One hundred years ago this week, pepper specks appeared in the sky north of Little Rock. They swelled into open-cockpit flying machines, warbirds, 12 of them.
Propellers whining, they commenced cavorting over Little Rock. They dropped handbills, which fluttered down like a huge flock of silver birds.
The planes swooped toward the Arkansas River and straight at the Free Bridge, which they ducked under, wings a-wobble.
Imagine how you would react. That — minus the part where you run for cover while fumbling for your smartphone — is just about what happened in February 1919.
Here's the Feb. 17 Arkansas Gazette, reporting the first noontime blitz:
There were many funny sights on Main street while the planes were humming above. Heads popped out of street car windows, persons unconsciously stopped in the middle of the car tracks to gaze skyward and automobiles ran zig-zag along the street as the drivers endeavored to watch the aviators.
It was a publicity stunt. To celebrate Washington's Birthday — which used to be a great big deal, so much more patriotic and community-rousing than our pallid Presidents Day mattress sales — everyone was invited to a Field Day at Eberts Field. Wow. Residents had witnessed hundreds of airplanes coming and going, but the Army Air Service training facility in Lonoke was off-limits to the public.
If you've seen what remains of Eberts Field — which is nothing but concrete foundations and a historic marker — you won't believe the size of it in 1918-19. As the Encyclopedia of Arkansas History and Culture observes, it was where the Lonoke golf course is today.
"Until several years ago, there was a 20-foot mound of dirt at the northeast end of the field," the encyclopedia states. "This was once the target for many thousands of rounds of machine gun bullets. Here, the fledgling aviators learned some of the fundamentals of operating a machine gun while flying an airplane."
The mound was plowed under by farmers long ago. But photography remains. Here's a link to one extraordinary photo. The documentation says it was taken circa 1918 by one George Johnson, Aviation Section, U.S. Army Signal Corps.
We see lots of buildings, dirt roads, three tiny people with stubby shadows that suggest a brilliant afternoon, and a horse- or mule-drawn wagon rolling past the dark mouth of a hangar.
One of the aviators who buzzed the city 100 years ago this week was Lt. C.E. Johnson, according to the Gazette. "C.E." doesn't seem likely initials for a photographer named "George," but the paper often bungled names, so who knows? The Internet preserves many equally beautiful photos of early aviation in various states attributed to this George.
Plans for Field Day hadn't even been set when pilots buzzed the city to announce it; but the future of the Army Air Service was up in the air after the Great War. I like to imagine the guys at Eberts lounging around the club nursing their bottles of Bevo, deciding that it couldn't hurt to get the people fired up about keeping American pilots and their support crews employed.
The aviators who cavorted over Little Rock included Maj. Arnold N. Krogstad (1885-1982), commanding officer at Eberts Field; Lt. T. Lee, officer in charge of flying; Capt. J.J. Burdick, medical officer; Lt. C.E. Johnson and first-nameless Lts. Swift, Prulo, Watson, Harrington and Saenger.
Three pilots made the second day's flight.
The planes often came as low over the city as wires along the streets would permit, and women in parts of the residence district set up screams as great airplanes rode smoothly by, apparently with the mischievous intention of taking the top off a chimney.
The next day's paper reported a third publicity stunt would occur at 1 p.m. Thursday, with the promise of acrobatics at the Free Bridge, the wooden predecessor to the Arkansas River bridge that preceded today's Main Street Bridge.
What those boys lack in nerve isn't running around loose. One of them passed under the bridge six times Tuesday and had the curious populace of the twin cities blocking all traffic on the roadway.
His first five passes were planned, but the sixth, the paper said, was to avert disaster.
He flew directly toward the structure and intended to make a graceful swoop over the top. But he waited until he was too near the bridge to go above it and made a hair-raising dive underneath, the wheels of his "ship" skimming the water.
At the hour appointed for Thursday's stunt, a siege mob held the bridge with an estimated 3,000 people lining the river banks. And the pilots were two hours late.
Johnson and Lee finally appeared about 3:30 p.m. and, oh boy, did they put on a show. There were nosedives, loops, tail spins.
A spectator who had given up waiting on shore was peacefully rowing a rental boat near the bridge when Johnson made one of his swoops within 15 feet of the water, directly overhead. The rower dropped his oars and fell down flat.
An Eberts Field officer who was in town on business told the Gazette his heart was in his throat the whole time because the wind was unfavorable — even treacherous — over the river.
Field Day details were announced: There would be an aerial race that might include a few loops above the state Capitol dome. A plane crash would be faked, demonstrating how quickly a fallen pilot could be swaddled in bandages by crew from a medical plane. On the ground, one Lt. Bonage, a pilot who had been an Olympic walking contender, would square off against Lt. Harrington, a runner, to see who could do the mile faster.
A report in the Gazette Feb. 20 said the public would visit 18 hangars and see 123 airships, repair shops, an oil refining station, officers quarters and an officers club, the headquarters for cadet barracks and the high dirt mound that was used for machine-gun practice on the wing.
A top-secret photography house might not be open. Before the armistice, no one but its assigned staff was allowed within 100 feet.
Field Day admission was 50 cents for adults, 25 cents for children; a limited number of round-trip tickets for a Rock Island special train to Lonoke cost $1.43.
To put the audacity of the publicity stunts into context, I looked through the 1917-1919 archives for headlines with the words "aviator killed." Other phrases were used, too, but "aviator killed" is the common one, sometimes modified by "U.S." or "Army" or "Noble," "Expert," "Noted." "Embryo Aviator Killed" told of a trainee who died in Texas.
Not counting reports of combat deaths, the Gazette carried at least 21 little reports headlined Aviator Killed. That doesn't include "Birdman Tries Walking," about a trainee hit by a car in New York. Far more trainees had died just by mid-1917, as other reports document. But my point is, training to fly was hazardous, and readers knew it.
In November 1918, a stunt-flying pilot zoomed under the Missouri Pacific viaduct in Little Rock, and word raced around town that he'd died. But he hadn't. The next day's Gazette reported: "Aviator Killed by Rumor Is Stunter."
Field Day 1919 came off without disaster. Look for that account in the Feb. 25 Old News.
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Style on 02/18/2019