What was so dangerous, anyway, I demanded, about flying the mail? True, the Air Mail was all cross-country flying, much of it over hilly, rough terrain. If you were really desperate, I learned, there was one last-resort job. I asked around about a flying job, any flying job at all. But I was constantly trying to find a way to get back into flying.
I won enough at craps to keep me reasonably in funds. The majority of the members had been wartime pilots, but by now they were a varied lot: test pilots barnstormers a few, like me, who had vague hopes of continuing the exciting and pleasant life we had enjoyed in the service.
The club was housed in a fine white-front converted residence, filled with mementos, trophies, framed squares of airplane linen salvaged from crashes by famous pilots, wrecked propeller hubs, photographs of the great aces, and a collection of magnificent flight paintings by Faure. WHEN I arrived in New York in April of 1919, I soon found the pilots’ hangout was the American Flying Club on East 38th Street.
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