HEROES: Durable Man

(4 of 7)

The 94th Squadron was caught in the pressures of the final, convulsive effort of the war. Pilots were being pushed to the ends of their resources. They flew at heights above 20,000 feet without oxygen; they had no leaves, virtually no rest, no recreation. They went on their deadly missions from muddy pastures in cranky and underpowered planes which ran out of gas in less than two hours. They also got killed or wounded fast—only three original members were left when the new C.O. took over.

Rickenbacker, a flamboyant figure in pink britches, a fancy non-regulation tunic, and the shiniest British boots in the A.E.F., set an amazing pace. He kept two Spad pursuit ships, each bearing the number 1, and the famed hat-in-the-ring insigne. He landed one, gulped coffee, and took off in the other, often flew six or seven hours a day. His haggard young men followed, and celebrated their adventures with a squadron ballad:

I'm a villain, a villain, a -villain; A dirty, dirty villain.

I leave a trail of blood where'er I go. I take delight, in stirring up a fight, And mashing little babies in the head, 'til they're dead . .

When the Armistice was declared, Rickenbacker was the U.S. "ace of aces," and the 94th was the leading U.S. squadron. The boys of the 94th greeted the great news with a roaring bender. When it was over, Rickenbacker was discovered out in the rain, wrestling with an enlisted man—they were giggling and stuffing mud into each other's mouths.

Never Count on the Crowd. Rickenbacker came home to a hero's welcome. He was not dazzled. "When I was racing," he said last week, "I had learned that you can't set stock in public adoration or your press clippings. By the time I was 26, I'd heard crowds of 100,000 scream my name but a week later they couldn't remember who I was. You're a hero today and a bum tomorrow—hero to zero, I sometimes say.

Never count on the crowd to take care of you."

Yet when called upon to speak at a huge banquet in his honor at the old Waldorf-Astoria, he was terrified. He mumbled a few ungrammatical phrases and sat down. Then he went back to his hotel and wept with rage. Next day he hired one_ Madame Amanda, a Metropolitan Opera voice coach, to teach him how to talk. He got Damon Runyon to write him a speech. He memorized it, studied grammar, went on a 40-night lecture tour (at $1,000 a night) and conquered his fears.

He turned down a $100,000 offer to appear in a movie. He didn't want easy money —he wanted to build the "great American car." With three Detroit automobile men, he formed the Rickenbacker Motor Co. His dream child, the six-cylinder Rickenbacker automobile, was unveiled in New York in 1922. After four years, the Rickenbacker flopped. It was too advanced, and the automobile industry "beat my head in"—in part with advertisements warning the public that four-wheel brakes (with which no automobile but the Rickenbacker was equipped) were dangerous.