugged his shoulders. “Thought they might be guarding our frequency,” he muttered in my ear. “Power stall it—right over the deck!”

I came down to deck height, dumped the flaps and pulled the nose up, easing the throttle to 1700. The Stinson hung there for a fractional moment and Reuben dropped the sparkplug he had taken from the glove compartment. Around it was a note affixed with an elastic band.

I levelled off and watched the scurrying figures on the deck. Then a chap came out from topside, ran to the fantail and chalked some large figures on the deck. Gilson’s hand went to the receiver, turned a dial, made another adjustment on the transmitter and called steadily.

A swift "...Over!” came to our ears.

"...Thanks,” Gilson said, “I didn’t know your frequency.” He talked steadily for a moment, finished with, “just about twenty-two miles dead ahead on that course. Thanks. Good luck!”

I circled aimlessly for a moment. "And now..."

He shrugged. “Better look to our own necks. We’ve done all we can and there’s no one around to help out if this kite sneezes. They should reach them in about three hours. In the meanwhile...” He gestured toward :he fuel gauge.

I bit my lip. It was touch and go. Or maybe one touch and no go. I thought of those inner tubes—probably it the same time Gilson did. He reached back and was checking the calves, tightening down the cores with a small valve tool. I swung the 105 for shore. Base had said, “No ducks!” And perhaps there were no Cats at Corpus Christi.

And there were no more tankers in his vast and empty ocean!

I eased back the throttle to maximum economy, thought for a moment of that cool “Roger!” and of those two heads near the fat tubes, of the calm, efficient detachment of Base. And I pondered on some values.

Gilson called Base. Reported crisply and concisely. There were no heroics. No grieving for “Joe.”

He switched the plug to “Intercom.” His voice came easily to my ears.

“Easier talking this way. We’ve got nothing to do but wait now. Wait and hope. And any spare hope can be used on our own gas gauge.” Then he added, “You wondered about those flowers, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

“Today’s August third,” he said. “Fourth monthly anniversary since Doc Ewing left us. That was the place.”

“Ewing?”

“Yeah. Doc Ewing. You saw that hangar with the gold star. That was Doc’s. It’s been' empty ever since. Doc was like you. Like me. Perhaps more so. He was 54. Meuse in T8. Argonne too, I think. Doc came to us five months ago. He was a little bit of a guy with a couple of hundred wobbly hours. I don’t mean he couldn’t fly. After all, the CAA gave him a ticket. But he learned late in life and what he lacked in technique he made up for in enthusiasm.”

Gilson paused, reflected for a moment. “We were worse off then than we are now. We had more ocean and less kites. Anybody that could get one the ground was a godsend.

“His kid was in the RAF. I guess he was a good boy. According to Doc he was winning the war single-handed. Every time Doc’d get a letter, his chest would go out another foot and we used to kid him by handing him rubber bands at mail call to pull his uniform together.

“Doc was keen, though. He’d wobble his way over this patch of nothing from four to six hours a day, and would fly ten if you asked him. He never saw anything. Few of us do. But at least he was part of the show. This'll probably drive you crazy eventually this nothing! It didn’t bother Doc. He’d look over every wave as though it was a personal enemy.

“I told him once to relax. All be did was look at me with those mild blue eyes of his and say: ‘I can’t relax, Reuben. I don’t want to relax. All I know is that out here on the gulf are long submarines and fat tankers, and then sometimes there’s black smoke staining that blue sky. And every time that smoke is on the Gulf, somewhere—Africa, Britain or maybe the Pacific—there’s maybe a hundred boys on the ground biting their nails and tearing out their hearts because a fighter tank is empty. Reuben, maybe one of them might be my boy. And maybe just one more tanker load would turn the trick. No. I just have to do it this way.’”

GILSON paused again, caressed the throttle with his finger tips. I looked at the gauge. It was bouncing zero now, as the vagrant current caught us. I tried to remember how long the Stinson ran after it said empty. Couldn’t. There wasn’t any shoreline in sight. The water looked cold and uninviting.

“Then—it was just four months ago today—we were just leaving for morning patrol. Doc was flying my wing. Somebody came from Operations and handed Doc a telegram. You’re smart to it, of course.

“Doc just straightened up, standing there alongside his ship. I went over to him and said: ‘I’m sorry as hell, Doc. Sorry as hell. Maybe you’d better stay in. Charley’ll take this trip.’

“He just stood there looking east. The tears were in his eyes and he was choked up as he said: ‘No! Let’s go, Reuben.... The kid was on the ground, Reuben. On the ground. He never had a chance, Reuben.’ His voice was sort of slow and while he was talking to me I somehow had the impression that he was talking to someone else. Someone who wasn’t there. ‘I wouldn’t feel so bad if it was in the air, Reuben. They caught him on the ground, Reuben—waiting for fuel that wasn’t there!’

“We left on the same leg we went out on today. I called him once by radio but Doc didn’t answer. I could see him—can see him now—elbows folded over the wheel, chin resting on his arms, just staring out into the blue. We were short of observers so only my ship carried two. Doc was solo.”

The fuel gauge was sitting on zero now. Just sitting there with an occasional lift as the Stinson bumped. Reuben looked at it, gazed ahead into the shimmering heat where the shoreline must be, shrugged and continued: “It was at that spot where we tossed the flowers; the tanker was hull down on the horizon and the sub was surfaced, waiting.

“It was the first one I had actually seen and I guess I was so startled I didn’t do anything for a moment. There were fighter-bombers on the shore— warm—but even so it was the long end of the leg and a thirty-minute run from take-off. The tanker wouldn’t last that long.

“I called Base and then called Doc. ‘I guess you heard it. The egg-layers are coming out!’

“He kept flying toward the sub. I called him again and said, 'Doc! Get away!' This sub was one of the smart ones. He knew we had nothing but a prayer and a hundred miles an hour. The crew was on the deck and they were at the machine guns.

"THEN the earphone's crackled. Doc’s voice was vague—just as though he was talking to someone else again: '...They’re gonna be in the air this time, Eddie.... In the air and not on the ground....’ Then his radio went off.

‘I called him once again and got no answer. Then I saw the Stinson climb for a moment. We were at 500 and just outside of light gun range. Doc’s 105 went up to perhaps 1500 pretty fast and then he peeled off.

“It was a straight dive right down to the floor that must have gone fifty miles an hour over placard speed. I could see the tail shaking. He levelled smoothly so as not to kill his speed and then came in full throttle for the sub.

“I saw the crew swing the chatter guns. It was tough shooting. Doc was kissing the waves with his wheels and coming like a bat out of hell, coming in the long wake of the sub. He wasn’t taking any chance on missing.

“The Stinson flew right into the barrels of the twin guns. They must have caught him dead center then. The 105 was nothing but a red hot ball of fire.

“Then he hit!”

Gilson’s head turned and I knew he was looking back at that spot where he had strewn the rose petals.

“He cleaned that gun crew off the deck like a Jenny spreader bar through a wheat field—pared them right down to the steel deck. Then the solid part of the Stinson hit the conning tower and blew up!”

The shoreline was in sight now. The gauge was rock-bottomed on zero. “Swim?” I asked. I was surprised that my voice was steady.

He looked at me for a moment, picked up fhe microphone and called Base. Said casually, “...We’re either in or on the beach. Better send some fuel..." Then, to me: “If I have to.”

Then the engine quit!

I made it halfway to the beach on the Stinson’s gliding angle and made the other half on a prayer. I didn’t have time to line up with the beach. The glide was rubber-thin and there wasn’t an inch to spare. I kicked the tail around and we landed in a skid that almost cleaned the landing gear off. But we made it.

We sat there for a moment. I guess my lips were moving for Gilson asked: “Say something?”

That gold bar on my shoulder was a gold bar again. It wasn’t a merit badge. I looked startled. “No-o-o. I guess I was just talking to myself— making a few changes in a letter—a letter I was going to write to my kid.”

He got out. Stretched. Said, “You’ll do, Roos.” He grinned. “You see—as Charley said—we’ve had some pretty good men here!”

THE END

Air Oddities

by Andrew London

THE name of Calbraith Perry Rodgers may be ignored, but not entirely forgotten, when the future histories of the amazing growth of aviation are compiled. Some men will laugh when Rodgers is mentioned, but it will not be scornful laughter. They will be thinking of his dogged perseverance, his big black cigars, and his highly unusual triumph,—the first transcontinental crossing by air. In 1936 Howard Hughes made aviation history when he hopped from New York to Los Angeles in nine hours and twenty-six minutes. In 1911 Rodgers covered the distance between New York and Pasadena in forty-nine days—in short hops. Which was the more exciting journey? The first one, by a long shot!

Cal Rodgers was a speed demon. In his student days at Columbia University he raced yachts, horses, and automobiles. In June, 1911, be traveled to Dayton, Ohio, where the Wright brothers taught him to fly. At that time he was one of the tallest flyers in the world. His six feet four inches were always well-dressed, and invariably he brandished a good Havana cigar. The half-smoked cold cigar clenched in his even white teeth became his trademark.

With his own Wright biplane he tore through the skies in his quest for faster speed. In Chicago after only sixty days of flying experience he broke the world endurance record. The $11,000 prize money he pocketed must have convinced him of his flying genius, for he promptly decided to compete for the richest prize then awaiting any aviator in the world. On October 10, 1910 William Randolph Hearst had put up $50,000 tor the first aviator to fly from coast to coast within a period of thirty days. The offer expired on October 11, 1911.

Although only a few short weeks yet remained before the expiration date, only three flyers had attempted to win this rich prize. The obstacles in their way seemed insurmountable. The America of 1911 did not have a network of landing fields and airports as it has today. The best of those early planes rarely flew more than a hundred miles at a stretch, after which a general overhauling was usually required. It was also assumed that the cost of making such a trip would easily eat up all of the prize money. Rodgers, who had some money of his own, decided that he would make the flight whatever the cost. Profitable or not, it was a tough undertaking for any airman.

After he had made his decision, Rodgers wasted no time in getting started. He couldn’t afford to. It would take a few weeks to make the necessary arrangements, and the flight had to be completed within thirty days before the 11th. Luckily, he was able to arrange for some extra, but very substantial, backing from a soft drink company which was interested in obtaining publicity. Rodgers was to buy his own plane on which the words Vin-Fiz would be conspicuously painted; his backer would pay Rodgers on a mileage basis, three dollars for every mile he covered in the Vin-Fiz Flyer; out of this money, Rodgers was to pay for the repair work of the plane during the trip. Also, a special train was to be furnished to accompany Rodgers from start to finish of the flight.

The train was equipped, the plane was procured, and the race against time was ready to begin. The name of Vin-Fiz was splashed on every flat surface of the caravan and plane as well. Rodgers had asked Wright to send him the very best plane he had, plus plenty of spare parts. It is rather doubtful whether any pilot of our own time would dare to take Rodger's plane aloft, but to him it constituted the most modern piece of equipment to hit the skyways. It was a fragile thing of bamboo and wire and cloth. The pilot sat in front, behind the extended landing skid, Behind him, driven by bicycle chains linked to the motor, were two wooden pusher propellers. To keep it flying for as long as was mechanically possible, the Wrights gave Rodgers the services of their best mechanic.

The train, outfitted for this special undertaking, resembled a colorful circus train. Inside there was a Pullman sleeper car with accommodations for Rodger’s wife, mother, manager, three mechanics, and a chauffeur. There was also a hangar car, complete with tools, enough spare parts to construct an entirely new airplane, oil, gasoline, and even towing truck equipped to haul the plane out of any ditch.

An enormous crowd was on hand to watch Rodgers take off on the first leg of the journey was the afternoon of September 11th; the day was balmy and bright, and he made such good time that a bad case of “overconfidence” began to set in. At the rate of two 80-mile hops per day, Cal Rodgers figured that he could easily afford to lose ten days to weather and engine troubles and still arrive in California in time to win the prize. The second day of flying made him change his mind. A tricky wind caught his wing as he tried to take off. He hit the top of one tree, then a second, and plunged into a chicken coop.

All was not lost, but things did look pretty bad at that moment. The boastful Rodgers was cut and bleeding about the face and neck; his knee was wrenched, and the doctor ordered him to remain in bed for at least two days. The plane had come through with only a cracked wing and a smashed landing skid. Three days were lost before the second lap could be undertaken.

Engine trouble dampened his spirits by slowing him dawn the next time he took to the air. While trying to land outside of the town of Binghamton he nearly ran into a barbed-wire fence in an effort to avoid running into the crowd that had gathered to welcome him. In the few moments he left the plane unattended in order to put through a phone call, the machine was stripped Of nuts, bolts, and everything else that was removable. The souvenir hunters had descended upon him. Once more in flight, the magneto plugs began to slip out. Rodgers saved the plane and himself by taking one hand off the stick and holding it against the plugs to keep them in place until be could glide to safety. Landing in a swamp he crushed his lower wings. After the first week of flight had ended, Rodgers was still in New York State. Only seventeen more days remained in which to cross the continent.

By this time so many replacements had been made on the plane that the Wright mechanic bad to wire to Dayton, Ohio, for more spare parts. Before the next crack-up took place, Rodgers spark plugs began acting up and the piston had to be removed and replaced for it had crystallized. Each disturbance meant the loss of several hours of goad flying time. In taking off on one occasion, the aviator misjudged his distances and the plane cracked up on a barbed-wire fence, stunning Rodgers and causing the delay of another three days duration. And so the journey continued. One crash followed the other in rapid succession. In meadows, in corn fields, in acres of waving grain, in fences, and trees, the Vin-Fiz plane came to a standstill. By the time Rodgers reached Chicago the prize money was well out of his grasp. Kansas City was the halfway point of the journey, and it was reached on October 10th.

Much more than the prize money had made Rodgers enter the competition originally. Only three other flyers had taken up Hearst’s offer, and each had met with so many difficulties that they had to withdraw. The future of American aviation was at stake. In 1911 the airplane was still a comparatively new phenomena. It was jeered as well as feared. Many believed that the automobile was the answer to the speedy travel problem and that the airplane was just a novelty to be played with by the rich daredevils who had nothing better to waste their lives or money on. Rodgers could prove the practical value of air travel if his transcontinental Journey could be completed. His own nature rebelled against all the mechanical difficulties which stood in his way. This trip was a challenge which he intended to triumph over. Cal Rodgers knew it was possible to fly from coast to coast and' he meant to show the world it could be done.

On November 5th, forty-nine days after taking off from Sheepshead Bay, Rodgers flew over Pasadena, California. He landed on a white sheet that had been spread on a field as a landing guide. Rodgers was lifted to the shoulders of the strongest men in the crowd that greeted him, and he was carried triumphantly to the welcoming committee. Although the flight had taken forty-nine days, only 103 hours had actually been spent in flying the 4,231 miles of the course Rodgers had chosen to take. He had flown this course at an average speed of 51.59 miles per hour, traveling three times as far as any man had ever gone by airplane. It was a feat every aviation expert had told Rodgers could never be done.

Of the original biplane in which Rodgers had taken off from New York, only the vertical rudder and the drip pan remained in the machine which brought Rodgers to Pasadena 1 Everything else—the wings, the landing skid, the motor, the tail,—had been replaced at least once, sometimes rebuilt and replaced again as Rodgers fought his way across the continent.