Evening Star Newspaper, June 9, 1929, Page 98

2,700 Hours Marjorie Stinson, Dean of the “Flying Flappers,” Has More Flying Hours to Her Credit Than Any Other Woman—Started Early in the Aviation “Game,” Winning dnstant Recognition. BY ALMA CHESNUT. EET the Flyin’ Stinsons. You have all heard of Eddie; they call him the dean of pi- lots. Then there is Katherine, who learned to fly back in 1912 when it was about as safe as the front-line trenches. Marjorie followed in her sister’s foot- steps, winning her license at the Wright School in Dayton, Ohio, in August, 1914, and Jack, “the baby,” qualified a few years later while his sisters and brother stood by shaking in their shoes. He was such a kid, said they. The career of this interesting family prac- tically coincides with the history of American aviation, and in the making of that history all of the Stinsons have played important roles. 'This story, however, chiefly concerns Marjorie. Katherine was the first member of the fam- ily- to take the air, qualifying as a pilot at 16. She went in for exhibition and stunt flying, to the tune of $1,500 a day, and became famous almost overnight. Eddie has kept the spot- light by his periodical capture of the coveted endurance record, his work in designing and manufacturing airplanes and his long and suc- cessful career as a pilot, during which he has spent more than 14,000 hours in the air, a record, it is said, no other pilot has approached. Jack is making his niche as a flying instruc- tor at his school in Detroit, where brother Eddie is busy making planes for Jack's pupils to buy as soon as they qualify. Of Marjorie less is known, though she well merits the title ‘dean of woman pilots. CONSERVATIVE by nature, Marjorie Stin- son has been content to let other members of the family bask in the limelight. Yet Mar- jorie occupies among woman pilots a position similar to that Eddie holds among men. Her log records more flying hours than that of any other woman in the world. She has more than 2,700 flying hours to her credit, yet never has had a serious accident, though there was that. time when her plane hit a wire and was broken up a bit. She never carries a parachute and has never been in a position to use one. Cool, confident, petite and alluring, almost too modest—that’s Marjorie Stinson, known to admiring aviators as Marjorie. She seems not to know the meaning of fear and has a way of inspiring confidence in others, Perhaps that is why, as the only flying schoolma’m, she has been such a successful instructor. It was Marjorie who taught young Canadians and a number of American boys to fly. Indeed, if ¢he truth be known, it was Marjorie, the little sister, who trained the famous Eddie. Her story goes back to June 25, 1914, On that day there arrived at the Wright School in Dayton a sweet-looking little girl in a white ruffled frock and a picture hat crowded over sunny brown curls that framed a roguish face. She was clutching a check given her by her father and she was wearing her longest skirt, hoping to goodness she looked 18, for she had come up from San Antonio to go to flying school. She did not look 18 and, indeed she wasn't. The astonished instructor was sorry, but she would have to wire home for mother’s permis- sion. Orville Wright, howevsg, seemed to understand. He marched her »ff to see the planes and, next day, the perpyssion arrived. Marjorie admits being slightly nervous the first few days, but not, as you might expect, over the prospect of leaving the ground in the unsubstantial looking contraption known as Wright Model B biplane. What worried her was that she had made a wager with a cub reporter back home that she would learn to fly in six weeks and whgt with wind this day and rain the next and an instructor that seemed horribly eautioys, she was afraid she might not make f{t. A five-minute flight on the day after her arrival netted some instruction regarding the levers. It was not Marjorie’'s first trip, for she had been up with her sister Katie, but Katie was always afraid to teach Margie for fear she might hur4 herself. The plane was the so-called pusher type with a 30-horsepower .motor and the pilat perched on a flimsy seat stuck onto the miisile of the lower wing. But J4t her describe it The extract is from her duary: “The plane is a pusher, so called because the propellers are in back of the wings, motor, pilot and practically the whole works of which there is a great deal. . Said plane is controlled with two sticks, one on either side of the pilot and extending about shoulder high. Left lever is for the elevator and right is to warp the wings to raise or lower a wing, or bank the plane on a turn. “On top of the right lever is an additional, smaller lever joined by a hinge so that it turns to the left or right. This top lever is to con- trol the rudder. Both the elevator and warp levers move forward and back only.” LEARNING how to use the “instruments” was far less complicated in those early days. than it is today. “The school uses a ‘string system’.” says Marjorie’s diary. “A white twine string is tied on the skid brace out in front. In flight the string flies straight back, normally, but if the plane is skidding or side-slipping the string will be at an angle and we must correct the error by flying in the direction the string is pointing.” After two weeks of instruction under Howard Rinehart, Marjorie felt that she knew how to handle the plane, though on account of the dual controls, she was not sure whether she or he was flying it. “I think,” she wrote, “that if I could per- suade this man Rinehart to get out of the plane I could fly it and land it myself.” At the end of the fifth week, the caution of her instruc- tor still irked. “Rinehart,” she stated flatly, “is simply glued to the plane. I don't need him at all, but it isn’t flying etiquette to tell him so.” Finally the day dawned for her first solo. On August 4 she made a two-minute flight alone and a set of figure eights, finding it so easy that she wished she could go “faster than the alleged 40 miles an hour.” The other students, she says, breathed a sigh of relief when she finally stepped from the plane, leaving it all in one piece for them to fly later. Next day she made a second flight with more figure eights and an altitude flight and again landed, leaving the plane intact. She had learned to fly in six weeks to the day, after four and a half hours of actual flying instruction, and was awarded pilot's license No. 303, being the eighth woman to be qualified as a pilot by the American representative of the Federation Aeronautique Internationale. Eddie soon afterward was taking lessons at the Wright School, but by then there were about 60 pupils and demands on the single school plane were so heavy that, for about a month, he had only received half an hour’s instruction. Eager to try his wings and impatient with the slow progress he was making, he wired Mar- jorie—who was then flying at Fort Sam Feniparos Abwisavioy INTERNATIORALYE AERO CLU B OF AMER T il The abwwe-manwd Club, recognize by the Fédération Aéronantique Internationale, as the governing ‘awtharity for the United States America, certifics Uit i has fnfitled all the conditions required | by the Fédération Adronantique Internationale, for an avislor pilot. and i3 brevetted as sach THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, ®. C. JUNE 9, 1920—PART 7. “Mar jorie Stinson would rather fly a big tri-motored plane 100 miles than drive an automobile 20 blocks in traffic.” Houston drill grounds, San Antonio, Tex.— asking if she would take him and four other pupils. She would and did, and thus began her career as instructor. Eddie qualified as licensed pilot No. 375, being the third person to “grad- uate” from Marjorie's flying school. Later she gave lessons to Jack, but he received training from other instructors too. War had been declared by Germany on France and England while Marjorie was at fly- ing school, and though she mentions it in her diary, she little realized the important part that aviation was later to play in the conflict, or that she was destined to train war birds to fight the Allled cause. But the airplane soon established its place as a powerful flying weapon, and scores of young men were mobil- ized at quickly organized training schools. Marjorie’s first graduate was Joseph Gorman, sports editor of the Montreal, Canada, Evening News, who learned to fly in two weeks (Pilot No. 371). - Herbert MacKenzie of Victoria, B. C., followed suit the next morning, drawing No. 372. Immediately afterward Eddie soloed successfully and the fame of the Stinson School of Flying was noised abroad, resulting in a per- fect deluge of applicants. All of the Canadian students trained at the Stinson School were later commissioned as sub- flight lieutenants in the royal flying corps. They neither wrote nor wired to inquire about instruction. Instead, they just stepped off the train at San Antonio, located the school, joined the group and hurried through the course as quickly as possible, so as to be off to war. FDDIE soon acquired sufficient skill to assist “ Marjorie with her large class. She was young for the role of schoolmarm, being under Rigustire of ity Pilot’s license awarded Marjorie Stinson. 18. Some of the Canadians had no idea that the faculty of the Stinson School was a slim little girl who looked absurdly young and femi- nine, even when done up in rough flying togs and with a checked cap over her curls. “When some of them saw that the instructor was a girl,” says Marjorie, “they backed off and went into huddles to discuss it. One day when a new class arrived, I could easily see that one of those husky athletes was plainly leery of my ability to fly, so I sauntered over and in my best school-ma'm voice said, ‘All set? ‘That’s the school plane they're bringing out and we might as well save time.” He shifted in his number nines and carefully explained that he had really planned to begin his instruction the following day. Thought he ought to rest up from his long trip. “Personally, I admired his judgment. But he soon overcame any prejudice he may have had against a girl teacher, passed his test in good form and brought the plane down to per- fect landings. What more could one ask? I really didn't try to teach them at all. I just explained the controls and the reaction of their movement when in flight, then sat beside them while they learned by trial and error how to fly. When the errors were dangerous, I took control. That’s all there is to it.” Eddie Stinson, who is now president of the Stinson Aircraft Corporation, had early aspira- tions as a plane builder. Marjorie mentioned his first plane, constructed in 1910 when thas now eminent birdman was a boy in knickers, and the Stinson family was living in Missis- sippi. “Eddie built the first airplane I ever saw,” she relates, “and it happened this way: Mother had just bought an automobile, the first one in our town. One afternoon she and Katherine dressed up in auto veils, linen duster, etc., and seated themselves in the back seat, the chauffeur (an absolute necessity in the early days) in the front seat, and they drove grandly away, leav- ing what they considered the ‘children’ behind. “We felt abused, neglected. We would have to get even some way. Suddenly Eddie said, ‘Let’s build an aeroplane!” We used a picture of the Wright biplane as a guide and the material consisted of sticks, nails and bedsheets. “A toy wagon supplied the wheels and, not being able to locate anything that would do for an engine, Eddie decided to roll the plane down a hill to get a start. The flight was scheduled to take place the following morning, but, for- tunately for Eddie’s pride, a storm came up /ur- ing the night and wrecked the plane.” Marjorie recalls appreciation that nore of them was spanked for cutting up the rheets, but then Mother Stinson had never sov ght to discourage them from aviation. “Mother has seen three of us in the air at one time,” Marjorie says, “and is a good sport and doesn’t worry about us.” She had faith in aviation from the beginning and financed Katherine's lessons for an entire year before she found a school with planes that would actually fly. “Had she chosen to,” says Marjorie, “she could have delayed our learning to fly because we were all minors. Father was not so easily converted. We had to fly, and fly well, to con- vince him that mother’s modern ideas were all 1ight. He stayed convinced, though, and the Continued on Page Nineteen.