The Wright Brothers | Coming Down to Earth | 3
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Imagine it's midday on August 21st, 1908.

You're a pilot and inventor from Dayton, Ohio, but today you're at a horse track five miles outside the French city of Le Mans. Since you started giving flying demonstrations here, the crowds of spectators have steadily grown larger. And the European press, which had previously been skeptical of you and your brother, have become enthusiastic believers. So today you're packing your equipment to move to a larger field the French army has offered. But you know the curious crowds will follow you there, too.

"'So too will the eager and demanding press. "'And in fact, you notice a reporter approaching right now. "'You steel yourself for another interruption. "'Yes, may I help you? "'I'm with the London Daily Mail. "'May I ask you a few questions? "'I suppose so, but please make it quick, I'm busy. "'Well, thank you. "'I've been watching you fly the past few days, "'and it's magical. "'We've never seen anyone fly a figure eight before. "'You had complete control. "'It seemed as though you could stay aloft forever.'

You said you had questions? Yes. I wondered if you feel offended by the people who didn't believe you and your brother could fly. You mean people like you in the press? I suppose that's fair, but my paper never mocked or insulted you. We never called you a fake or a bluffer, but we were skeptical, yes. You've proven us all wrong. Well, if I've learned anything in all this, it's that people like you are fickle.

One week you call my brother and I frauds, and the next we're heroes. What will it be tomorrow? All I can do is focus on my work.

Now, you have a real question, or can I get back to it? Fine, yes. What are you planning to do next to stay ahead of all of the other flyers? Are you worried about competitors? Well, I think French aviators like Blériot and the Voisin brothers, they've had moderate success, but you said it yourself. When I fly, I am in complete control, and the others are not. In my opinion, no, not yet.

I believe it was De La Grange who admitted after watching one of my flights that we are beaten. Yes, but how long can that last? Surely the race for dominance of the skies is still wide open. New airplanes are being designed and built every day. And those inventions had better not infringe on the work my brother and I have already done. We've labored day and night for years, and we'll fight to protect our patented designs. Now, please, if you'll excuse me.

You've never enjoyed the press, but this reporter's questions about competitors touched a nerve. After years of flying without an audience, it makes you uneasy to allow so many people to see your aircraft. What's to prevent another inventor from copying your innovations? You'd prefer to be back at Kitty Hawk, where you could fly without people watching. But deep down you know that if you and your brother want to begin selling your flying machines, you have no choice but to keep performing before cheering crowds everywhere.

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By 1908, the Wright brothers had been flying for eight years, having progressed from piloting experimental gliders to engine-powered aircraft. But over this time, their desire for secrecy and the refusal to allow photographs of their planes meant that very few people had seen evidence of their achievements. As a result, many in the press and in the scientific and aviation communities remained skeptical, refusing to believe that the Wright brothers had fully conquered the air.

But in the summer of 1908, Wilbur Wright amazed crowds with his aerobatic flying demonstrations outside of Le Mans, France. And weeks later, his brother Orville would demonstrate equally impressive flights at a U.S. Army base in Virginia. It seemed that the press in Europe and America were finally convinced of the brothers' history-making achievements. But just as their skeptics were silenced, the Wright brothers would face a deadly crash and a struggle with lawsuits that threatened their legacy.

This is Episode 3 of our three-part series on the Wright Brothers, Coming Down to Earth. In June of 1908, the French pilot Léon Delagrange managed to stay aloft in a French-built aircraft for 18 minutes, at the time, a world record. A month later, an American motorcycle racer and aviation enthusiast named Glenn Curtis won a contest sponsored by Scientific American magazine by flying one mile in an aircraft called Junebug.

The public and press considered both De La Grange and Curtis' flights great accomplishments and showered the pilots with praise. Orville and Wilbur Wright had already flown further and longer than any of these aviators, soaring dozens of miles at a time and staying aloft for nearly an hour. But because of their obsession with secrecy, few had witnessed their flights and their achievements had largely been kept from the public.

That all changed in August 1908, when Wilbur began giving his first-ever flying demonstrations at a field outside Le Mans, France. As Wilbur rose into the sky and gave nearly flawless aerial performances, spectators were shocked at what they witnessed.

Until that moment, the French had been convinced that their aviators were the true pioneers of flight. The French balloonist and aviation promoter Ernest Archdeacon had ridiculed the Wrights airplane as a phantom machine and dared them to carry out their experiments in broad daylight. But Wilbur's demonstrations in August and September of 1908 were irrefutable proof that the Wrights were the most accomplished flyers in the world.

and those that bore witness were amazed. The press raved about Wilbur Wright and his great white bird, and even Ernest Archdeacon apologized for his previous skepticism, telling a reporter, I feel an intense pleasure in counting myself among the first to make amends for that flagrant injustice.

For weeks, Wilbur entertained thousands of spectators in Le Mans. And by late August, crowds had grown so big that Wilbur accepted an invitation from a local military commander and moved to a larger field at an army camp nearby. Hart Berg, the Wright Brothers' sales agent in Europe, even started charging spectators for tickets as more and more people rushed to witness the thrilling flights.

And to capitalize further on these successful demonstrations, Wilbur agreed to stay in France through the fall of 1908 to generate more publicity for prospective buyers in Europe. That prevented him from returning home to give flying demonstrations for U.S. Army officials, who were also interested in buying the brothers' aircraft.

So Orville would have to make these flights alone. And his first-ever public demonstrations would be in front of large crowds that included military officers, reporters, politicians, scientists, and thousands of other spectators at Fort Myer in Virginia. The flying machine that Orville would use was a rebuilt version of their 1905 model. Unlike earlier Wright machines, which were flown from a prone position, Orville's had two upright seats, one for the pilot and one for a passenger.

On September 3rd, Orville nervously took off before a wildly cheering crowd. And at first, his flight looked perfect. But then he veered toward a wooden hangar, dropped quickly, and hit the ground hard. He acknowledged to reporters, "'It shows I need a good deal of practice.'"

But Orville recovered quickly, and his next few flights featured one record-breaking feat after another. On September 4th, he flew three miles. On September 9th, he circled the field 57 times over the course of an hour, surpassing his brother's feats in France by a large margin. And later that same day, he took a military officer for a ride in the two-seater flying machine, taking another officer up three days later.

The New York Times even speculated that President Theodore Roosevelt himself might fly with Orville, although Orville told reporters he didn't think the president should take such chances. The public, the press, the United States military, and scientific communities the globe over were all marveling at the brothers' success. And so too was Orville's father, Milton, who traveled from Dayton to watch his son fly.

Imagine it's September 15th, 1908. You've traveled to an Army base outside Washington, D.C. to watch your youngest son fly his aircraft. In the last few days, he's performed a number of stunning, record-breaking flights. But today, high winds have him grounded. So you're keeping him company while he works on the engine.

He seems anxious and distracted. Oh, what's wrong, son? You worried the president is going to walk through the door and demand a ride? I doubt that's going to happen, father. That's just the press speculating. Well, what is it then? Well, for starters, I need this machine to reach 40 miles an hour if we want to finalize our contract with the army. I'm getting close, but it's not there yet. Well, like your brother suggested, don't let yourself get pushed into doing anything before you're ready.

Your son throws down a wrench in anger. But they are pushing me, Father, and I've already taken two officers up with me, and now another one, some Selfridge, wants a ride. He's a member of the aeronautical board. They're the ones who will decide whether the Army will buy our machines, but I feel like I've become a carnival ride. Son, son, what do you know about this Selfridge fellow?

Well, for starters, he belongs to the Aerial Experiment Association. They started up last year with Glenn Curtis and others. Wilbur and I have been worried that they may be trying to steal some of our ideas, infringing on our patents. And I don't trust any of them.

I'm convinced this is why Selfridge wants a ride. He's a spy, but maybe he's just curious. I wish it were that simple. The Aerial Experiment Association has been developing their own planes, but they've had trouble with their engines. Selfridge has been asking questions about motors, trying to find out how we do it, and then he shows up when I'm having dinner, trying to pump me for information.

But the patent you received two years ago should protect you, right? It should. But I still don't trust him. I've heard he makes disparaging comments about me and Wilbur behind our backs, trying to damage our reputation. Well, he's hardly the only one who's been doing that. But then there's the practical aspect of it. He's a big guy, heavier than the other two officers I took up with me. Well, if you want my opinion, I think you've made two successful flights with other passengers, and you should have no problem with this one.

I hope you're right. Without his brother by his side, your son seems more edgy and nervous than usual. You have to leave tomorrow for a church conference in Indiana, but you're anxious about leaving Orville on his own under all this pressure.

While Wilbur continued to give demonstrations in France, Orville had begun flying at Fort Myer, Virginia for an audience of military officials and civilian spectators. His demonstrations in early September of 1908 quickly became the most celebrated flights in the history of aviation.

Orville gave one amazing performance after the other, repeatedly breaking records for distance and time in the air. And as thousands cheered and honked car horns, Orville stayed aloft for a full hour at a time, three times longer than any of France's revered aviators. And after reading about his younger brother's achievements, Wilbur called Orville a champion skyscraper.

Praise from his brother meant a lot, but Orville's real audience was the five-member review board for the U.S. Army Signal Corps, which would determine whether the Army would buy one of the Wright's machines.

In February of 1908, the Wrights had signed a preliminary contract with the Army that would be worth up to $25,000 if they met certain conditions. First, they had to demonstrate their aircraft's capabilities before the review board, achieving specific milestones for speed, altitude, and distance, and fly with a passenger. With his brother in France, it was up to Orville to meet the terms of the Army's contract.

One member of that Army board was Lieutenant Thomas Selfridge, an aviation enthusiast who also belonged to the Aerial Experiment Association that had been founded in the summer of 1907 by the inventor Alexander Graham Bell. It was known as the AEA or informally as Bell's Boys. Members of this group were trying to catch up to the Wright brothers who continued to worry about competitors stealing their ideas.

And amid this tense atmosphere, Selfridge asked Orville to take him for a ride. Orville distrusted Selfridge and his motives, but with an Army contract on the line, he was in no position to refuse the request. So just past 5 p.m. on September 17th, Orville reluctantly allowed Selfridge to climb into the seat beside him. They took off without incident and made a few circles around the field, reaching 40 miles per hour.

But then, as the plane neared Arlington Cemetery, a piece of one of the propellers broke off and severed a tension wire that connected the wing to the tail. Orville heard a strange tapping and two loud thumps, and then the plane began to shake. From 125 feet in the air, it tilted into a dive. Orville was unable to pull out, and the plane spiraled, smashing into the ground. Orville later described feeling like a bird shot dead in full flight.

Bystanders rushed to pull the bloodied men from the wreckage. They were both placed on stretchers and rushed to the hospital. Selfridge died that night of a fractured skull. Orville had survived, but his injuries were serious. He had a fractured leg, dislocated hip, and four broken ribs. Hearing news of the disaster, Orville's sister Catherine rushed to Washington and stayed with her brother for weeks while he recovered.

Despite his life-threatening injuries, Orville's confidence was seemingly unshaken. When a visiting friend asked if the crash had wrecked his nerves, Orville scoffed, Nerve! Oh, do you mean will I be afraid to fly again? The only thing I'm afraid of is that I can't get well soon enough to finish those tests next year. The crash had postponed the Army's decision about whether to buy the Wright's flying machine, but the brothers hoped to be able to continue their demonstrations in 1909, after Orville had recovered.

Meanwhile, Wilbur was still in Europe when he learned about his brother's crash. He was devastated and blamed himself for leaving his brother to make the high-stakes demonstrations alone. He also knew that with this crash and the death of a passenger, their contract and their dreams of financial success were in peril. ♪

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the Harlem Globetrotters on March 8th, a slam dunk of fun for everyone. Tickets are on sale now at CapitalOneArena.com. Don't wait. Grab your seats tonight and secure memorable moments for your whole family. After learning of his brother Orville's disastrous crash, Wilbur Wright was more determined than ever to prove that their planes were safe and that the deadly crash in Virginia was only a fluke. So within days, he was flying again, climbing into the air every chance he got.

On December 31st, after flying more than 75 miles in 2 hours and 18 minutes, Wilbur won the 1908 Michelin Cup, a prize worth 20,000 francs, equal roughly to 100,000 U.S. dollars today. This flight, and others he undertook with passengers through late 1908, managed to keep the Wright's reputation intact. Wilbur wrote to his sister Catherine how princes and millionaires as thick as fleas come to see him in his airplane.

Encouraged by the reception in Europe, in January of 1909, Catherine and Orville joined Wilbur in France.

Still limping from his crash, Orville had to use a cane to walk as the three Wright siblings toured Europe for more of Wilbur's flying demonstrations. Despite the death of Thomas Selfridge months earlier, Wilbur began taking passengers in the air with him, sometimes five or six a day. He also set more records, won more prizes and accolades, and even gave lessons to other French flyers.

On February 15th, at a field in the south of France, Wilbur took up his sister Catherine for her first ever flight. She would fly with him two more times in the months ahead, setting a record for flying longer and farther than any American woman.

Meanwhile, Orville watched quietly as his brother and sister flew. He told reporters he hoped to fly again soon, but often seemed glum to be sidelined, even as he and his siblings gained wider fame and recognition. The Wrights met with millionaires and royalty, including the kings of Spain, England, and Italy.

Catherine was amazed that after so many years working alone and in private, her brothers had become celebrities, remarking that, Every time we make a move, the people on the street stop and stare at us. Next, the Wrights visited Rome, where Wilbur made 50 flights, gave rides to more passengers, trained Italian military officers to fly, and gave lectures. One of his passengers was a cameraman who made the first-ever film shot from an airplane.

As a result of these successful flights, negotiations with French and German buyers continued, and the brothers' flying machine attracted interest from an Italian syndicate, too. While those contracts were being negotiated, though, the Wrights began planning to return to Virginia to complete the trials for the U.S. Army Signal Corps, which had granted a one-year contract extension after Orville's crash in 1908. By the time the Wrights returned home in May of 1909, Wilbur had spent more than a year in Europe.

During that time, he had flown longer, farther, and faster than any other pilot. He and Orville had also come home $200,000 richer, thanks to prize money he'd earned in various flying contests and from preliminary sales of Wright Flyer planes to France.

On June 10, 1909, after a brief homecoming in Dayton, the Wrights traveled to Washington, D.C., where President Taft, a fellow Ohioan, awarded them Congressional Medals of Honor for what he called their great step in human discovery.

A week later, thousands of people visited Dayton for a two-day celebration of the Wright brothers' accomplishments. Their father, Bishop Wright, gave an invocation in which he praised his sons for daring to dream of an invention hitherto deemed impracticable, cleaving the air like a bird. After soaking in the praise in Dayton, the brothers traveled back to Washington to complete the flight trials for the Army.

On June 29th, as senators and military officials gathered to watch, Orville returned to the air for the first time since the terrible crash that resulted in Thomas Selvidge's death.

He got off to a shaky start. He had to cut his first flight short due to engine problems, and on his next flight, he made a hard landing, nearly skidding into a tree. But finally, after a two-week delay to repair the wings, Orville took off again on July 12th and stayed aloft without incident to the cheers of eager crowds.

The brothers stayed in D.C. for another month to make endurance flights and other tests as required by the Army. Orville also again flew with passengers, soaring for more than an hour and at speeds of 40 miles an hour. At one point, President Taft sat among the 8,000 spectators. And when the trials ended on July 30th, the Wrights were finally awarded a $30,000 contract from the War Department, which included bonuses for surpassing the Army's minimum requirements.

But at the same time, other aviators were making their own advances. On July 25th, while the Wrights were still in D.C., they received word that French aviator Louis Bleriot had flown a monoplane across the English Channel from Calais, France to Dover, England, covering 23 miles of open water.

A month later, the first international air races were held in Rheims, France. The Wrights declined to participate, so the race was won by American motorcycle racer and aviator Glenn Curtis, who set a new speed record by averaging 46 miles an hour. But rather than celebrate Curtis' accomplishment, the Wright brothers sued him for patent infringement, alleging he had stolen their wing design.

Wilbur and Orville remained determined to defend their inventions, even if it meant going to battle with fellow aviators. Imagine it's September 28th, 1909, on Governor's Island in New York Harbor. You're at a hangar to work on the airplane you're planning to fly over New York City tomorrow. You've just returned from France, where you set a new speed record.

The press has been comparing your recent success to those of the Wright brothers, which is good news for the company you and your partner recently formed. You have plans to start manufacturing your own airplanes. But when you arrived, you noticed that Wilbur Wright was working in the hangar beside yours. Despite the fact that he and his brother recently sued you, you reluctantly walk over to greet him. Well, hello, Wilbur. I knew you'd be flying in this weekend's event, but I didn't expect they'd put our hangars side by side.

You reach out to shake Wilbur's hand, but he pulls back. Sorry, my hands are a bit greasy with engine oil. Congratulations on your success at Ream. 46 miles an hour. Quite impressive. 46 and a half, but thank you. Yeah, coming from you, honestly, that means a lot. Well, I'm sure it helped that your plane had the benefit of our patented designs for lateral control. I assume you received the paperwork from our lawyers? Ah, yeah, yeah. And I must say, I was surprised you filed two lawsuits against me.

You and your brother have come at me with both barrels. I had hoped we might work out our differences. We gave you a chance to do that earlier this year. You could have paid us a licensing fee. Those so-called ailerons that you've added to your wings are a blatant infringement on our 1906 patent. Well, that's just simply not true, Orville. We invented our little wings, as we call them, specifically to avoid violating your patent.

Calling it a different name doesn't change a thing. Our patent covers all techniques that mimic our method of controlling the lateral movement in the air. We call it wing warping, you call it ailerons, but it's the same. And it's our technology. Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and let the courts decide. You've already sold your first airplane, which means you've already profited from our ideas, and I have no doubt the courts will rule in our favor. When they do, I'll be happy to see your aircraft company go out of business. Now, if you'll excuse me...

"'I have work to do.' You watch Orwell turn back to his aircraft. You leave and walk glumly back to your hangar. You used to feel a sort of kinship with the Wright brothers, the sense that you were all part of the same rarefied club of flyers. Now, though, you can't help but feel that the Wrights have become obsessed with making money and will go out of their way to crush any perceived competitors.'

In the summer of 1909, the Wright brothers filed the first in a series of lawsuits in the United States and Europe against competitors they believed had infringed on their patented aircraft designs. And these legal battles quickly began to occupy more and more of the Wright brothers' time and energy.

Their initial target was Glenn Curtis and his partner Augustus Herring, who had formed the Herring-Curtis Company earlier in 1909. They began making airplanes whose wings featured flaps called ailerons designed to control their planes' side-to-side or lateral movement, such as rolling and banking, similar to the wing-warping technique the Wrights had earlier patented.

The Wrights had been suspicious of Curtis for years. In 1906, the same year they received their patent for wing-warming, Curtis had written to them offering to sell them a lightweight engine he'd built. They declined, but when Curtis was in Dayton later that year, they did agree to meet with him.

During his visit, the Wrights showed him photographs of their earlier airplanes, while he peppered them with technical questions about their wings and engines. Then in 1909, Wilbur learned about Curtis's new planes and their aileron flaps. He wrote to Curtis and insisted that he pay license fees to the Wrights for the use of their technology. But Curtis refused, triggering a legal fight that would last for years.

And then, only weeks after the lawsuits were filed, Wilbur and Curtis briefly crossed paths as they prepared to be part of a two-week maritime celebration along New York's Hudson River. In an embarrassing turn of events, Curtis was forced to leave the event early when he found his airplane did not have enough power to handle the gusty winds around the harbor. But Wilbur had no such problem.

On September 28th, a million people watched Wilbur fly over New York Harbor, around the Statue of Liberty, and up the Hudson River. Since he had never flown over water before, he came up with an innovative new feature, mounting a 14-foot canoe under the plane to act as a pontoon in case of a water landing. A month later, the brothers incorporated the Wright Company with offices in New York.

Wilbur would serve as president and Orville vice president. Their investors included two of the biggest names in finance, J.P. Morgan and Cornelius Vanderbilt. Next, they broke ground on a manufacturing plant in Dayton. And for the first time, the brothers would conduct business somewhere else other than their bicycle shop. They were finally ready to start manufacturing airplanes for customers and making real money.

But they remained determined to protect their invention. In January of 1910, a judge issued a preliminary ruling in the Wrights' favor in the lawsuit against Glenn Curtis and his company. Curtis appealed, and the case dragged on. But even though they won the first round in court, the Wrights' longtime friend, Octave Chenute, thought it was a mistake for them to have gone after an American hero like Curtis. He warned that other flyers might turn against them, and that lawsuits were not in the best interest of aviation.

In a letter to Wilbur in early 1910, Chanute wrote, I'm afraid, my friend, that your usually sound judgment has been warped by the desire for great wealth. Wilbur tried to repair the strain on their friendship, writing to Chanute to profess, My brother and I do not form many intimate friendships, and I do not lightly give them up. But the rift never fully healed, and Chanute would die later that year at age 78.

But all through the personal and legal battles of 1910, the Wrights never stopped flying. By now, they'd learned that flying exhibitions were good for business. They also wanted to establish a flight training school. So on May 25th, they invited members of the Aeroplane Club of Dayton and the general public out to Huffman Prairie to see Orville fly. Nearly 3,000 people watched him perform acrobatic moves, including flying to a record altitude of 2,720 feet over half a mile.

Spectators then watched Wilbur climb into the passenger seat beside his brother. They had never flown together. Their father had prohibited it, fearful of losing both sons in a crash. But now, seated side by side with Orville at the controls, they flew above their hometown for the first and only time. But there was another first to come. The Wright brothers' 82-year-old father, Milton, had agreed to fly. ♪

Orville and Milton took off, and as father and son soared 350 feet above Huffman Prairie, the bishop yelled, "'Higher, Orville, higher!' Rites were at the peak of their aviation careers. But soon, the stress of mounting legal battles began to take a toll on Wilbur, and the brothers' long-time partnership risked being torn apart."

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In 1910, Orville and Wilbur Wright's various business endeavors were taking off, and they began training the next generation of pilots. In addition to a training and testing facility at Huffman Prairie, they opened a wintertime flight school in Montgomery, Alabama, and helped establish a U.S. Army flying center in College Park, Maryland. They also created the Wright Exhibition Team, whose pilots would perform aerial shows.

But over the next year, acrimonious lawsuits and patent fights took up more time and energy. These legal battles limited the brothers' ability to innovate further, and French flyers and airplane manufacturers began to take the lead in the aerospace industry. By 1911, European companies were manufacturing aircraft that were safer and faster than the Wright flyers.

Over the next several years, the Wrights continued battling for aeronautical supremacy. They would file nine lawsuits in all and were sued themselves three times. They would eventually win every case, but this validation of their contributions came at a steep cost. As Wilbur wrote to a friend, When we think what we might have accomplished if we had been able to devote this time to experiments, we feel very sad.

In May of 1912, worn down by his constant travels to hearings and meetings with lawyers, Wilbur fell ill during a business trip to Boston. He was soon diagnosed with typhoid fever, the same disease that had afflicted Orville 16 years earlier. So Wilbur's brother Orville, his father, and his sister took turns sitting by Wilbur's side, just as he had tended to Orville during his illness when he was young.

But despite his family's care, Wilbur died at home in Dayton on May 30, 1912. He was 45 years old. In his diary that day, his father, Bishop Wright, wrote that Wilbur had lived a short life full of consequences, an unfailing intellect, imperturbable temper, great self-reliance, and great modesty.

Letters, flowers, and condolences poured into the Wrights' home, and 25,000 people attended Wilbur's viewing. In the background, Orville quietly suffered the loss of his brother and closest friend. Bishop Wright wrote that both Orville and Catherine suffered his loss most. They say little.

Wilbur's death also left Orville alone to tend to the rising tide of competition to their business and their protracted patent lawsuits. And within two years, disaster would strike. Several Wright planes that had been sold to the U.S. Army crashed, killing the pilots. So by 1913, the U.S. military pulled back from doing business with the Wright Company, turning instead to French airplanes.

One bright spot came in 1914 when a court upheld the earlier verdict against Glenn Curtis. But by 1915, Orville had tired of the whole business. He sold his company, which in 1916 merged with another founded by aviation pioneer Glenn Martin to become the Wright-Martin Aircraft Company.

Seeking to recapture the days when he and his brother worked quietly above their bicycle shop, Orville created a new workshop and laboratory a few blocks from the old one. There, he turned his attention to conducting experiments on airplane parts, including work on an aerial bomb called the Bug that could fly behind enemy lines in warfare, an early version of a drone. Then, in April of 1917, Orville's father, Bishop Wright, died at the age of 88. A year later, Orville made his final flight.

And after years of supporting her brothers, Katherine Wright married and moved to Kansas City. She would die of pneumonia in 1929. In the decades since their first successful flight at Kitty Hawk, the Wright brothers had revolutionized the art and science of human flight. They also inspired future generations of aviators. In 1927, Charles Lindbergh flew his Spirit of St. Louis plane from New York to Paris, becoming the first aviator to cross the Atlantic.

When he returned home, he went out of his way to visit Dayton and pay his respects to Orville. As an elder statesman of the aviation community, Orville still made public appearances from time to time. And in 1928, he traveled back to Kitty Hawk for the 25th anniversary of Wilbur's first powered flight. He also made an appearance at an aeronautics conference in Washington, D.C. But by 1930, he had become something of a recluse. That didn't stop the press from continuing to seek him out, though.

Imagine it's a cloudy September afternoon in 1930. You're in the office behind your house on North Broadway in downtown Dayton, Ohio. You wince as another drop of water falls from a leak in the ceiling caused by recent heavy rain.

"'Today you're meeting with a magazine writer "'who's come to talk about the bygone days "'of your first flights with Wilbur. "'The reporter seemed surprised you even agreed to meet. "'And in fact, you're surprised yourself. "'You normally hate to have anything written about you. "'But this young man was persistent.'

He still has an eager look in his eye as he peppers you with more questions. So for the last several years, you avoided the spotlight pretty much, dodging cameras and interviews. What made you decide to meet with me? Well, to be honest, I'm not certain. I'm most comfortable in my own company these days. Has it always been the case? Is that why you're never married? I guess you could say I was married to my work, my brother too. By now, you've won every honor imaginable, but with your brother and sister gone, you have no one to share your success with.

Don't you want the world to know who you are and what you contributed? I take great pride in what my brother and I achieved. I just hate having to talk about it. I guess that's why I never wrote an autobiography or anything. It's like my brother once said, the only birds who talk are parrots. They are not birds of high flight. Well, speaking of high flight, I understand you still have back pain from your crash in 08.

That was quite the tumble. Do you think air travel today is safer? I think there are still too many accidents. Too many daredevils lose their lives in airplanes. Better pilot training is definitely needed. Okay, interesting. But tell me, what's been the greatest thrill for you all these years? I only ever had one thrill in aviation. When the idea of achieving flight first came to me as a small, sleepless boy.

The reporter looks surprised as he scribbles this remark in his notebook. Your eyes narrow on the small pool of water accumulating in the corner of the room. You know, I'm sorry. I'm suddenly pretty tired, and I think it's time I said goodbye. I also have that leak to attend to, and then some mail I need to sort.

As you get up and escort him to the door, you thought you might show the reporter some of the innovations you crafted around the house. But now your back is hurting and you just want to be left alone again. He seems too focused on the past. And that's not someplace you prefer to spend your time these days.

As Orville Wright reached his 60s, he mostly withdrew from the aviation community and from the public. Except for attending the unveiling of a Wright Memorial at Kill Devil Hill in 1932, he spent his time at his modest home and office in Dayton. But his contributions to aviation continued to receive recognition and acclaim. In 1939, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt issued a presidential proclamation designating Orville's birthday, August 19th, as National Aviation Day.

and an aircraft carrier called the USS Wright was launched in early 1945 in further honor of the brothers.

During World War II, Orwell watched as technologically advanced airplanes played a critical and destructive role in the fighting. In 1945, U.S. and British pilots executed an air raid on the German city of Dresden, dropping thousands of bombs and killing 25,000 people. Later that year, U.S. aircraft dropped the first atomic weapons on the Japanese cities of Nagasaki and Hiroshima, killing tens of thousands of civilians.

After World War II, Orville expressed regret about the devastation caused by airplanes, especially the bombers that led to so much death and destruction. He told a writer, We dared to hope we had invented something that would bring lasting peace to Earth, but we were wrong. Orville Wright died in 1948 at age 76. He was buried beside his brother, sister, father, and mother in the family plot at Woodland Cemetery in Dayton.

The Wright brothers' contributions to human flight remain unmatched, and their legacy would endure. In 1969, when Neil Armstrong, another pioneer from Ohio, set foot on the moon, he carried with him a small piece of wood and fabric from the Wright's 1903 flyer. Another Ohioan, astronaut John Glenn, also took pieces of the Wright flyer when he returned to space aboard the space shuttle in 1998. Yet another tribute to humanity's first steps toward the heavens,

and to the days when two brothers from Dayton dared to lift an aircraft from the sandy bluffs of North Carolina and soar into the sky. From Wondery, this is episode three of our three-part series on the Wright Brothers from American History Tellers.

On the next episode, I speak with historian Lawrence Goldstone, an award-winning author of 28 books, including Birdmen, The Wright Brothers, Glenn Curtis, and The Battle to Control the Skies. We'll discuss Orville and Wilbur Wright's fixation with patenting their technology and their relationship to other aviators.

If you'd like to learn more about the Wright Brothers, we recommend The Wright Brothers by David McCullough and Birdman by Lawrence Goldstone.

American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design by Molly Baugh. Music by Lindsey Graham. This episode is written by Neil Thompson, edited by Dorian Marina, produced by Alita Rozanski. Managing producers are Desi Blaylock and Matt Gant. Senior managing producer, Ryan Moore. Senior producer, Andy Herman. And executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Marshall Louis, and Erin O'Flaherty for Wondery.

They say Hollywood is where dreams are made, a seductive city where many flock to get rich, be adored, and capture America's heart. But when the spotlight turns off, fame, fortune, and lives can disappear in an instant. When TV producer Roy Radin was found dead in a canyon near LA in 1983, there were many questions surrounding his death. The last person seen with him was Lainey Jacobs, a seductive cocaine dealer.

who desperately wanted to be part of the Hollywood elite. Together, they were trying to break into the movie industry. But things took a dark turn when a million dollars worth of cocaine and cash went missing. From Wondery comes a new season of the hit show Hollywood and Crime, The Cotton Club Murder.

Follow Hollywood and Crime, The Cotton Club Murder on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge all episodes of The Cotton Club Murder early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus.