By Charles A. LaJotte
[As published in Western Flying, April 1936]
Charley Lajotte, chief of the aviation department of the Gilmore Oil Company has flown everything
from Jennies to trimotors, and everywhere from Arctic snows to Tropic desert sands. A few months
ago in these pages he told us of his adventures in Alaska where only an Eskimo hunter and his
daughter saved him from death by starvation and freezing. Her is his tale of a more recent flying
exploit in Africa.
[editor’s notes: Charles flew Miss Margery Durant, daughter of the founder of General Motors,
extensively throughout Europe and Africa during 1931 and 1932. This story, in his own words, is an
interesting account of early aerial tourism and the conditions they faced. Some things never change,
such as the glacial slowness of customs, the weather over the English channel, British bureaucrats.
However, England is no longer admired for its practices as “empire builders” in Africa; nor is Kenya
the great and prosperous state as he predicted. The Eskimo hunter's beautiful daughter was a later
embellishment to the Alaskan story presented elsewhere.]
Big Game hunting by airplane is safe, for the percentages are with us. If the plane and motors
are in good condition, and have been giving perfect service for many hours, it is reasonable to
expect nothing very serious to happen just when you are flying low above a herd of wild elephants,
trumpeting and stampeding through the rank papyrus marshes deep in the Lorian Swamp.
Provided, of course, that the pilot also continues to function normally, for you may take my word for it
that not even a department inspector waiting for you to land after a hedge-hopping flight around the
airport, looks half as formidable as an infuriated rhino, snorting defiance from below, and daring you
to come down.
The danger that actually exists, and which is always present, is provided by the hazards offered
by rough terrain and soft surfaces, and by hidden obstacles just beneath the water when operating
on strange lakes and rivers. And there are often torrential rain storms near the Equator and equally
violent sand storms along the edge of the Sahara Desert. But by using ordinary horse-sense a pilot
should have little trouble when flying in Africa, even if he leaves the beaten paths and uses his
airplane, not so much as something novel and spectacular, but merely as the best possible means
of transportation in any country, new or old.
I was flying one of the first Sikorsky amphibians, an S-38, powered by two Wasps. It was a ten-
place [10 seats] job, but had been re-fitted for half that number, and made as comfortable and
convenient as possible. Miss Margery Durant, the owner and my employer, and the mechanic,
Sandy, were usually my only passengers. Miss Durant not only loved to fly, but liked to cook as well,
especially during a long flight.
It was very pleasant, just about the time my seat began to feel hard and uncomfortable, to have a
plate of delicious cinnamon toast and a steaming cup of Java handed up to me in the cockpit.
There was a fire hazard involved, contributed by the use of canned heat, but I remember only
once, on the flight from Rome to Athens, when the bumps became so bad that we had to consider
this danger at all. And even then we refused to forego our refreshment, so Sandy sat next to our
distinguished chef with the Pyrene can ready, in his lap, while I flew as smoothly as I could.
A short time later we were glad we had received some nourishment before landing in Greece, for
it is nothing unusual for foreigners, especially those who have just arrived in a strange airplane, to
die a slow death from starvation while waiting for their clearance papers from the Customs officers.
America may not be as perfect as some politicians claim, but at least its tempo is much faster and
its red tape much shorter than found in other countries.
We had crossed the winter Atlantic on the Bremen [a passenger ship], with the plane, its wing
removed, lashed to the after deck. At Southampton the amphibian was re-assembled, and tested
on both land and water. We spent Christmas in Merry England and then were anxious to go. As we
expected, the weather was bad: it took me four days and two forced landings to fly the 213 miles
from London to Paris. Not to overlook the four draft horses it took to pull us out of the mud after the
fog had forced us down at Abbeville!
The way we finally reached the French capital was by flying right on the tail of a French plane that
evidently knew the way, even when skimming the tree-tops and dodging Gothic churches. Ceiling
and visibility did not exist, so my own maps were useless. My plane was much faster than our
leader’s, causing me to stall continually to keep from barging into his racket, for if I flew at a safe
speed I’d have left him far behind.
Naturally I was straining my eyes for Paris, so as soon as I caught a glimpse of the hanger row
at Le Bourget, I passed our leader as though it were a painted plane upon a painted poster, and
with a sigh of relief, slid in to a wheel landing on good old terra firma.
We planned to use our plane as we would a private yacht, coming and going as the spirit moved
us, and adhering to no fixed schedule. Our Sikorsky was ideal for this sort of vagabondage, being
so conveniently and comfortably furnished, and adaptable to either land or water operation.
There was one objectionable feature, however, that was remedied in later models. On the take-
off from water, the windshield would become so splashed with spray that the pilot would be blinded
for the few seconds that are most important, when his visibility should be perfect. And this was
worse on fresh water. When taking off from Lake Nabagabo, at an altitude of 4,000 feet, this
blinding condition lasted two minutes, from the time I gave it the gun until we were off the water and
the windshield had been wiped clean by the wind.
But for an all around stable, reliable, comfortable airplane for cross-country work, this type of
amphibian was perfect, and I had no compuctions whatever in recommending its use to Martin
Johnson for his coming African trip in search of unusual motion pictures of wild animals in their
natural habitat.
We enjoyed Paris, Lyons, Marseilles, and almost had our trip prematurely ended at Monte Carlo.
We were coming from the Naval Base at San Rafael, and there were too many small boats at
anchor inside the breakwater near Nice, I decided to land outside. A motor tug appeared and towed
up to a large buoy in the sheltered section. I called to the old French sailor, telling him to be sure
and make our line fast with a secure knot, for I knew how easily on can slip. He answered that he
had been twenty-five years in the Navy, and therefore knew his business. Yet the line did slip, and
we had to recall the surly sailor and make fast again.
And then the second knot slipped, and we would have crashed into the breakwater and ended
our cruise right there if Sandy had not crawled out on the wing and leaped just in time to another
buoy, and there tied us securely at last. It was a good thing for us that Sandy had never spent a day
in the French Navy.
From the Cote d’Azur we flew to Rome. But not as the crow flies. In Europe you are never
allowed to fly straight from one city to another if this entails the crossing of an international border.
You are notified just were, when, and at what altitude to cross, so that the ground hogs can check
your license number, and so that you will not be likely to see any secret fortifications, etc. We had no
interest in such things; all our spare time was used in admiring the wonderful panorama of
Southern France and Italy that was unfolding beneath us.
This is the most beautiful country in all the world that I have ever seen from the air. The
Mediterranean is so very blue and peaceful like, with its surface dotted with boats whose sails are
dyed with every hue of the rainbow. On the land side lie quaint little villages, seeming to nestle
comfortably at the base of the lofty Maritime Alps, whose gentle valleys are set with innumerable
lakes that sparkle like jewels in the sun.
Some of the smaller verdant hills are crowned with famous castles, for this land is rich in history
and has played its part in many a turbulent epoch. All this as seen from the air is seeing it at its
best, and the though occurs to me that some of our modern artists should take this modern
viewpoint, and give us a masterpiece worthy of this beautiful subject.
We saw the Pope in Rome, but did not see Mussolini. Then on to Athens, and from there we
hopped straight across the Sea to Africa, being out of sight of land for hour and one-half hours. Our
names on the hotel register at Mersamatruh were directly under that of Will Rogers, but we arrived
too late to meet my famous neighbor from Santa Monica.
Then came an interesting week at Cairo, making local flights to most of the famous historical
sights in ancient Egypt, and thoroughly enjoying ourselves, and incidentally, taking on weight.
THE HOLY LAND, continued
