Страница 71 из 96
At the same time, in San Diego, at the Ryan Aircraft Company, a former mail pilot named Charles Lindbergh was waiting for a low-pressure area to lift over the Rockies so he could fly east to make a solo attempt. He was sitting on a wooden folding chair in the hangar next to his plane, Spirit of St. Louis, studying the current weather reports, when the news reached him that Nungesser and Coli would soon take off from Paris.
The date was May 8, 1927.
“Monsieur,” the mechanic said quietly, “the time is here.”
It was 3 A.M., the darkest part of night. Nungesser and Coli were lying on wooden pallets covered by thick horsehair mattresses in a comer of the hangar at La Bourget Airfield. Nungesser was clutching his favorite war medal; Coli had removed his eye patch. They awoke immediately. Nungesser reached for the steaming cup of Vie
L’Oiseau Blanc (The White Bird) was a French-built Levasseur PL-8. The white biplane had detachable wheels that would be jettisoned after takeoff and a watertight belly made of treated plywood that allowed it to land on water like a seaplane. Powered by a sophisticated water-cooled, twelve-cylinder Lorraine-Dietrich engine that produced 450 horsepower, spi
“She’s a beautiful mistress,” Coli said, as he pulled the eye patch over his socket.
“So much more so,” Nungesser said, “with the emblem attached.”
Coli simply smiled.
Nungesser’s ego was exceeded only by his flying ability. When he had insisted on attaching his personal emblem, Coli had readily agreed. The emblem was a black heart with drawings of twin candelabra holding lighted candles pointing toward the round humps at the top. Between the candles was a drawing of a casket with a cross on the top. Below that was the ancient skull-and-crossbones symbol. The emblem was positioned directly below and slightly to the rear of the open cockpit where Nungesser would fly the plane.
Coli rose from the mattress and pulled on his leather flight suit. “We should make ready,” he said. “The president will be here soon.”
“He’ll wait,” Nungesser said, as he leisurely sipped his coffee.
Outside the hangar, the sky was dotted with millions of stars. A rare wind flowing east washed across the ground, and if they were lucky it would carry White Bird across the Atlantic. André Melain was not staring at the stars or worrying about the wind. Instead, he was carefully smoothing the packed-dirt, two-mile-long runway with a small diesel tractor that featured a crude spotlight hooked to the battery. Placing the tractor in neutral, he climbed from the seat, then lifted some twigs from the dirt. After placing them in a metal box at the rear of the tractor, he climbed back aboard and resumed his meticulous work.
The President of France, Gaston Doumergue, had heard the rumors that Chamberlin had taken off in the now-repaired Columbia. After waiting to receive word from the French ambassador in New York City that the report was erroneous, he set off for the airfield.
The Orteig Prize had been funded by a Frenchman, and it was a matter of national pride that it also be claimed by a French team of flyers. Right this instant, however, Doumergue was cursing French engineers. The 1925 Renault 4 °CV carrying the president was stopped on the side of the road three miles distant from La Bourget. The driver had the hood of the car, emblazoned with the diamond-shaped Renault emblem, raised and was staring into the engine compartment. He fiddled with some wires, then returned to his spot behind the wheel and turned the engine over.
The engine fired and settled into a quiet purr. “My apologies, Monsieur,” the driver mumbled, as he placed the Renault in gear and pulled away from the curb.
Just under ten minutes later, they arrived outside the hangar.
François Coli was sipping from a glass of Merlot and nibbling on his breakfast of crusty bread smeared with ru
“Is the mailbag safely aboard?” he inquired of a mechanic who walked past.
“Stowed forward, as you requested,” the man noted.
Nungesser nodded. The special postcards would be post-marked after their arrival in New York and later sold as souvenirs for a handsome profit. He stared over at his navigator. Dressed in his full-leather flight suit, Coli looked like a sausage with a meaty head attached. Still, in spite of their differences, Nungesser trusted Coli’s ability completely. Coli came from a family of seafarers based in Marseilles, and navigation was in his genes. Shortly after the war, he had piloted the first nonstop flight from Paris to Casablanca across the Mediterranean. He was originally slated to make his own attempt for the Orteig Prize, but Coli’s plane had been destroyed in a crash.
For all his quiet demeanor, Coli wanted the honor as much as Nungesser.
The Renault steered past the crowds and made its way to the side of the hangar. The driver shut off the engine and climbed out, stepped back to the rear door, and opened it for Doumergue. The French president walked to the hangar’s side door, waited for the driver to open that, too, then walked inside.
Glancing to the right, nearest the overhead doors, he saw the white Levasseur. The tail of the plane was painted with a vertical stripe of blue nearest the cockpit, then an open stripe of white, then a stripe of red at the end of the tail. The colors of the French flag. Horizontally, above the stabilizer, were black block letters that read: P. LEVASSEUR TYPE 8. Just below the stabilizer was a painted anchor. The sheet metal surrounding the engine was also white and was rounded, like the end of a bullet. The nose of the plane was peppered with access panels, four round air intakes per side and a single exhaust pipe to port and starboard.
The light from the few electric lights in the hangar was dim, but Doumergue could make out Nungesser and Coli standing off to one side. He walked over and shook the men’s hands.
“This is the first I’ve seen the plane up close,” Doumergue said.
“And what do you think, Monsieur President?” Nungesser asked.
“The cockpit is farther to the rear than I thought it would be,” Doumergue admitted.
“Three aluminum fuel tanks that can carry 886 gallons are mounted just under the wings, just aft of the engines,” Coli said, gri
“An excellent idea,” Doumergue said.
Nungesser looked over to the French president. “Have we heard word of Chamberlin?”
“The rumors were false,” Doumergue noted. “At last report, he was still in New York.”
“Then the winds are against him and favoring us,” Coli said.
“So it would seem,” Doumergue said.
Nungesser turned and shouted to a mechanic. “Hook White Bird to a tractor and pull her onto the runway. Monsieur Coli and I have a date in New York City.”
The dozen workers in the hangar broke into cheers.
The eastern sky was paling with the first light of the coming dawn, as Nungesser and Coli climbed into White Bird and started the engine. A cacophony of noises washed across the hundreds that had gathered to watch the historic journey. Popping noises sounded as the engine belched and wheezed and then settled into a loud roar. Puffs of smoke billowed from the exhaust ports.