Lindbergh & Lindbergh

NORTH TO THE ORIENT--Anne Morrow Lindbergh--Harcourt, Brace ($2.50).

In the summer of 1931, Charles Lindbergh and his wife flew from College Point, Long Island--by way of Maine, Ottawa, Aklavik, Nome, Karaginski, and Tokyo--to Nanking and the flooded valley of the Yangtze River. They were driven down by darkness in Alaska, by fog in Japan; they were lost, went hungry, almost wrecked, were caught in a burning building, discovered a stowaway in their plane, were nearly mobbed by famished Chinese, had to swim for their lives in the dangerous Yangtze when their plane went over. Last week Anne Morrow Lindbergh, in a disarmingly modest record of the flight, apologized that it had not been more exciting as an adventure, of greater value scientifically, or of more significance geographically, prefaced her book with a little essay on romance.

Although Anne Morrow Lindbergh writes of romance and the reasons for the trip in a stilted, English-theme language, her accounts of the flight itself, of the people she met along the way, are matter-of-fact, good-natured, often amusing. Conscious of the patronizing attitude commonly felt about women who take part in masculine exploits, she resented it when female reporters asked her silly questions about clothing and lunches, was puzzled when the radio announcer, describing the takeoff, deliberately lied about the way she was dressed. She worked hard learning to operate the radio. Baffled by technical explanations, she pretended to understand, thinking as she had in school, "I'll get it all explained to me after class." Confused and uncertain in the presence of radio experts, she was nevertheless gratified that her family looked impressed even when she told them, in technical language, of howling blunders she had committed. As the Lindberghs started for the frozen North, someone in the Morrow family gave her a handkerchief, saying thoughtfully, "You will probably need an extra one, you know."

Nowhere characterizing her husband, or writing at length about him, Anne Lindbergh tells a few anecdotes that reveal him as a matter-of-fact, friendly, laconic character. Unable to reach Nome before dark, the Lindberghs landed in a far lagoon on Seward Peninsula, anchored the plane, and slept. In the middle of the night they were awakened by guttural voices, discovered two boatloads of Eskimos beside the plane. "Hello," said the Eskimos, "we-hunt-duck." Taken aback, not knowing what manner of men his visitors were, Charles Lindbergh replied, "That's nice." Conversation lagged. To keep it going, he explained that he and his wife were just stopping for the night. The Eskimos did not understand. Still trying to make conversation, he asked, "Get many ducks?" Eskimos could not understand that either. "Well," Lindbergh said at last, "guess I'll go back to bed." He closed the hatch, stretched out on his parachute, fell fast asleep, while the puzzled Eskimos floated off into the inky night.

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