# 20 Hrs. 40 Min./Chapter 2

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CHAPTER II
EARLY AVIATION
At the end of my brief hospital career I became a patient myself. It was a case of too much nursing, perhaps with too long hours, in the pneumonia ward. I picked up an infection and there followed several minor operations and a rather long period of convalescence.
At Toronto I had been put into the dispensary because I knew a little chemistry and because it appeared I was one of the few people who wouldn't drink the medical supply of whiskey. My brief experiences aroused my interest in medicine, and after the armistice I went to New York with the idea that I might become a ​physician. At Columbia I took up a very heavy course which included pre-medical work. Scholastically I think I could have qualified, but after a year of study I convinced myself that some of my abilities did not measure up to the requirements which I felt a physician should have.
My mother and father wanted me to come to Los Angeles. Regretfully I left New York and moved west.
Southern California is a country of out-door sports. I was fond of automobiles, tennis, horseback riding, and almost anything else that is active and carried on in the open. It was a short step from such interests to aviation and just then, as now, Southern California was particularly active in air matters.
I remember the first air meet I attended. It was near Long Beach, at Daugherty Field, the ocean side of the broad Los Angeles valley. The sky was blue and flying conditions were ​perfect, as I remember. As this was the summer of 1920 commercial flying was in its infancy. Even to go to see planes then was considered really sporting by the populace. There were mechanical imperfections of many kinds, but progress is made always through experimentation.
Certainly a great many of the people gathered that day had never before seen an aeroplane. The planes mostly were old war material, Jennys and Canucks. The Army and Navy were represented with the planes available at that time—Standards, D. H.'s, Douglasses, Martins, etc. None of the ships stand out distinctly in my mind as types. I imagine there were some bombing planes and pursuit jobs, but they all seemed to my untrained eye more or less routine two-seaters. Of course at that time I knew somewhat less than I do now.
However, one thing I did know that day. I wanted to fly. I was there with my father, who, ​I fear, wasn't having a very good time. As the dust blew in his eyes, and his collar wilted, I think his enthusiasm for aviation, such as it was, waned. He was slightly non-plussed, therefore, when I said:
"Dad, you know, I think I'd like to fly."
Heretofore we had been milling about behind the ropes which lined the field. At my suggestion we invited ourselves into the arena and looked about. I saw a man tagged "official" and asked my father to talk with him about instruction. I felt suddenly shy about making inquiries myself, lest the idea of a woman's being interested in trying to fly be too hilarious a thought for the official.
My father was game; he even went so far as to make an appointment for me to have a trial hop at what was then Rogers Airport. I am sure he thought one ride would be enough for me, and he might as well act to cure me promptly.
Next day was characteristically fair and we ​arrived early on the field. There was no crowd, but several planes stood ready to go.
A pilot came forward and shook hands.
"A good day to go up," he said, pleasantly.
My father raised an inexperienced eye to the sky and agreed. Agreeing verbally is as far as he went, or has ever gone, for he has not yet found a day good enough for a first flight.
The pilot nodded to another flyer. "He'll go up with us."
"Why?" I asked.
The pair exchanged grins. Then I understood. I was a girl—a "nervous lady." I might jump out. There had to be somebody on hand to grab my ankle as I went over. It was no use to explain I had seen aeroplanes before and wasn't excitable. I was not to be permitted to go alone in the front cockpit.
The familiar "contact" was spoken and the motor came to life. I suppose there must be emotion with all new experiences, but I can't re​member any but a feeling of interest on this occasion. The noise of the motor seemed very loud-I think it seems so to most people on their first flight.
The plane rose quickly over some nearby oil derricks which are part of the flora in Southern California. I was surprised to be able to see the sea after a few moments of climbing. At 2,000 feet the pilot idled the motor and called out the altitude for me. The sensation of speed is of course absent, and I had no idea of the duration of the hop. When descent was made I know the field looked totally unfamiliar. I could not have picked it out from among the hundreds of little squares into which populated areas are divided. One of the senses which must be developed in flying is an acuteness in recognizing characteristics of the terrain, a sense seldom possessed by a novice.
Lessons in flying cost twice as much in 1920 as they do now. Five hundred dollars was the ​price for ten or twelve hours instruction, and that was just half what had been charged a few years before.
When I came down I was ready to sign up at any price to have a try at the air myself. Two things deterred me at that moment. One was the tuition fee to be wrung from my father, and the other the determination to look up a woman flyer who, I had heard, had just come to another field. I felt I should be less self-conscious taking lessons with her, than with the men who overwhelmed me with their capabilities. Neta Snook, the first woman to be graduated from the Curtiss School of Aviation, had a Canuck—an easier plane to fly than a Jenny, whose Canadian sister it was. Neta was good enough to take payments for time in the air, when I could make them, so in a few days I began hopping about on credit with her. I had failed to convince my father of the necessity of my flying, so ​my economic status itself remained a bit in the air.
I had opportunity to get a fair amount of information about details of flying despite my erratic finances. In Northampton, where I had stayed a while after the war, I had taken a course in automobile repair with a group of girls from Smith College. To me the motor was as interesting as flying itself, and I welcomed a chance to help in the frequent pulling down and putting together which it required.
New students were instructed in planes with dual controls; the rudder and stick in the front cockpit are connected with those in the rear so that any false move the student makes can be corrected by the instructor. Every move is duplicated and can be felt by both flyers. One lands, takes off, turns, all with an experienced companion in command. When passengers are carried these controls are removed for safety's sake with little trouble. If there is telephone
MY FIRST TRAINING SHIP, 1920
A. E., 1928
​connection, communication and explanation are much easier than by any methods of signs or shouting. This telephone equipment, by the way, seems to be more usual in England than here.
I am glad I didn't start flying in the days of the "grass cutters," which exemplified an earlier method of flying instruction. One of the amusing sights of the war training period was that of the novices hopping about the countryside in these penguin planes. They could fly only a few feet from the ground and had to be forced off to do that. The theory had been that such activity offered maximum practice in taking off and landing. In addition it was a sort of Roman holiday for the instructors—they had nothing much to do but, so to speak, wind up their playthings and start them off. And nothing very serious could happen one way or the other.
It was really necessary for a woman to wear breeks and leather coats in these old days of ​aviation. The fields were dirty and planes hard to enter. People dressed the part in a semi-military khaki outfit, and in order to be as inconspicuous as possible I fell into the same styles. A leather coat I had then, I wore across the Atlantic, eight years later.
Neta sold her plane and I bought one and changed instructors after a few hours' work. John Montijo, an ex-army instructor, took charge of me and soloed me after some strenuous times together. I refused to fly alone until I knew some stunting. It seemed foolhardy to try to go up alone without the ability to recognize and recover quickly from any position the plane might assume, a reaction only possible with practice. In short, to become thoroughly at home in the air, stunting is as necessary as, and comparable to, the ability to drive an automobile in traffic. I was then introduced to aerobatics and felt not a bit afraid when sent "upstairs" alone for the first time.
​Usually a student takes off nonchalantly enough but doesn't dare land until his gas supply fails. Any field is familiar with the sight of beginners circling about overhead, staying up solely because they can't bear to come down. The thought of landing without their instructors to help them, if need be, becomes torture, which is only terminated by the force of gravity.
In soloing—as in other activities—it is far easier to start something than it is to finish it. Almost every beginner hops off with a whoop of joy, though he is likely to end his flight with something akin to D. T.'s.
I reversed the process. In taking off for the first time alone, one of the shock absorbers broke, causing the left wing to sag just as I was leaving the ground. I didn't know just what had happened, but I did know something was wrong and wondered what I had done. The mental agony of starting the plane had just been gone through and I was suddenly faced with the ​agony of stopping it. It was all in a matter of seconds, of course, and somehow I contrived to do the proper thing. My brief "penguin" flight came to a prompt conclusion without further mishap.
When the damage had been repaired, I took courage to try again, this time climbing about 5,000 feet, playing around a little, and returning to make a thoroughly rotten landing. At once I had my picture taken by a gentleman from Iowa who happened to be touring California and wanted a few rare sights for the album back home.
© Keystone Views
SOUTHAMPTON—MRS. GUEST, GORDON, A. E., STULTZ, MRS. FOSTER WELCH
AFTER MY FIRST "SOLO," 1921