The cruiser Memphis, on which Lindbergh travelled, passed through the Virginia Capes on her way to Washington a few minutes after five p.m. of the afternoon of June 10. Here Lindbergh got the first taste of what was to come.
A convoy of four destroyers, two army blimps from Langley Field and forty airplanes of the Army, Navy and Marine Corps accompanied the vessel as she steamed up Chesapeake Bay. As the night fell they wheeled toward their various bases and were soon lost to view. They gave no salute; and, for all the casual observer might have noted, they were merely investigating this newcomer to their home waters. But they left an indelible impression upon those in the Memphis that the morrow was to be extraordinary.
Saturday June 11, 1927, dawned hot and clear in Washington. It was evident early in the day that something far out of the city’s peaceful summer routine was going to happen. Streets were being roped off. Special policemen were going to their posts. Airplanes flew about overhead. Citizens began gathering in little clumps up and down Pennsylvania Avenue, many seating themselves on fruit boxes and baskets as if for a long wait.
The din that greeted the Memphis off Alexandria, suburb of Washington, began the noisy welcome that lasted for several hours. Every roof top, window, old ship, wharf and factory floor was filled with those who simply had to see Lindbergh come home. Factory whistles, automobiles, church bells and fire sirens all joined in the pandemonium.
In the air were scores of aircraft. One large squadron of nearly fifty pursuit planes maneuvered in and out of the heavy vaporous clouds that hung over the river. Beneath them moved several flights of slower bombers. The giant dirigible airship, the U.S.S. Los Angeles, wound back and forth above the course of the oncoming Memphis.
By eleven o’clock the saluting began. Vice Admiral Burrage, also returning on the Memphis, received his customary fifteen guns from the Navy yard. The President’s salute of 21 guns was exchanged. Firing from the cruisers’ battery and from the shore stations lent a fine rhythmic punctuation to the constantly increasing noise from other quarters.
Just before noon the Memphis came alongside the Navy Yard dock and a gangplank was hoisted to her rail. On the shore were collected a notable group of cabinet officers and high officials. There were the Secretary of the Navy, Curtis D. Wilbur; the Secretary of War, Dwight F. Davis; Postmaster General Harry S. New; and former Secretary of State, Charles Evans Hughes. There were Admiral Edward W. Eberle, Chief of Naval Operations; Major General Mason W. Patrick and Rear Admiral William A. Moffett, heads of the Army and Navy air forces. There was Commander Richard E. Byrd who flew to the North Pole, and who later followed Lindbergh’s trail to France.
When the gangplank was in place Admiral Burrage came down it and a moment later returned with a lady on his arm. This lady was Mrs. Evangeline Lindbergh, the young pilot’s mother.
Instantly a new burst of cheering went up; but many wept—they knew not just why.
For a few minutes mother and son disappeared into a cabin aboard the Memphis. It was a nice touch; something more than the brass bands and cheering. And it somehow symbolized a great deal of what was being felt and said that hot morning in our country’s great capital.
Next came brief and a somewhat informal greeting by the dignitaries. In their glistening high silk hats they surrounded Lindbergh and for a bit shut him off from the pushing perspiring crowd still held at bay ashore by the bayonets of the marines.
Suddenly the crowd could hold its patience no longer. With one frantic push it broke through the ranks of “Devil Dogs” and swarmed down upon the moored vessel. Trouble was averted by the simple expedient of getting Lindbergh quickly into one of the waiting cars and starting for the Navy Yard gate.
The parade escort had been lined up some hours ahead of time. Now it got under way toward the center of the city, leading the automobiles that carried the official party. Clattering hoofs of cavalrymen, blare of bands and a rolling cheer along the ranks of waiting thousands marked the progress of the young American flier who had so gloriously come home.
Here for the first time Lindbergh saw the spirit in which his people were to greet him. They were curious, yes; crowds always are on such occasions. And they were gay with their handclapping and flag-waving, shouting and confetti throwing. But there was a note of enthusiasm everywhere that transcended just a chorus of holiday seekers witnessing a new form of circus. There was something deeper and finer in the way people voiced their acclaim. Many of them wiped their eyes while they laughed; many stood with expressionless faces, their looks glued upon the face of the lad who had achieved so great a thing and yet seemed to take it all so calmly.
When the parade reached the natural amphitheatre of the Washington Monument the hillsides were jammed with a great gathering of men, women and children. On the high stand that had been erected, the President of the United States and Mrs. Coolidge waited to receive the man who but three weeks and a day before had been a comparatively unknown adventurer hopping off for Paris by air.
Ranged about
