Atlantic Events

Last week several thousand robins, wrens and starlings, migrating from their winter homes, were lost in a fog off New York Harbor. Happily, they found refuge on the steamship, Elbro, anchored near Ambrose Light. Some were killed by dashing themselves against the cabins of the ship. Bird-lovers were touched but, most of the world knew naught of feathered events, at a time when French birdmen had found no refuge and U. S. birdmen were preparing to migrate across the Atlantic.

Nungesser & Coli. More than eight days had passed since Capt. Charles Eugene Jules Marie Nungesser, idol of Paris, onetime cowpuncher in Argentina, multi-wounded War ace with platinum-patched bones, and Capt. Franc,ois Coli, son of a hardy clan of seamen, with a black patch over his right eye, left the Paris airport of Le Bourget (TIME, May 16). It was barely possible that they had lost their way in the fog and were alive somewhere in the wilderness of Labrador. It was more likely that heavy ice on the wings of their plane forced them to death in the waters of the Atlantic off the coast of Newfoundland. Several reputable citizens of Harbor Grace, Newfoundland, swore that they saw (others heard) a plane in the air at about the hour that the White Bird was due. But a thorough combing of land and sea in this district had not yet revealed even so much as a strut of the White Bird.

One wireless message last week, obviously a hoax, said: "Nungesser and Coli have been located. The two aviators trekked into Trinity [Newfoundland] late Thursday afternoon. . . . They were bedraggled and weary. News follows by cable. Please distribute to newspapers."

Raymond Orteig, Manhattan hotelman, donor of the $25 000 prize for the first non-stop flight between Paris and New York, offered a $5,000 reward to the aviator who should discover either Captain Nungesser or Captain Coli or traces of their White Bird. Soon followed the announcement by Rodman Wanamaker, Manhattan-Philadelphia department store owner, of a $25,000 reward to anyone who should find the two Frenchmen, dead or alive.

Saint-Roman & Mouneyros. Obscure in the popular eye, two daring French aviators, Captain Saint-Roman and Commander Mouneyros, defied instructions from their government a fortnight ago by attempting to hop across the Atlantic after removing the pontoons from their seaplane. They left St. Louis, Senegal (West Africa), and headed toward Brazil. Two radio messages, saying first that the flyers were 200, then 120 miles from the mainland of Brazil, were all the world ever heard of them. The search for them was last week given up as hopeless.

Lindbergh. Two weeks ago, the name of Captain Charles A. Lindbergh meant nothing to the average U. S. inhabitant. Last week, he became a sudden, romantic national hero with a collection of nicknames: "Lone Wolf" Lindbergh, "Lucky" Lindbergh, "Flyin' Fool" Lindbergh, etc.

Having farmed in Little Falls, Minn., and frightened old ladies with reckless motorcycle exploits, he learned to fly at the age of 20. In accordance with his father's dying wishes, he took his father's ashes aloft in a plane and scattered them over the old homestead. Then he went into the air mail service, gained a creditable record.

Last week, single-handed he piloted the Ryan monoplane, Spirit of St. Louis, from San Diego to Curtiss Field, L. I., stopping only at St. Louis. His flying time--21 hr. 20 min.--was the fastest ever made from coast to coast. Grinning like a schoolboy emerging from a showerbath, he told inquisitive reporters that all he needed before hopping across the Atlantic was a little sleep, good weather, a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of water.

Romantic speculators soon placed bets that Lone Pilot Lindbergh, 25 and tousled-haired, would be the first to reach Paris.

Meanwhile, after long preparations and several accidents, two other giant monoplanes on Long Island were pronounced fit to conquer the Atlantic, as soon as the weather appeared agreeable. At Curtiss Field, Clarence Chamberlin and Lloyd Bertaud waited with the single-motored Wright-Bellanca named Columbia. At Roosevelt Field, Commander Richard E. Byrd and Bert Acosta waited with the trimotored Fokker named America.

Germans viewed the Atlantic events calmly. Said the Taegliche Rundschau of Berlin: "If in the near future one of the colossal Junkers-Rumpler airplanes attempts the Atlantic, we shall quietly look at our watches and say, 'Now it must be there,' and in ten minutes we shall hear it through radio."