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The Final Flight of the Dallas Spirit

There are many thrilling episodes in the chronicle of radio's achievements, but none more stirring than the 1927 Pacific flights, climaxed by the installation of short-wave equipment on Captain Erwin's Dallas Spirit and the reception of its signals right up to the time of its tragic end.

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The year 1927 was, of course aviation's greatest year. During its first half Lindbergh made the first nonstop New York-Paris flight, De Pined completed a four-continent flight from Italy through Africa and North and South America and return, Chamberlain and Levine flew nonstop to Germany and Maitland and Hegenberger covered the twenty-four hundred miles from Oakland to Honolulu in twenty-six hours.

The first news of each of these triumphs reached the Hawaiian Islands through a schedule arranged between station 6CZR, operated by J. Walter Frates, an Oakland newspaperman, and 6AJL at Lihue, Island of Kauai. Over this circuit went Hawaii's first news of the arrival in Eisleben of Chamberlain and Levine and of Byrd's forced landing on the French coast after missing Paris in a dense fog.

When the west-east route across the Atlantic seemed to be thoroughly vanquished in the first half of 1927 attention focused on the Pacific. Lieutenants Maitland and Hegenberger showed that the California-Hawaii hop could be made, and they were followed by Smith and Bronte in July.

Then came the Dole Prize Race. Five airplanes and crews were readying for the flight when the first of August came, but Major Livingston Irving's Pabco Pacific Flyer-the only ship equipped with short-wave radio, which was then a novelty for aircraft-cracked up, and then there were four.

Of the four only two-the Woolaroc, flown by Goebel and Davis, and the Aloha, piloted by Jensen and Schluter-completed the route. Although unable to communicate with the airplanes, San Francisco amateurs maintained continuous watch on the six hundred-meter SOS wave for signals from the Woolaroc and for naval and marine reports on the fliers' progress, providing the press with news coverage of the flight.

News of the safe arrival of the Woolaroc and the Aloha came swiftly back over the amateur circuit. But still Miss Doran and the Golden Eagle were unreported. An unconfirmed report that the Miss Doran had been located eighty-five miles from Hawaii came over the wire services, but a quick radio check with Honolulu proved it false.

The next development was the dramatic announcement that Captain William P. Erwin would hop for Hawaii in the Dallas Spirit in an effort to locate the missing ships. The radio operators had gone without sleep or food during the tense vigil, but their interest was still keen. They called on Captain Erwin and persuaded him that he needed short-wave radio. The fifty-watt short-wave transmitter that had been installed on the Pabco Pacific Flyer was transferred to the Dallas Spirit. The installation was pushed through in record time, and Alvin Eichwaldt, the navigator and radio operator, made preliminary tests which gave excellent signals.

When the Dallas Spirit winged its way past the Golden gate on the rescue flight the entire amateur contingent was convinced that they would be in contact with the ship for the entire duration of the flight. As the plane passed the coastline the selected corps of operators pickedup its transmission and prepared for the long watch. Other amateurs were listening, too, for prior to the flight a request had been broadcast to all amateurs to stand by on the 33.1-meter wavelength used by the airplane. All up and down the coast and as far away as Texas and even New York City amateurs were tuned to that wavelength.

Those who heard the signals from KGGA, the station call of the Dallas Spirit, will never forget the drama and tragedy of that night. From the start of the flight the signals were powerful, and as the airplane sped farther out over the gray waste of the Pacific the signals even increased in intensity. For hours the steady drone of the transmitter brought news of the progress of the plane. Amateurs all over the continent heard the informal Morse code remarks rapped out from time to time by Eichwaldt, the radio operator, in his humorous, human fashion.

When darkness fell the note became unsteady, its frequency rising and falling at intervals. The changing tone told a tale of "bumpy" weather conditions and uneven speed. To those who could read the story of the varying note this caused considerable concern which was only partially relieved by Eichwaldt's jocular and unconcerned comments. The air was electric with mounting drama.

Then at nine o'clock that night the first grim SOS was sounded from the void in which the Dallas Spirit flew. It was followed almost immediately by a terse "Belay that!" and the further announcement that the ship had gone into a spin but emerged on an even keel.

Right on top of this report, however, there was a second SOS and the curt announcement that the Dallas Spirit had shuddered into another spin. The rising and falling whine of the note told its own story to those ashore.

The second SOS was cut short by the crash. The instant the aviators were plunged to death in the sea the fact was known to the radio operators listening, for Eichwaldt was still sending when his trailing antenna hit the water.

Here amateurs, in recounting the tale, pause a moment to pay tribute to the cold nerve and supreme courage of Eichwaldt, the operator. He could not have failed to realize the danger they were in, yet during the half-hour preceding the crash, when the plane was bucking squalls one after the other, he continued sending out his unconcerned comments and jokes.

His first SOS and the remarks immediately following it were still in the same light vein. There was no trace of nervousness or fear. When the second spin came and the plane started down to its end Eichwaldt continued with the same even, unhurried tempo he had used throughout the flight. He stayed at his post until the end, sending calmly and evenly right up to the time the plane hit. With the note rising to a shrill shriek and falling almost to zero-denoting violent movement of the ship--the dots and dashes came through like clockwork until they were actually heard sputtering out as the antenna hit the water. To know that he was heading for his death and then to stick by the key telling the world just what was happening right up to the last second required courage of the highest order. Alvin Eichwaldt preserved the finest traditions of the radio-operating fraternity.

excerpted from the 1941 book, Calling CQ by Clinton B. DeSoto.