One Summer: America, 1927

laid on for him there. ‘Colonel Lindbergh never indicated by expression or gesture that he understood that the demonstration was for him,’Johnston wrote. ‘He did not smile or wave. Nothing moved him to admit that the glittering spectacle and the deafening uproar was a personal tribute.’ The following day Lindbergh delighted a crowd of 100,000 in Forest Park with aerial acrobatics, but underwent an abrupt mood change upon landing. ‘The holiday spirit deserted him when he touched earth again,’ Johnston reported. ‘As soon as he left his own element, the stern and rather gloomy demeanor returned. He is not quite at his ease on land.’
    Things got worse. From St Louis, Lindbergh flew to Dayton, Ohio, to visit Orville Wright, co-inventor of the aeroplane with his late brother Wilbur. Thrilled city officials hastily organized a parade and reception, and were dismayed when Lindbergh refused to take part in either on the grounds that this was a private visit. When disappointed townspeople learned that Lindbergh had declined their tribute, many of them marched on Wright’s home and demanded to see their hero. When Lindbergh still refused to appear, the crowd grew restive and threatened to do actual damage to Wright’s house. Only then did Lindbergh, beseeched by Wright for the sake of his property, step on to a balcony and briefly wave to the crowd.
    Reporters found Lindbergh close to sullen when he returned to New York via Mitchel Field on 24 June. ‘Colonel Lindbergh appeared much more tired than when he left New York a week ago. He did not smile once,’ wrote another Times reporter. As Lindbergh was about to climb into an automobile for the drive into Manhattan, a pretty girl rushed up and asked if she could shake his hand. Lindbergh’s reaction surprised everybody. ‘He looked at her severely and said: “No shaking hands,” and drew his arm away swiftly,’ wrote the Times reporter. The girl was clearly crushed, and Lindbergh embarrassed, but he seemed powerless to behave in a more relaxed and thoughtful way.
    The world, however, refused to see him as anything other than a warm-hearted hero, and the press soon stopped noting his curiously flat aspect and lack of enthusiasm for those who adored him, and resumed depicting him as the obliging hero the world wished him to be.
     
    While Lindbergh was breaking hearts at Mitchel Field, Commander Richard Byrd was continuing to mystify the flying fraternity at Roosevelt. A special earthen ramp about six feet high and fifty feet long had been erected at the starting point for takeoff to help the America get airborne. Three times the plane was hauled to the top of its takeoff ramp, and three times Byrd gravely scanned the sky and ordered a postponement. The delays ‘began to look something more than ridiculous’, fumed Fokker.
    With Floyd Bennett permanently lost to the team, Byrd appointed Bert Acosta as chief pilot. A tanned and rakish-looking fellow of exotic Mexican-Amerindian lineage, Acosta was a celebrated ladies’ man. ‘His Latin allure and his low “come-hither” voice wrought havoc among the fair,’ wrote one admiring biographer. ‘In the movies he might have been another Valentino.’ Acosta was also one of the world’s most daring stunt pilots. His speciality was to pluck a handkerchief from the ground with a wingtip. Not surprisingly, these skills would prove somewhat irrelevant on an ocean crossing.
    To assist Acosta, Byrd selected the Norwegian Bernt Balchen as co-pilot – though Balchen was listed only as mechanic and relief pilot because Rodman Wanamaker wanted to keep the enterprise all-American. Balchen was only allowed to come at all after agreeing to apply for US citizenship. Byrd, in a press conference, said that Balchen was primarily a passenger, though he might also be allowed to do a little navigating when Byrd was busy with other duties. In fact, Balchen did nearly all the flying.
    On an early test flight with Acosta, Balchen got a glimpse of the problems the team faced. As the America flew into cloud, Acosta grew tense and flustered. Within minutes he had put the plane into a dangerous spin. Balchen grabbed the controls, which Acosta yielded gratefully. ‘I’m strictly a fair-weather boy,’ Acosta told him, blushing. ‘If there’s any thick stuff I stay on the ground.’ Acosta, it turned out, had no idea how to fly on instruments. The only reasonthat Byrd’s flight made it to France was that Balchen was willing to