Mollison's Fourth

Across New York's Floyd Bennett Field at 8 o'clock one morning last week walked a nervous little man wearing a dinner jacket with grey slacks and a tennis sweater. Struggling into a heavy flying suit on top of that, he stepped into a green and orange monoplane, soared away. "Where's that fellow going?" asked a workman. "To London," replied a bystander. Grunted the workman: "The guy must be nuts."

"The guy" was Captain James A. Mollison, Britain's No. 1 flyer, off on his fourth transatlantic flight. To explain his costume he smirked: "I don't want to lose any time getting to a party once I land at Croydon." Of late, Captain Mollison and his famed flying wife, Amy Johnson Mollison, have been noted more for the frequency of their parties than for the brilliance of their flying. Fortnight ago Amy made a bad landing in Kent, buried her plane's nose in the ground, broke her own nose on the dashboard. Mortified, she took the occasion to announce: "Jim and I have amicably decided to go our own ways. ... In a few days he is planning to make a very hazardous flight, and while I wish him all good luck, I can't help but feel that he has not seriously considered my role in his flight--that is, either that of an embarrassed absence at his safe arrival or of a hypocritically tragic widow if he fails."

Reason for Jim's flight was to "ferry" to England a special racer in which he hoped to enter the Johannesburg Air Race. A low-wing Bellanca with a Wasp Jr. engine, the plane was built as Colonel James Fitzmaurice's entry in the 1934 MacRobertson Air Race to Australia, was disqualified on technicalities. Changes made for Captain Mollison delayed his departure from the U. S. until after the Johannesburg Race came to its sorry conclusion. He decided to fly across anyway to see if he could beat the time of the Johannesburg Race's winner, C. W. A. Scott.

From Floyd Bennett he buzzed up to Harbor Grace, Newfoundland in less than seven hours, was forced to stay there 24 hours by bad weather. Changing his crumpled dinner jacket to normal clothing, he finally shot away at dark into a snow storm. Thirteen hours, 17 minutes later, down he swooped at Croydon at 10 a. m., after a perfect flight which added several achievements to his list: 1) fastest eastbound crossing; 2) first private pilot to fly the Atlantic four times; 3) only pilot heading for London on a transatlantic flight to get there without a forced landing on the way.

Sighed he: "I am so damned tired. I am going to have a large Scotch & soda." But it was too early for the pub to be open and he had to celebrate on ginger beer.

Gurgled Actress Dorothy Ward, the "very dear friend" for whom he named his plane: "I am terribly happy . . . proud . . . thrilled. . .

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