Friday, May 20, 1927
The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon, painting the sky a vivid magenta. A young man in an aviator suit stood in front of a small monoplane. Written on the plane's side were the words "Spirit of St. Louis". Currently, a team of mechanics were prepping the plane while the young man was being crowded by journalists.
"Excuse me, Mr. Lindbergh," one reporter shouted," How prepared are you for this flight?"
"Um, about as prepared as I can be," stammered the man. He blinked as a camera flash momentarily blinded him.
"Mr. Lindbergh, how will you be challenged physically?" another reporter asked holding her notepad and pen ready.
"Uh, well there's no bathroom on the plane," the man shrugged.
"Mr. Lindbergh!" a third reporter nearly screamed as she climbed over another in an effort to get closer, "how do you feel about the possibility of potentially crashing in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean?"
"I, uh, I've never really..."
"Excuse me!"
Everyone quieted and looked towards the speaker. He wore a mechanic uniform and rectangular glasses. He had blonde hair and blue eyes and was young, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old. But despite his age, something about him demanded the utmost respect. The crowd opened up and he walked calmly to the first man, Lindbergh.
"The Spirit of St. Louis is now ready for Mr. Lindbergh. But before he takes off, you should all take the time to appreciate him for what he is doing for this country."
Lindbergh smiled sheepishly and blushed as the man pat him on the back.
"This is a moment that will go down in history. Charles Lindbergh, an American like me and you, will be known as the first man to be in New York on one day, and France on the next. We should feel honored that he has chosen to represent our great nation in this way. And now, on behalf of everyone here, as well as every American, no, every person on this earth, I wish you, sir, the best of luck!"
The crowd cheered while Charles blushed even harder. The bespectacled young man smiled at him and moved in closer. "Charles," he said quietly, "when you get to Paris, can you do me a favor?"
"Of course Mr. America," Charles said, nodding his head eagerly, "Anything for you, sir."
"Thanks. Okay so what I need you to do is, well, when you get to Paris, there will be two men there, men like me. You know, nations? One of them has long, wavy blonde hair and is usually wearing pretty flashy clothes, if any at all. That's France. And the other one has kind of spiky blond hair and really bushy eyebrows and he's usually frowning. That one's England."
Charles was excited at the prospect of meeting other nations. So far he had only met Mr. America and America's friend Mexico while training in Texas.
"Anyway," America continued, "when you meet them, can you give England this message from me?" America pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his jumpsuit and handed it to the young aviator.
"Tell it to him out loud, but please don't read it until you get there. Oh, and make sure he knows it's from me."
"Yes, sir. I promise I will," Charles assured him, "And it has been an honor working with you."
"Thanks, I really appreciate it. And the honor's all mine. Now let's get this baby into the air. Did you pack a lunch?"
"I've got a sandwich and some coffee."
"Good. But don't drink too much of that coffee. Remember, there are no bathrooms on the plane."
MWMWMWMWMWMW
Saturday, May 21,1927
England and France stood on the edge of the large crowd, eagerly trying to catch a glimpse of the man climbing out of the monoplane. This required a great amount of effort, however, because they were competing against nearly 150,000 Parisians. It took about a half hour for the excitement to end and Charles Lindbergh to make his way towards the unexplainaby noticeable nations.
"Excuse me," he said panting, "You're England and France, correct?"
"Oui," France said, nodding.
"Oh, good. And it's a pleasure to meet you both. So, uh, Mr. England, I have a message for you from Mr. America."
"Oh, how interesting," France replied looking at England, "Amérique has a special message for our dear Angleterre. Whatever could it be?"
England rolled his eyes. "So what is it?" he demanded impatiently.
"Oh, yeah."
Charles scrambled to pull out the piece of paper. He squinted to read America's handwriting then snorted as he tried suppressing a laugh.
"Suck it, Limey."
Everything was silent for a moment, until...
"Ohonhonhonhonhon!" France doubled over with laughter. England looked as if he would explode with anger. Charles coughed and mention something about having to pee before running off.
"Ohonhonhon," France was rolling on the ground now. "You thought it would be something nice and poetic! Ohonhon! You should see your face right now!"
England scowled even harder. "It's not funny!" he shouted.
Years later, England would still not admit that it was funny. If you got him drunk enough, however, he would admit that deep down, he was proud of America.
Author's note:
Charles Lindbergh was not the first pilot to cross the Atlantic, however he was the first to travel to Paris from New York and he's pretty well known in American history. The flight took about 33 and a half hours and Lindbergh was stuck in a tiny cockpit. And this was back before autopilot existed, so I think he deserves a lot of respect. Also, he was partially trained in my home city of San Antonio, Texas! I decided to use that in the story because I thought it was neat. I also figured that America would want to show off to Mexico.
Once again, if you have any suggestions for new chapters, leave them in the comments!