(3 of 3)
"Which Way Is Ireland?" Lindbergh carries five sandwiches in a brown paper bag, a canteen of water, a rubber raft, two small flashlights, a knife, and not much more except an iron will. For the first hours, that will is lightly tested, an occasional nodding daydream, a slight arm or leg cramp. Now & then he takes a swallow of water and keeps alert by checking his instruments and charts. But after nightfall, with The Spirit of St. Louis a dot over the Atlantic, fog closes in. Lindbergh looks for holes, climbs to 10,000 ft., goes down to 10 ft. above the vicious whitecaps. Sleet comes, ice edges the wings. For 1,000 miles he flies on his primitive instruments and battles the storm. After the storm comes another enemy, the urge to sleep.
In the 18th hour, "my back is stiff; my shoulders ache; my face burns; my eyes smart ... All I want in life is to throw myself down flat, stretch out . . ." He pushes his eyes open with his thumbs. Daylight comes, but in the 24th hour, Lindbergh has to strike his face and arms viciously and stamp his feet to keep awake. Over and over again he does his navigation chores: ". . . And 12 make 23. Twenty-three—what do I want with 23?" But even in a semi-stupor, he does his chores right. In the 27th hour, he joyously sights some fishing smacks. Diving to 50 ft., he throttles his motor and yells: "Which way is Ireland?" He gets no answer, but within an hour he is over the Irish coast. Then come the Cornish cliffs of England, the Channel, the coast of France. Hungry, he munches a sandwich, first food in 33 hours, slakes his dry throat from the still half-filled canteen. It's nearly 10 p.m.; the lights of Paris come into view, and five miles away, the floodlights of Le Bourget Field. Lindbergh toys with the idea of flying on to Rome. He has nearly 1,000 miles worth of gas left. But he circles Le Bourget, lands and rolls to a stop in the center of the field.
"I start to taxi back toward the floodlights and hangars—but the entire field ahead is covered with running figures!" Lindbergh was completely unprepared for the crowd of 25,000 that had broken down Le Bourget's fences to greet him. He had rather expected to have to introduce himself.
* The first nonstop transatlantic airplane flight was made by two Britons, Alcock and Whitten-Brown, from Newfoundland to Ireland on June 14-15, 1919-