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Atlantic Fever: Lindbergh, His Competitors, and the Race to Cross the Atlantic, by Joe Jackson
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For five weeks--from April 14 to May 21, 1927--the world held its breath while fourteen aviators took to the air to capture the $25,000 prize that Raymond Orteig offered to the first man to cross the Atlantic Ocean without stopping.
Joe Jackson's Atlantic Fever is about this race, a milestone in American history whose story has never been fully told. Delving into the lives of the big-name competitors--the polar explorer Richard Byrd, the French war hero René Fonck, the millionaire Charles Levine, and the race's eventual winner, the enigmatic Charles Lindbergh--as well as those whose names have been forgotten by history (such as Bernt Balchen, Stanton Wooster, and Clarence Chamberlin), Jackson brings a completely fresh and original perspective to the race to conquer the Atlantic.
Atlantic Fever opens for us one of those magical windows onto a moment when the nexus of technology, innovation, character, and spirit led so many contenders from different parts of the world to be on the cusp of the exact same achievement at the exact same time.
- Sales Rank: #985493 in Books
- Published on: 2012-05-08
- Released on: 2012-05-08
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.29" h x 1.64" w x 6.47" l, 1.78 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 544 pages
Review
[Atlantic Fever is] a fantastically entertaining book. (Matthew Price, The Boston Globe)
A soaring account of the first flight across the Atlantic . . . [Atlantic Fever is] engaging, suspenseful . . . [a] revelatory book. (Daniel Dyer, Plain-Dealer (Cleveland))
By retelling the story of Charles Lindbergh's great 'first' alongside the nice and not-so-nice guys who finished last--from Admiral Byrd to Douglas 'Wrong Way' Corrigan--Joe Jackson gives us a book that is as suspenseful as it is thoughtful. Atlantic Fever is full of wonder at what it really means for human beings to fly, an achievement in which failure is not merely possible but even probable. Plainspoken and fast-paced, exhilarating and hilarious, Atlantic Fever reminds us why we are drawn to look skyward and why it is just as important to look out below. (Scott A. Sandage, author of Born Losers: A History of Failure in America)
Lindbergh may have been portrayed as 'Lindbergh Alone' and the 'Lone Eagle,' but except for having no companion in the cockpit, he was far from that. Rather, he was one of a cast of players in what Joe Jackson calls 'the aviator madness that rounded out the Jazz Age.' In Atlantic Fever, Jackson brilliantly re-creates Lindbergh and the drama and tragedy that surrounded his feat. (John Milton Cooper, Jr., author of Woodrow Wilson: A Biography)
With rich detail and a compelling story, Atlantic Fever recaptures the almost forgotten array of fliers and dreamers that accompanied Charles Lindbergh's solitary crossing in The Spirit of St. Louis. The world of individual daring and aspiration that followed the devastation of World War One has never come more alive. (Leo Braudy, author of The Frenzy of Renown: Fame and Its History)
[In Atlantic Fever] a talented storyteller re-creates the signature moment of aviation's golden age . . . Throughout, [Joe Jackson] folds in unfailingly apt observations about the psychology of aviators, the peculiar mix of wealth and want that characterized the 1920s, the hunger for heroes, the role of chance and the turbocharging effect of mass media . . . With stirring detail and perceptive insight about the pilots and the public, Jackson recaptures the tone and tenor of a frantic era's national obsession. (Kirkus (starred review))
[Atlantic Fever is] a penetrating evaluation of Lindbergh's triumph set against the backdrop of the hero-worshipping Twenties. Painstaking researched, Jackson's balanced work is a singular contribution to the history of flight in general and to Lindbergh historiography in particular. (Library Journal (starred review))
Jackson does aviation history an immense service by recalling the internationally representative group of fliers who competed in the race to cross the Atlantic. Along the way, he also details the scientific and technological advances that made this feverish aeronautical pursuit possible. Jackson's breezy narrative style makes it easy to get swept up in Atlantic Fever. (Margaret Flanagan, Booklist)
About the Author
Joe Jackson is the author of five works of nonfiction and one novel. His most recent book, The Thief at the End of the World:Rubber, Power, and the Seeds of Empire, was named one of Time magazine's Top Ten Nonfiction Books of 2008.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Atlantic Fever
PART IPHANTOM TRAVELERSIn flying, I tasted the wine of the gods.--Charles LindberghONESTRANGE DAYSCharles Lindbergh hooked his leg over the right side of the cockpit and prepared to throw himself from his plane. Only a day earlier he'd fretted that his life had stalled, and now, as if to prove the point, his army-salvage DH-4 had run out of gas somewhere on the mail run between St. Louis and Chicago. It was the night of September 16, 1926: Overhead, the clear midwestern sky glinted with stars; below him, a fog bank obliterated all trace of the ground. He balanced for a second, then launched himself over the side.Landing "blind" in a fog was suicide, the leading cause of death among airmail pilots. But parachute jumps were almost as dicey. If a parachutist failed to jump out far enough, he'd be caught by the plane's control wires and stabilizers. The wings hissing past at 100 miles per hour could slice through a man like a knife through cheese. Since 'chutes were often defective, a jumper could hit the earth at tremendous speed. The tall and lanky flier called "Slim" by his pals would have been remembered as a "twisted and horribly distorted thing."He did not drop immediately. One of the strangest sensations discovered by a jumper was that, for the first few seconds, he slid through the air like a bird. The 100 mph impetus given to him by the hurtling ship shot him forward with it, facedown, hands and feet extended, about 30 feet beneath the wing of the plane. It was not an unpleasant sensation. The cold wind whistled past one's face; instead of a breathless descent, you cut through the air like a projectile.Then gravity took over and Lindbergh dropped, turning somersaults for two or three seconds before pulling the ripcord.He'd been through this before. The idea of floating to earth beneatha huge canopy of silk was not particularly new. Leonardo da Vinci first sketched out the possibility in one of his many notebooks; the idea of a "Fall Breaker" came to him in a dream. The first successful experiment occurred in 1779, when Joseph and Étienne Montgolfier loaded a sheep into a basket hung beneath a large parasol. They pushed it off a high tower, and though the sheep lived, it voiced its objections the entire way down. More often than not, barnstormers used parachutes for "stunts," and Slim's entry into aviation in May 1922 was as a wing walker and parachutist to draw paying crowds. This was his third jump to save his life: he'd ditched once in 1925, as an army flight cadet, then once earlier this year near St. Louis, when his controls had jammed. Yet he didn't like to jump, and was more likely than most pilots to stick with his plane as it went down.The 'chute boomed above him. He jerked up in the harness, then swayed back and forth as the shrouds rustled overhead. He pulled out his flashlight and pointed it past his feet. He saw an endless quilt of fog covering the farmland somewhere north of Peoria.Until this point, the summer had been uneventful. Barely a year out of army flight school, Lindbergh had been named chief pilot when the Robertson Aircraft Corporation inaugurated its St. Louis-Chicago airmail run on April 25, 1926. It was quite an honor for the twenty-four-year-old former barnstormer, and the most responsibility he'd ever had. The "CAM-2" route, with its unpredictable weather, was considered one of the most dangerous runs in the country, but the skies during the summer of 1926 had been clear. He flew five round trips a week, following railroad tracks, rivers, and, at night, the soft glowing lights of farm towns. He lived at the edge of Lambert Field, in a room rented from an airport mechanic; he cooked two meals a day, and for the first time in his short career as a flier, felt he had found a permanent home.But permanence made him uneasy. When his mother, in Detroit, sent his weekly package of candy, cheese, and nuts, she sometimes included magazines filled with the exploits of other fliers. The mid-1920s had suddenly turned into the glory days of long-distance flying: in 1924 six army aviators flew 27,553 miles around the globe, the first to do so in an airplane; the Italian flier Francesco de Pinedo flew from Rome to Tokyo by way of Australia. In May, Lindbergh had read how navy commander Richard Byrd had been the first to fly over the North Pole; Lindbergh had applied to take part in Byrd's expedition, but was turneddown. He dreamed of flying to Alaska or entering the next long-distance race, wherever that might be. It seemed that another age of exploration was taking shape, like that of Columbus and Magellen, only this time in the air. And he was getting left behind.This night's run had started as inauspiciously as others in this long, boring summer. He left Lambert Field at 5:55 p.m. and noted a light ground haze, though the skies were practically clear. Night arrived twenty-five miles north of Peoria, and with it came the fog. It rolled over the countryside, wiping out all features. By Maywood, which was Chicago's airmail field, the fog reached an altitude of 900 feet; the field crew set searchlights out and burned two barrels of gas, but Slim was still unable to find clear ground. He circled back, and his engine stopped at 8:20 p.m. He thought he had more gas, and did not learn till later that when a mechanic had repaired a leak, he'd switched the normal 110-gallon tank for an 85-gallon replacement without telling anyone. Lindbergh switched to his reserve tank and released a parachute flare, but this, too, was swallowed by the fog. He climbed to 5,000 feet. At 8:40 p.m. the reserve tank died.Lindbergh went over the side and pulled the ripcord; he swayed in his harness, watching the fog approach below. Though this was his first night jump, everything initially seemed "like pie." But as he sank into the clouds, things turned strange. All of a sudden, he heard the burbling engine of his abandoned plane. He'd neglected to cut the switches when he bailed out, thinking all the gas was depleted. Instead, the DH-4's nose dipped down and the last cupfuls of gas had evidently trickled into the motor. Lindbergh and his plane were spiraling to earth at the same level and at the same rate of speed.Then he saw her, apparently coming for him out of the fog. The fabric wings, painted silver, caught light from the stars; the maroon fuselage looked black in the night, U.S. AIR MAIL painted in big white letters on the side. She flew as straight as if a phantom pilot sat at the controls. He grabbed the risers of his parachute, ready to swing the 'chute aside.But the plane passed harmlessly about a hundred yards away.Then she returned. Slim realized he was on the outside of the spiral, and each time the plane came back, she was a little farther away. The plane returned five times: he listened as the engine grew faint, then loud, until once again her slow, steady bulk reappeared at his level. She was like some poor lost pet that couldn't give him up and kept searching for him.He sank deeper into the fog. It was cold in the cloudbank, and he felt the chill through his heavy flight suit. He reached again for his flashlight, but realized he had dropped it in the excitement when the plane first appeared. All sound was hushed; the ground rushed up, but he could not judge how far away it was. The DH-4 passed once more, but too far away this time for him to see. He held his feet together so he wouldn't straddle some farmer's wall or barbed-wire fence, and covered his face with his hands. Shrouded in white between heaven and earth, Lindbergh waited in silence to land.
Nine hundred fifty-five miles to the east, New York's typical hot and humid summer had proved anything but boring. Summers in the city were always murder, but this year an inexplicable unrest had developed that no one could quite explain. Social commentators dubbed it the "American nervousness," but something more basic was going on. Perhaps, they theorized, six years of Prohibition had taken their toll.If people weren't dying for a drink, they were dying in unexpected ways. In June three policemen were murdered. The first officer was shot to death in a holdup; the second, during a traffic stop in Brooklyn. The third killing occured, amazingly, while a detective was booking a car thief at police headquarters in the Tombs. In mid-August Rodolfo Alfonso Guglielmi di Valentina d'Antonguolla, known to the world as Rudolph Valentino, checked into Polyclinic Hospital for severe stomach pains. Surgeons removed an inflamed appendix and closed two perforated gastric ulcers, and the thirty-one-year-old screen icon seemed on the mend. But then he developed peritonitis and slipped into a coma. Worried fans gathered on the sidewalk outside the hospital. On August 23, Valentino seemed to rally; his eyes fluttered and he gazed at the head of United Artists, seated by his bed. "Don't worry, chief, I'll be all right," Valentino promised. Then he died.Maybe Mayor James J. Walker should have predicted what followed. The dapper, flamboyant face of Tammany Hall, the political machine that ran New York and its five boroughs, "Beau James" had an innate sense of the public mood. He could feel its pulse in his sleep, he said. New York loved its characters, and he was happy to meet the demand. Rather than spend his days behind a desk, Walker held court at the Central Park Casino, the supper club whose entrance fee was $22,000.It was there he wined and dined his mistress, Betty Compton, who'd appeared on Broadway with Fred Astaire. Before politics Walker had been a songwriter: his biggest hit, "Will You Love Me in December (As You Do in May)?" To him, politics and entertainment weren't a far remove.But who could have known? Valentino's death released a worldwide flood of mourning, and New York determined its style. Some Hawaii...
Most helpful customer reviews
6 of 7 people found the following review helpful.
Extremely worthwhile
By Schmerguls
This 2012 book relates the efforts of aviators to win the Orteig prize of $25,000 offered in 1919 to the first person succeeding in making the Paris-NewYork flight. The accounts of the persons competing and the failures and tre success of Lindbergh in accomplishing the feat on May 20 and 21, 1927, is extremely well-told and the account of Lindbergh's flight is the high point of the book. But the book goes on to relate the efforts of persons seeking to emulate the feat, including the successful flight of Clarence Chamberlain of Denison, Iowa on June 4 to 6, 1927. The research is of a high qauality and there are ample footnotes and an excellent bibliography. The only reason the book does not get five stars from me is that the chapters atfer the victory by Lindbergh inevitably lack some of the drama so prominent in the account up to and icluding the time of the successful flight. I found this book an absorbing memorable experiene.
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
a first rate treatment
By Lawrence Meyer
Because the author is a good story teller, I enjoyed Atlantic Fever much more than I expected. He keeps the plotline taut, the characters vivid, and the narrative well-paced. Setting the familiar story of Lindberg's triumph within the wider context of all Lindberg's rivals mutes the glamorization of Lindberg and adds depth of perspective. This is a first rate treatment of the material.
Where I might quibble with Jackson is with his too gentle judgment of Levine. Levine's bogus offer to sell his plane to Lindberg and his contract squabbles with his pilots to me show Levine in a pretty squalid light. Lindbergh's irritation with Levine, if not his lifelong antisemitism that may have resulted, was fully justified. Levine was toying around with Lindberg, just as he toyed around with his pilots subsequently in the contracts he dangled before them. On the other side of the ethnic rainbow, Byrd was no pillar at mixing business acumen and personal honor either. He treated his colleagues just as shabbily. As a result, where Lindberg had the edge on all his competitors was that he was his own boss. No morale issues due to fuzzy purposes or divided counsel afflicted Lindberg.
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Fascinating, Excellent Tale--and It's True!
By E. D. Haynes
This is an excellent narrative, compelling to read. It includes a thorough character study of each of the pilots and others involved in competing for the Ortieg prize. Their later lives and careers are also noted. Many individuals important to the story are not generally known today. All had an influence on the rapid development of the aviation industry. The text is superbly researched, including a chronology and extensive list of original sources.
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