“Particularly has it been delightful to have him refer to his airplane as somehow possessing a personality and being equally entitled to credit with himself, for we are proud that in every particular this silent partner represented American genius and industry. I am told that more than 100 separate companies furnished materials, parts or service in its construction.
“And now, my fellow-citizens, this young man has returned. He is here. He has brought his unsullied fame home. It is our great privilege to welcome back to his native land, on behalf of his own people, who have a deep affection for him and have been thrilled by his splendid achievement, a Colonel of the United States Officers’ Reserve Corps, an illustrious citizen of our Republic, a conqueror of the air and strength for the ties which bind us to our sister nations across the sea.
“And, as President of the United States, I bestow the Distinguished Flying Cross, as a symbol of appreciation for what he is and what he has done, upon Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh.”
Upon completing this address the President then conferred upon Lindbergh the Distinguished Flying Cross.
A new burst of cheering went up as the medal was being pinned on by the President. It was at this point in the proceedings that the Secretary of the Navy, ordinarily most placid of men, is alleged to have waved his arm in the air like a college cheer leader and hurrahed as loudly as any. When quiet came again Lindbergh rose and replied to the President. What he said was brief. But had he uttered a hundred times as many words, he could scarcely have conveyed a more important message to those about him.
He said: “On the evening of May 21, I arrived at Le Bourget, France. I was in Paris for one week, in Belgium for a day and was in London and in England for several days. Everywhere I went, at every meeting I attended, I was requested to bring a message home to you. Always the message was the same.
“ ‘You have seen,’ the message was, ‘the affection of the people of France for the people of America demonstrated to you. When you return to America take back that message to the people of the United States from the people of France and of Europe.’
“I thank you.”
This is no place to dwell upon the minutiae of that great day. The picture must be sketched in with bold strokes and stippled background. But it is impossible to pass this one short speech of Lindbergh’s and not cajole the reader to gather something of its significance. In a sentence it tells the story of the flight; it gives what the speaker considered his immediate and outstanding achievement; and it phrases that achievement in words so touching and so eloquent that France and America, half-estranged through wretched debt, rang with them for days.
The final touch of the miracle was that this speech was extemporaneous.
Just as when Lincoln finished his Gettysburg address his listeners sat stunned at the very brevity of it, so was there a curious silence immediately following Lindbergh’s utterance. Then came long applause. Hats were not thrown in the air. But men and women clapped until their palms were numb. Again many wept. A radio announcer whose stock-in-trade was routine emotional appeal, broke down and sobbed.
More and more people were beginning to realize that something was happening far greater than just the celebration of a mechanical triumph over the ocean separating Europe from America.
The ceremony ended as simply and quickly as it had begun. The President’s own car whisked Lindbergh away to the temporary White House in Dupont Circle. A curious and eager crowd lingered there behind police lines throughout the afternoon. From time to time their demanding cheers could be silenced only by Lindbergh’s smiling presence at the door or balcony.
President and Mrs. Coolidge entertained members of the Cabinet and their wives that night. Lindbergh sat on Mrs. Coolidge’s right. He wore conventional evening dress and was distinguished by the ease and simplicity with which he met both sallies and inquiries of the imposing guests.
It is one of the cruelties of social lionization that we search for the peculiarities of our specimen. In Lindbergh’s case his peculiarity lay in the fact that neither by word, nor look, nor deed was he in any way grotesque. His eyes were clear, his smile quick; like a practised diplomat he eluded entangling discussion; and he had a ready reply for every intelligent inquiry put to him within his range of knowledge or experience.
It is at risk of dampening the ardor of our narrative that we repeatedly point to this trait of simplicity that lies in Lindbergh. We do so because it was from close within the nucleus of this trait that there sprung the incredible emotional reaction towards his personality.
After the President’s dinner Lindbergh attended a meeting of the National Press Club in the Washington Auditorium. This was his first public appearance “under roof” in America. Six thousand people risked imminent heat stroke by crowding into every seat and cranny of the building.
The program opened with an address on behalf of the Press Club by Richard V. Oulahan. Because this address illuminated the feelings of the “Fourth Estate,” proverbially cynical toward notoriety, we give it here in full:
“In your journalistic flight of the past three weeks,” said Mr. Oulahan, “you must have learned that much may be read between the lines of what is printed in newspapers. So even a novice in newspaperdom like yourself would have no trouble in reading between the lines of this journalistic expression an intimate note of sincere affection.
“We of the press rub elbows with all manner of mankind. We see much of good but we see much of self-seeking, of sordid motive, as we sit in the wings watching the world’s procession pass across the stage. If it is true that through our contacts we
