CO-PILOTDick Blythe, who handled Lindbergh’s publicity not only after Lindbergh came back from Paris but also, as Dick stated to me, just before Lindbergh went to Paris, is a bit of aviation folklore in himself.I just ran into Dick over at the Roosevelt Field restaurant, and he told me this one about Dean Smith. Dean is one of the oldest air-mail pilots. He started flying the mail ’way back in the postoffice days, just after the war. He is a lean six-foot-two, easy-going guy who would never talk much about his flying.Dick caught him just after he had returned from one of his crackups in the Alleghanies in the old days when Roosevelt Field was called Curtiss Field and the mail went out of there instead of out of Newark as it does now. Dean was just pouring his long self into the cockpit of another DH to take the night mail out again.“Where in the hell have you been?” Dick greeted him.“Oh,” Dean said, “I had a hell of a time the other night. Just got back.”“What happened?” Dick asked him.“Aw, I got tangled up with a load of ice after dark. She started losing altitude, and I eased a little more gun to her. She kept on losing, so I eased a little more gun to her. She still kept on losing, so I eased all the gun she had. She was squashing right down into the trees. I had done everything I knew and couldn’t hold her up. So I said, ‘Here, God, you fly it awhile,’ and turned her loose and threw my arms up in front of my face.“I guess it must have been tough, because He cracked her up. He piled into that last ridge just outside of Bellefonte.”
CO-PILOTDick Blythe, who handled Lindbergh’s publicity not only after Lindbergh came back from Paris but also, as Dick stated to me, just before Lindbergh went to Paris, is a bit of aviation folklore in himself.I just ran into Dick over at the Roosevelt Field restaurant, and he told me this one about Dean Smith. Dean is one of the oldest air-mail pilots. He started flying the mail ’way back in the postoffice days, just after the war. He is a lean six-foot-two, easy-going guy who would never talk much about his flying.Dick caught him just after he had returned from one of his crackups in the Alleghanies in the old days when Roosevelt Field was called Curtiss Field and the mail went out of there instead of out of Newark as it does now. Dean was just pouring his long self into the cockpit of another DH to take the night mail out again.“Where in the hell have you been?” Dick greeted him.“Oh,” Dean said, “I had a hell of a time the other night. Just got back.”“What happened?” Dick asked him.“Aw, I got tangled up with a load of ice after dark. She started losing altitude, and I eased a little more gun to her. She kept on losing, so I eased a little more gun to her. She still kept on losing, so I eased all the gun she had. She was squashing right down into the trees. I had done everything I knew and couldn’t hold her up. So I said, ‘Here, God, you fly it awhile,’ and turned her loose and threw my arms up in front of my face.“I guess it must have been tough, because He cracked her up. He piled into that last ridge just outside of Bellefonte.”
Dick Blythe, who handled Lindbergh’s publicity not only after Lindbergh came back from Paris but also, as Dick stated to me, just before Lindbergh went to Paris, is a bit of aviation folklore in himself.
I just ran into Dick over at the Roosevelt Field restaurant, and he told me this one about Dean Smith. Dean is one of the oldest air-mail pilots. He started flying the mail ’way back in the postoffice days, just after the war. He is a lean six-foot-two, easy-going guy who would never talk much about his flying.
Dick caught him just after he had returned from one of his crackups in the Alleghanies in the old days when Roosevelt Field was called Curtiss Field and the mail went out of there instead of out of Newark as it does now. Dean was just pouring his long self into the cockpit of another DH to take the night mail out again.
“Where in the hell have you been?” Dick greeted him.
“Oh,” Dean said, “I had a hell of a time the other night. Just got back.”
“What happened?” Dick asked him.
“Aw, I got tangled up with a load of ice after dark. She started losing altitude, and I eased a little more gun to her. She kept on losing, so I eased a little more gun to her. She still kept on losing, so I eased all the gun she had. She was squashing right down into the trees. I had done everything I knew and couldn’t hold her up. So I said, ‘Here, God, you fly it awhile,’ and turned her loose and threw my arms up in front of my face.
“I guess it must have been tough, because He cracked her up. He piled into that last ridge just outside of Bellefonte.”