Charles Lindbergh Visit in 1927
By Ian Campbell-Wilson
Imagine if an entire city took to the streets to celebrate and cheer an American hero? What a spectacle this would be!
This actually happened 80 years ago, in Tucson, Arizona. An estimated 30,000 people—the approximate population of the city in 1927-- crowded into the Old Pueblo to greet and cheer Charles A. Lindbergh, who, four months earlier, had stunned the world with a daring solo flight from New York to Paris.
“Lucky Lindy,” as he was known, was at the controls of his silver monoplane, the Spirit of St. Louis, when it landed in Tucson on Friday, September 23, 1927, as part of a nationwide tour to promote aviation.
Tucson embraced the hero aviator by throwing a spectacular city-wide party lasting for days. It was the largest public gathering in its history, and the city even declared a local holiday, Lindbergh Day, on the day he landed. Schools and the University of Arizona let out early, and most businesses closed to give everyone an opportunity to join in the celebration.
Rise to Stardom
Despite advances in planes leading up to World War I, aviation was still in its infancy in the 1920s. Flying was dominated by military men, wealthy adventurers, thrill-seekers, and crackpots. The planes they flew were primitive, clunky, and extremely dangerous. Fiery crashes and death was often a pilot’s fate. Talk of commercial aviation, using planes to transport people and goods, seemed as far-fetched in the 1920s as exploring the planets.
Lindbergh’s flight across the Atlantic changed everything.
Lindbergh had been too young to fly for the military in World War I. He earned his chance to sit in a cockpit by first cleaning planes for a small troupe of aerial barnstormers, then graduating to perform daredevil stunts at their shows, including wing-walking and parachuting. When Lindbergh bought his first plane in 1923, a surplus WW I Curtiss JN4D (called a “Jenny”), the man selling the plane was dumbfounded to learn that the 21-year-old basically did not know how to fly! Lindbergh had only eight hours in the cockpit and had never soloed. A few days of impromptu lessons, and the naturally skilled Lindbergh was wowing audiences with his aerobatic prowess.
Lindbergh became obsessed with flying. In fact, during his barnstorming years, he would sleep on a hammock slung from his plane’s wing. He joined the U.S. Army Air Corps so he could fly bigger, faster and more powerful planes. With quiet confidence, he too would join the race to see who could first cross the Atlantic in a single, mechanical leap.
Following his epic 33.5-hour flight over the Atlantic in late May 1927, Lindbergh mania swept the world and America. In his 1998 biography Lindbergh, A. Scott Berg writes that people “behaved as if Lindbergh had walked on water, not flown over it.” His boyishly handsome looks, and his “aw shucks” modesty fueled a media frenzy for the young hero. Kings, queens, prime ministers and presidents gushed over the skinny 25-year-old, and showered him with medals, gifts, and honors.
At every event, Lindbergh was mobbed by tens of thousands of flag-waving admirers -- all hoping for a Lindy sighting and perhaps even an impromptu speech. He was among a new breed of 1920s celebrities, a young, daring adventurer who changed the world with a single act of bravery.
Tour to Promote Aviation
Following his historic crossing, Lindbergh gained many new friends and admirers, including the New York-based Daniel Guggenheim Fund for the Promotion of Aviation. It immediately hired Lindbergh for a barnstorming-type tour of the nation to promote the value and benefits of commercial aviation. Lindbergh was an eager messenger, and offered to inspect prospective sites for airports with local officials at each stop. His core message was “that aviation had a brilliant future, in which America should lead.”
The tour, which “wavered between the historical and the hysterical,” began July 20, 1927, in Long Island, New York, and continued for almost three months. In most places he and his silver Spirit of St. Louis monoplane touched down, Lindbergh’s appearance created the biggest public event anyone had ever witnessed. Over four million greeted the young aviator in New York City.
At Detroit’s Ford Airport, Lindbergh took Henry Ford up for his first ride in an airplane. A half million well-wishers jammed the Twin Cities airport in Minnesota to greet their native son, and
in Los Angeles,100,000 enthusiastic fans filled the Coliseum. Parades and banquets were organized for his visit in almost every city. For cities not on his tour, Lindbergh would do fly-overs, and drop special greetings in a muslin sack with an orange streamer attached.
Lindbergh’s 1927 air tour covered an astonishing 22,350 miles, including stopovers in 49 states, and 82 American cities. Colonel Lindbergh would deliver 167 speeches during the tour, with an estimated 30 million Americans attending local tour events, almost a quarter of the nation’s population at the time.
Tucson Stopover
Tucson in 1927 was more of a big town than a city. The 1920s has been called Tucson’s “Golden-Plated Decade,” when the community began to shake off its reputation as a mecca for sufferers of tuberculosis, and instead re-brand itself as a legitimate business hub and a must-stop location for an emerging tourism industry.
Community leaders could hardly contain their joy when they learned that the aviator phenom Lindbergh had added Tucson -- and not Phoenix -- as his sole Arizona destination for his tour. Since Territorial days, Tucson and Phoenix had been locked in fierce battle over which city would dominate as Arizona found its legs as a state. Lindy’s stopover buoyed spirits in the city.
This was not Tucson’s first major public event. The turnout for Lindbergh’s visit was bigger than the festivities celebrating the first train to reach Tucson in the early 1880s, and larger than the party thrown for U.S. Army General Nelson Miles, following his 1886 capture of the Apache leader Geronimo.
The community rolled out the red carpet for the visit. Cleaning crews worked overtime, and a sparkling downtown was a clutter of flags, banners and colorful streamers -- all welcoming the Eagle of the Atlantic to the Old Pueblo. Tickets for the gala evening banquet became prized possessions, and sold out in a flash. And, as the sun rose on Friday, September 23, 1927, residents all over the city actively staked out the best street spots to view Lindy and his motorcade.
Never at a loss for a marketing opportunity, Tucson’s Sunshine Climate Club printed thousands of red, white and blue Airmail envelopes to distribute during the visit, to market the city’s new municipal airfield. The Tucson Stamp Club, responding to intense demand, ordered 5,000 additional new 10-cent US Postal Service airmail stamps commemorating Lindbergh’s crossing (the first time a living person was commemorated on a postal stamp). The Chamber of Commerce commissioned 600 special Lindberg medallions to be sold to the public to raise money for the events during the visit.
Local businesses filled the newspapers with advertisements congratulating Lindbergh. Bookstores advertised copies of “We,” Lindbergh’s own account of his famous flight and life. The Tucson Opera House promised “special Lindbergh news” at its shows of “The Circus Ace,” featuring Hollywood cowboy Tom Mix and his wonder horse Tony. A local meat company shamelessly promoted its ham in ads that claimed that Lindy’s ham sandwiches helped “put him across” the Atlantic. And, the Arizona Daily Star held a model airplane building contest, with the winners expected to present their models to Lindbergh at the dinner banquet.
Army bands from Nogales and Sonora, Mexico, were invited to perform for Tucsonans in the days leading up to the Friday visit, creating a festive and patriotic climate in the community. Lindbergh was hugely popular in Mexico, and special excursion trains from Nogales were scheduled to bring thousands of Mexicans to join in on the festivities.
A key purpose for Lindbergh’s stopping in Tucson was to dedicate its new municipal airport. He would officially open Davis-Monthan Field, one of the first and largest community-owned airports in the country at the time. The airfield, operated by the Tucson Chamber of Commerce, decided in 1927 to formally christen the airfield Davis-Monthan after two local aviators, Lieutenants Samuel H. Davis and Oscar Monthan, who died in separate military plane accidents after WW I.
The Hero Arrives
Never mind that the Yankees Babe Ruth had just hit his 54th home run, or that Gene Tunney had just pummeled Jack Dempsey in the Battle of the Big Dough at Soldiers Field in Chicago,
Friday September 23rd was “Lindbergh Day” in Tucson. The Arizona Daily Star’s headlines screamed, “Eagle of the Atlantic to be City’s Guest Today,” alongside an enormous photo of the handsome aviator in leather flying cap and goggles.
“Today is aviation day in the Old Pueblo and representatives of all Arizona and of Mexico will be here to meet and see the man who first flew from New York to Paris,” said the Star.
A storm and heavy winds delayed a squadron of US naval planes accompanying Lindbergh on parts of his tour but did nothing to dampen spirits on that Friday. An estimated crowd of 20,000 on foot, in cars, and on horseback encircled the small, desert airfield in the hours prior to Lindbergh’s landing. Knowing the experiences of other cities on the tour, Tucson expected unprecedented crowds and took steps to ensure public safety. The entire city police force was activated for the day, accompanied by forty armed troopers from Nogales, Mexico, and about forty University of Arizona R.O.T.C.cadets, mounted on horseback.
A lone silver speck in the sky was first spotted at about 1:45 p.m., flying in from the west over the Tucson Mountains. As the Spirit of St. Louis came into view, Lindbergh maneuvered his silver bird into a slow aerial circle of the city, dipping his wings in acknowledgement of the waving crowds below. He then guided the nose of the Spirit into the winds and landed on the dirt runway, taxiing up in a cloud of dust to the welcoming dignitaries at precisely 2:00 p.m., his scheduled landing time.
After shutting the engine down, the door opened and Lindbergh bounded out to be greeted by a special welcoming committee. He quickly stripped off his one-piece flight suit to reveal an immaculate blue business suit, white shirt, and tie.
A local florist and arborist named Hal Burns had been commissioned to build a life-size replica of Lindbergh’s famous plane -- all from cactus. Burns’ “Spirit of Tucson” was constructed from ocotillo and saguaro spines, and had a large barrel cactus split in half as the nose. When shown the prickly beast, a smiling Lindbergh remarked, “You don’t want me to get in that,” pointing to the cockpit made of ocotillo sticks. The cheering crowds loved it!
Motorcade
Before heading downtown, Lindy’s motorcade did an impromptu tour along the fence of the airfield. In the searing September heat, Lindbergh sat atop the back seat of an open car with Tucson notables, bowing and waving to the masses of people who had waited since dawn to catch a glimpse of the famous flier.
Cheering crowds lined every foot of the twelve-mile route chosen for Lindbergh to be escorted into the city. Ladies screamed “Lindy” as he passed and waved their handkerchiefs, while boys of all ages saluted the hero and waved American flags.
Even grown men, soldiers, and military officers gushed when Lindy passed by. One Mexican Army officer, a fellow airman, almost went speechless when offered a chance to greet Lindbergh later in the day at the Santa Rita Hotel in downtown Tucson. Using charm and a big smile, Lindbergh took his hand and said, “I particularly appreciate your tribute because it comes from a brother officer from a sister nation.”
Lindbergh’s motorcade was grand and organized to build excitement. A large squad of motorcycle police noisily announced the procession, followed by cars filled with honorary Boy Scouts and Lindbergh’s security detail and bodyguards, which were plentiful. Lindbergh’s car was in the middle of the pack, followed by a car carrying Arizona Gold Star Mothers, including Samuel H. Davis’ mother (of Davis-Monthan).
The motorcade did an emotional tour through Pastime Park, a sprawling lodging and hospital facility on North Oracle Road, so all of the ill and recovering veterans could greet the hero. He was then escorted to the University of Arizona football field, where a crowd of about 5,000, mostly children and teenagers, waited to hear from the aviator hero. Lindbergh would also meet Oscar Monthan’s mother on the dais at the football field rally.
Lindbergh’s arrival at each motorcade stop would be announced by a local band playing the tune “Lucky Lindy.” The words of the chorus are:
Lucky Lindy! Up in the sky Fair or windy, he's flying high. Peerless, fearless --- knows every cloud The kind of a son makes a mother feel proud! Lucky Lindy! Flies all alone In a little plane all his own, Lucky Lindy shows them the way And he's the hero of the day.
Lindbergh later said that he never much liked the tune.
Organizers of the event were kind enough to give Lindbergh a couple hours of rest prior to his attending a gala evening banquet for 400 at the University Commons. At the dinner, Lindbergh formally dedicated the new Davis-Monthan Field, using a large map provided by the city. Host speakers extolled the virtues of commercial aviation for the community and heaped praise on their celebrated guest. The local Boy Scout troop marched to the dinner dais and presented Col. Lindbergh with a cactus cane.
The tour, Lindbergh said, was “an opportunity for me, as one interested in forwarding aviation, to join with local civilian gatherings all over the country to promote the cause.” His media entourage often peppered him with questions about his personal life. But, it was not so easy to throw Lindbergh off his mission or message. When asked by a reporter about women, Lindbergh retorted, “If you can show me what that has to do with aviation, I’ll be glad to answer you.”
Before Tucson’s Lindbergh Day was over, a baby girl born in a local hospital was named Lindy in honor of the hero.
Departure
The public frenzy associated with Lindbergh’s visit spilled into Saturday. Hundreds of people spent the night near the airfield in hopes of seeing Lindbergh take off in the Spirit of St. Louis. They would not be disappointed. Lindbergh arrived at Davis-Monthan Field at about 7:00 a.m. to meet with his mechanics and plan out the next leg of his tour. Some forty-five minutes later, Lindbergh and his plane roared off in a cloud of dust, heading east to New Mexico.
Tucson hosted Lindbergh at the height of his early celebrity status, still innocent, humble, and slightly awkward with all the attention and mass adoration. The 1927 tour accomplished its purpose. The amount of US mail carried by airplanes grew dramatically. There was a 300 percent increase in applications to become a licensed pilot, and a similar huge increase in the number of registered planes. Forbes magazine said, “Lindbergh’s significance to business seems greater than that of any mercantile or financial magnate on either side of the Atlantic.”
Lindbergh’s visit helped put Tucson on the map as an aviation city. Davis-Monthan Field would grow rapidly in size and scope, and in 1940, was sold to the US War Department to be used exclusively as a military airfield.
###
Sources:
Arizona Daily Citizen, June 19 - 27, 1927
Tucson Citizen, June 20 - 24, 1927
Lindbergh, A. Scott Berg, 1998, pgs. 168, 170, 171
The Story of Davis Monthan AFB, 1940-1976, Gary P. Myers
Comments