Lucky Bob

St Henry

June 9, 1911. Fargo, North Dakota. With every bank and store in town closed for the occasion, Robert C. “Lucky Bob” St. Henry soars over Fargo in Sweetheart, his Curtiss biplane. It isn’t the first aeroplane flight in North Dakota—nearly a year earlier, Arch Hoxsey appeared in the skies above Grand Forks—nor does the exhibition have a wider significance than that the aviator hails from North Dakota. What is remarkable is that “Lucky Bob” St. Henry, a man who has been flying for less than four months, does not really exist.

 

Castle W. Shaffer was born in Nebraska in 1882, the son of a carpenter. Following his high school graduation, he served a machinist apprenticeship with the Union Pacific Railroad.  Shaffer met and married Ellen Kerr in Colorado in 1901, when they were 19. Two years later she sued for divorce, claiming desertion.

It turned out that Shaffer had moved to Detroit, where he joined the Buick Motor Company under the assumed name Robert C. St. Henry, with a claimed birthplace of Texas. In the course of demonstrating Buick’s “horseless carriage” throughout the country in 1903, Shaffer married nineteen year-old May Padbury in Ontario, Canada (just across the river from Detroit). They had a son in 1904, but soon afterward St. Henry left them, supposedly returning to Nebraska.

St. Henry’s movements and employment over the years that followed are something of a mystery. By 1909 he was operating an automobile garage in Carrington, North Dakota, where the local newspaper described him as a “doughty little redheaded mechanic, . . . wiry and a daredevil to the core.” He left North Dakota, turning up more than a year later in San Diego, where he paid a thousand dollars to take flying lessons from Glenn Curtiss. Just where he came up with that money, equivalent to roughly $25,000 today, is unclear—as is the basis for his interest in aviation.

St. Henry was one of the first two civilian students accepted by Curtiss; the other was Charles C. Witmer from Illinois. Tuition money could be applied against the purchase of a flying machine if the student proved adept, and within a month St. Henry was clearly good enough to go on the road. Curtiss wrote to his business manager:

We can sell him a 4-cylinder. The original plan was [for him] to give some exhibitions in Canadian towns [on his own] and pay us a royalty, but, as he is hardly proficient enough, and the aeroplane is not ready to deliver, he is [g]oing up [north] and book[ing] these towns, which he has already lined up, for [Hugh] Robinson to play, . . . or if Robinson goes to Dallas and south, Witmer can play them. This will leave Robinson in the Northwest for June engagements, which I understand [advance man] Moore has booked. We can then ship a machine to St. Henry and he can work in as a 2d man in these engagements.

St. Henry thus quickly became an established member of the Curtiss exhibition team, billed initially as a “Special Student of aeronautics under Glenn Curtiss, and the most daring and foolhardy aviator of them all.” Within a month, however, he was appearing as “Lucky Bob” St. Henry. Even though he hadn’t suffered any notable crashes, the name pithily suggested the riskiness of his flights.

Along with Witmer and Jimmie Ward, St. Henry traveled to Wichita for a Curtiss exhibition beginning May 4. The meet was to be headlined by Eugene Ely, whose January 1911 ship landing was being hailed as the greatest aviation feat ever accomplished. As it happened, St. Henry prudently declined to risk his new machine in the uncertain weather, but the more experienced Ely gave a performance that delighted the crowd.

During that Wichita meet, Curtiss advance man R.R. Young arranged for a two-man exhibition to take place in Butte, Montana, on June 11-13, at which the aviators were to be Ely and Hugh Robinson. The cautious  promoters of the Butte meet vowed that spectators would get “the worth of their money”:

It will be “no fly, no pay” with the Butte men. And more than that, the aviators are compelled, according to the agreement, to remain in Butte until they make the number of flights named in the contract in a satisfactory manner.

Those “Butte men” insisted on having at least two aviators present, as the contract specified. Unfortunately, by the time Ely headed for Montana, compliance was out of the question. Robinson was stuck on the east coast with Witmer, Charles Willard and J.A.D. McCurdy had quit the Curtiss team, and St. Henry was booked for a tour of central Canada and North Dakota.

Curtiss knew about the “no fly, no pay” provision in Butte. Of his four aviators other than Ely, the only realistic possibility was St. Henry, who just might be able to get to Butte in time. But that would mean missing his dates in North Dakota—where the promoters, like those in Butte, had an “ironclad contract with the Curtiss company.” In early June Curtiss, Ely and St. Henry exchanged a flurry of telegrams as they tried to figure out what to do. “While you were away” on the west coast, Curtiss wrote to his business manager, Fanciulli, “I got mixed up in the Butte affair.”

St. Henry first wired it would cost $150.00 to get a special train [to Montana]. He later found out it would cost $800, which makes it practically prohibitive for him to go to Butte. I wired Ely repeatedly to re-arrange the contract for one man. He could do it if he [wanted to], I am satisfied. . . . I don’t know what will happen, but we might as well have a law-suit in Butte as in Dakota, and from what I know I think St. Henry should stick to his dates.

To be fair, it’s not clear that Ely would have had the success predicted by Curtiss. Two days before the meet was to begin, Butte newspapers were reporting the fiction that “Robbins” had wired from Denver that he would be coming, while Charles Walsh (at the time, an independent aviator reported to fly a “Curtiss-Farman” biplane) had done the same from Portland. And soon enough the story changed again: Ely was heading a party of “three more aviators and a dozen mechanicians, hang[a]r attendants, watchmen, etc.” Ely was said to have expressly promised spiral glides, altitude flights, and an attempt to cross the Continental Divide. The suspicious Butte promoters nonetheless added motorcycle races and horse races as a hedge against the failure of the three aeroplanes they were expecting. Having arranged the “Most Auspicious Event Butte Has Had in Years,” they were disinclined to give an inch on the terms of the contract.

In any event, while St. Henry amazed the Fargo crowd, Ely was left on his own in Butte. The weather didn’t cooperate, and his exhibition was consequently a failure. At the end—unsurprisingly, in light of the promoters’ insistence on strict adherence to the terms of the contract—Ely “appeared to be willing to do almost anything to make reparation to the disappointed spectators.” Reports came in that St. Henry had sought to arrive in time to fly on the final day; when that proved impossible, “it was decided to call his engagement off.” Although Curtiss dodged the lawsuit he feared, the Butte promoters unilaterally withheld $1,000 of the amount due, because the “contract called for three machines and three [sic] aviators, and [Ely] came here by himself and brought but one machine.”

St. Henry never saw Ely again. Present when nineteen year-old Cromwell Dixon fell to his death in Spokane at the beginning of October 1911, St. Henry agreed to fill Dixon’s upcoming engagements for the Curtiss company. But when Ely himself died three weeks later, the man known as “Lucky Bob” canceled a planned world tour and announced that he was quitting aviation.

He must have reconsidered, because he flew again during the summer of 1912 before publicly leaving the business in 1913. He also claimed, much later, to have delivered Curtiss aeroplanes to the Chinese government, as well as to Russia, where he said he had taught several novice aviators.

St. Henry resumed using the name Castle W. Shaffer, remarried yet again, and settled in Nebraska. For half a year in 1915 he served with the rank of captain as chief aviation officer in the Nebraska National Guard. In connection with that position, he was expected to give exhibitions. Although he was an experienced aviator, his unaccountable inability to make any successful flights led to his dismissal. Later he would tell of instructing aviators in England during World War I. Whether he did so is unknown.

Using his real name, Shaffer became a member of the Early Birds of Aviation. Throughout the 1920s he was associated with an underwriting company and other businesses in Lincoln, Nebraska. During the Great Depression he moved across the state to the small town of Sidney, where the son of a carpenter opened a cabinet shop that he operated for the rest of his life. He died of a stroke in 1954, at the age of 72.

Advertisements
Lucky Bob

The British Invasion

Grahame-White

October 29, 1910. Belmont Park, Long Island. After a week of strong winds makes flying nearly impossible, the weather finally cooperates for the international Gordon Bennett speed race, twenty laps of a five-kilometer course. A year earlier, Glenn Curtiss won the inaugural Gordon Bennett Cup in France with an average speed of 47 mph. But in 1910 no Curtiss machine is fast enough to compete, while the Wrights’ speedy Baby Grand crashes before officially starting the race. Englishman Claude Grahame-White, flying a French-made Blériot monoplane, dominates the contest by completing the 62-mile course at just over a mile per minute pace. America has lost not only the Cup, but also its reputation for aeronautical supremacy.

Claude Grahame-White was born in 1879 in the former shipbuilding town of Bursledon, in Hampshire, England. He became interested in automobiles in his teenage years and owned one of the first petrol-driven cars in England. In 1905 he opened an automobile showroom in the exclusive Mayfair area of London. Soon boasting a motorboat and a sailing yacht as well, he developed a reputation as an incorrigible ladies’ man.

In 1908 Grahame-White watched Wilbur Wright fly in France. One year later, he was a spectator at the first Gordon Bennett Cup race and decided to learn to fly. After ordering a monoplane from Louis Blériot, who had just narrowly lost the race to Glenn Curtiss, Grahame-White supposedly made his first flight without any formal instruction. He was the first Briton licensed in France, and he received the Royal Aero Club’s Certificate No. 6 in April 1910. Shortly afterward he competed in a 180-mile air race from London to Manchester, at one point flying at night in an effort to catch up with eventual winner Louis Paulhan.

Having given a series of exhibitions in England that earned him the equivalent of more than a million dollars in today’s money, Grahame-White sailed for America in August 1910 to try his luck at the substantial prizes being offered at aviation meets across the country. His presence, along with that of A.V. Roe, allowed the September Harvard-Boston Aero Meet to bill itself as “international.” His Blériot machine was late in arriving, so he borrowed a Farman biplane from millionaire amateur aviator Clifford B. Harmon. As one journalist described Grahame-White’s appearance at Harvard-Boston:

The hum of his motors reached across the field, coming out of the fog like a dream creature. Around came the humming. Then, like a phantom taking shape, the machine swooped into view, looming suddenly, like an apparition, out of the fog. So hard was it to tell where the plane would swoop into sight that it brought home forcibly the possibilities of the airship in war.

At that same aviation meet, Grahame-White won a mock bomb-throwing contest and flew his 100-hp Blériot to win a $10,000 prize for the fastest two-circuit over-water flight to Boston Lighthouse and back.

Along with Harmon and wealthy American socialite John Barry Ryan, Grahame-White immediately set out to demonstrate the military possibilities of the aeroplane. They first arranged an exhibition at Benning Racetrack, within the District of Columbia. The Washington Post had just offered Grahame-White a $10,000 prize ($250,000 today) if he broke the record for a long-distance flight (i.e., the 104 miles claimed by Arch Hoxsey. Grahame-White proposed to do so by flying round-trip between Washington and Baltimore. He and Harmon sent formal invitations to various high-ranking army and navy officers, offering them admission to attend Benning meet free of charge.

On October 14, completely unannounced, Grahame-White circled the Capitol dome and landed his Farman biplane on Executive Avenue, right between the White House and the State, War and Navy Building (see photo). The feat was hailed as “the most remarkable and daring landing ever made from such a height by an aviator.” The next day he canceled his planned attempt to break Hoxsey’s record; he cited minor damage to both of his machines, but it seems clear that Ryan, who was in the process of establishing the paramilitary “United States Aeronautical Reserve,” didn’t want to risk the sort of negative publicity Eugene Ely had garnered earlier that same week with an unsuccessful cross-country attempt from Chicago to New York.

Grahame-White’s surprise landing galvanized the American military. Newspapers ran banner headlines: “AERIAL FLEET AND PILOTS TO AID AMERICA IN WAR.”

A week ago in Washington it was rather a difficult matter to interest the man in the street in the aeroplane as an engine of war. Even though he were too polite to tell you so, it was easy to discern that he thought you were looking into the far distant future. To-day, however, the flights of Grahame-White and Clifford B. Harmon, especially when the huge biplane descended gracefully on Executive [A]venue, have demonstrated to all the vast [military] possibilities of the heavier-than-air machine.

Grahame-White was accorded the unofficial title “World’s Greatest Aviator.” Within six weeks, the dashing Englishman had swept America off its feet.

But, less than a fortnight later, as weather limited the flying at Belmont, the press cast about for other news. Americans began to read disapproving stories of Grahame-White’s very public attentions to sporty socialite Eleanora Sears, whom he had met and first taken for an aeroplane ride during the Harvard-Boston meet, at a time when he was supposedly engaged to actress Pauline Chase—and Miss Sears to Harold S. Vanderbilt. (Vanderbilt, in fact, cut short his European visit the day before the Belmont meet opened, sailing on the Hamburg-American liner Kaiserin Auguste, a vessel shortly to play a pivotal role in the life of Eugene Ely.) Soap operatic as the situation was, for many Americans the thought of losing the Cup—and international prestige—to an individual of Grahame-White’s now questionable character was particularly galling. And so, although Grahame-White easily won the Gordon Bennett speed race on October 29, the ability of new favorite son John Moisant to claim second place led most of the newspaper accounts of the contest.

The next day saw a highly anticipated race from Belmont Park to the Statue of Liberty and back. Moisant accidentally taxied into Harmon’s parked aeroplane, wrecking his own machine; Grahame-White’s time beat that of the only other competitor to start in advance of the designated cutoff time. At the last instant, though, Alfred Moisant bought another Blériot for his brother, and John Moisant was permitted to start right after the official window closed. By using a compass and a more direct route, he completed the round-trip flight forty-three seconds more quickly than had Grahame-White.

The enthusiasm of the day before that had greeted Moisant’s second-place finish in the Gordon Bennett race was nothing next to the jubilation attending his Statue of Liberty victory.

Belmont Park rocked and roared . . . with an outburst of wild, uncontrolled enthusiasm . . . Mr. John B. Moisant, American, had won the Statue of Liberty flight after it had passed hopelessly to all appearances to Mr. Claude Grahame-White.

The British aviator sportingly congratulated his rival and announced that he would try again the next day, presumably intending to fly the direct course. But the Aero Club accepted Moisant’s argument that the meet had officially closed on Sunday—notwithstanding an earlier announcement that it would be extended for a day.

The willingness to bend the rules against Grahame-White reflected such blatant provincialism that aviator J. Armstrong Drexel (an American, but close friends with the British flyer) deemed the ruling “a piece of shameless jugglery” and convinced nine other aviators to boycott the dinner to be given by the Aero Club that night as a celebration of the close of the tournament. Drexel even held a competing dinner in honor of the British aviator. Grahame-White submitted a formal protest to the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale, thus further antagonizing the American public. (Ultimately, the FAI disqualified both Grahame-White, who had grazed a pylon while landing, and Moisant.) Forgotten was the adulation of September; now he was a pariah.

Grahame-White returned in 1911 to England, where he established a flying school at Hendon Aerodrome in London, made the first official air mail delivery in Britain, formed a company to build aircraft, and published the first of his dozen books on the topic, The Story of the Aeroplane. Long a subject of gossip columns, in 1912 he married a New York socialite and heiress—who was neither Eleanora Sears nor Pauline Chase.

Grahame-White published The Aeroplane in War in 1912. Building on his experience with the U.S. Aeronautical Reserve, he promoted the military application of air power by touring his home country in a program called “Wake Up Britain,” during which he provided H.G. Wells, author of the novel The War in the Air, with his first aeroplane ride. During 1913 Grahame-White proposed a commercial air service between London and Paris and helped to test an aerial machine gun.

An enthusiastic believer in the future of aviation, Grahame-White echoed John Moisant’s prediction at Belmont that transatlantic air travel would be possible within five years.By the end of 1911 he was seriously discussing the possibility of crossing the Atlantic in under thirty hours, using a machine with four engines generating 250 hp each and carrying a crew of six. He targeted the summer of 1915 for a westward transatlantic flight—an accomplishment he considered “comparatively simple.” He was preparing to raise $250,000 for a construction fund in the summer of 1914 when World War I broke out, promptly ending all civilian flying.

Grahame-White was one of the few pioneer aviators active during 1910-1911 who also saw aerial combat. He received a temporary commission as a flight commander in the Royal Navy Air Service, in connection with which he reportedly flew over London looking for Zeppelins during the opening days of the war. In early 1915 he participated in a bombing raid on Belgium; on the return flight he had to ditch in the English Channel. Later that year, with espionage hysteria sweeping England, he was reported to have been shot as a German spy in the Tower of London; accounts that he had been severely wounded in France were equally unfounded.

Friction with his immediate superior in the air service, Commander John Cyril Porte, coupled with Grahame-White’s primary interest in continuing to build aeroplanes, precipitated an abrupt end to his military service. Roughly coincident with that event, he was rumored to be keeping company with “an actress”—who turned out to be Ethel Levey, ex-wife of vaudevillian and composer George M. Cohan. In 1916 Grahame-White’s own wife, from whom he had been separated for some time, initiated divorce proceedings that were followed eagerly by the press. Hardly was the divorce finalized before Grahame-White married Ethel Levey.

Ultimately, the first nonstop Atlantic crossing took place in 1919 without any involvement by Grahame-White. During the war he had loaned his Hendon aerodrome to the government, which afterward took it by eminent domain. Grahame-White became entangled in a legal battle over compensation for the taking, and for sums he claimed owing for aircraft manufactured during the war. When the litigation finally ended in 1925 he received the equivalent of $2.5 million today. He gave up aviation and didn’t fly again until 1933.He continued to write but otherwise faded from the public eye. His second wife divorced him in 1939 after he admitted to adultery. He remarried yet again.

Grahame-White made another fortune developing property in the United States and Britain. During World War II he purchased an American yacht to be used by the British military as a hospital ship. He maintained a primary residence in Beverly Hills, but for the last several years of his life he and his wife lived in Nice, France.

He died in 1959, two days short of his eightieth birthday.

A biography, Claude Grahame-White, by Graham Wallace, has recently been digitized.

Save

The British Invasion

Shooting Star

Ward

January 28, 1911. Havana, Cuba. Cubans celebrate the second anniversary of the restoration of their republic with a military parade at Camp Columbia, the U.S. Army barracks established during the Spanish-American War. After the parade, and in anticipation of an aviation meet to be held under the auspices of the Havana Post (and the “patronage” of the Cuban government), Curtiss aviator James J. “Jimmie” Ward flies in a 30 mph wind. President Gómez, along with his Cabinet “and other notables,” watches the first ascent of a flying machine over Cuba. No one present realizes that Ward’s exhibition marks the end of exclusively civilian flying. The following day Mexican rebels will “liberate” the city of Mexicali, accelerating American willingness to consider the use of aeroplanes in warfare. Within two months, the U.S. Army will establish its first aero squadron at San Antonio, and Glenn Curtiss will consider sending Ward there to train the army aviators.

“Jimmie Ward” was, in fact, an assumed name. Born Jens Peter Wilson in 1886, in Denmark, he had immigrated with his family to the United States in 1888; they settled in Crookston, a city in northwest Minnesota. As a boy, Jens clashed with his well-digger father. He Americanized his name to Jimmie, ran away to Chicago, and became a chauffeur. He also changed his surname to Ward, supposedly to avoid losing his license after acquiring a number of speeding tickets.

Ward took a job as “mechanician” for then novice aviator Bud Mars in the spring of 1910. He attended the Curtiss team’s meet in June at Minneapolis, where he told a reporter he hoped “to follow aviation as a profession.” Shortly after that, Ward returned to Chicago and met James Plew, president of the Illinois Aero Club. Plew owned a Curtiss aeroplane (Herring-Curtiss No. 4, purchased in November 1909), but he needed someone to fly it for him.

Despite the lack of formal instruction, Ward used his general familiarity with the machine to make a few successful flights for Plew in Galesburg, fifty miles south of Rock Island, at the end of September 1910. Glenn Curtiss arrived in Chicago a day or two after those flights and was sufficiently impressed that he hired Ward to cover an exhibition in Lewiston, Idaho, beginning October 13. Before leaving town, Ward posed for a photograph that identified him as one of “America’s Famous Aviators.”

Ward seems to have done no flying between mid-October and late November, but when Curtiss headed west for the winter, taking Charles Willard and Bud Mars with him, he left his business manager, Jerome Fanciulli, in charge of the “Department of the East.” The Curtiss aviators who reported to Fanciulli were Eugene Ely, J.A.D. McCurdy, and novice flyer Augustus Post. Whether on his own or at the direction of Curtiss, Fanciulli engaged Ward as well. Ward’s first appearance as part of the Curtiss team was with Ely on November 21-22 in Birmingham, Alabama.

In December, Bud Mars quit to tour the Orient on his own. “Mars got away,” Curtiss confided to Fanciulli, “owing us considerable.” Fanciulli, who viewed Mars as a traitor, immediately began imagining trouble from the other aviators: “I am arranging to drop Ward,” he wrote to Curtiss. “He is too careless, is rotten morally, and so ignorant that he reflects discredit on the whole organization. He resembles Mars in too many ways.” Curtiss must have talked Fanciulli out of it, because Ward remained on the team.

The Department of the East continued to give exhibitions without incident throughout the Southeast. At New Orleans, Ward flew to four thousand feet, setting an altitude record for a 25-hp flying machine. As a marketing device, he began calling his aeroplane Shooting Star. At an Atlanta exhibition, “Ward surprised the crowd by his high flights in his 4-cylinder Curtiss, while Ely and McCurdy raced each other and conducted bomb dropping tests.”

To take Mars’ place in California, Curtiss summoned Ely to the west coast; Ward and McCurdy proceeded to Dillon, South Carolina, where they received “$1,000 for the day’s flights although the entire population of the town is less than 1,100.” Ward flew higher than five thousand feet over Charleston, and the team moved on to Virginia and Florida.

By late January 1911 Ward was in Havana on behalf of Curtiss. Fanciulli began advertising him as “the world’s youngest aviator” (even though he was no younger than Ely) and—an equally false claim—the “official aeroplane instructor to United States army and navy officers in Cuba.”

Later that spring, Ward met and impulsively married Maude May Mauger in Tennessee; he took her for her first aeroplane ride a month later, at Wichita (pictured above). Meanwhile, Curtiss needed a professional aviator to fly acceptance tests for the army’s powerful new “war machine” in San Antonio. Ward was, Curtiss wrote to Fanciulli, “the only aviator who could be spared or who would accept the offer,” but he was hardly the ideal choice, given his inexperience with eight-cylinder machines. The solution Curtiss chose was to telegraph Ely, asking him to give up his engagements and head to San Antonio in April. Ely agreed and spent a short time in Texas before meeting up with Ward and other Curtiss flyers in Wichita.

Later in the summer, Ward gave exhibitions with Hugh Robinson in Arkansas and Kansas, by now specializing in altitude flights. When asked whether he felt fear in the air, Ward said: “I feel perfectly natural all the time, and am never afraid. While I appreciate the dangers of flying, I never worry about death, but go ahead and take all the precautions possible.” He went on to Nebraska, then back home to Minnesota. “The day is coming,” said one newspaper, “when flying machines will be common enough, but the first exhibition here of the conquest of the air is worthy of a celebration.”

The last big aviation meet of summer 1911 was held in Chicago, and Ward arrived to find himself held out as the hometown hero. He passed the test to obtain his license from the Aero Club of America (No. 52), which allowed him to compete for prizes. He won nearly $3,000 at Chicago, but his fame had an unintended consequence: he found himself the defendant in a suit for abandonment and non-support by Margaret Warner, a young woman who asserted that she was his wife, and the mother of his child. Ward settled the suit by the payment of $250.

Ward became attracted by the lure of the $50,000 Hearst prize offered for the first transcontinental flight completed within thirty days before October 11. He quit flying for Curtiss—as an independent aviator he could keep the entire prize if he won—but the fact that he had a new machine, built by the Curtiss factory and christened Hearst Pathfinder, was enough to draw public support from Curtiss for the attempt.

Ward set off from New York City on September 13. As would Cal Rodgers, who set out a few weeks later, he encountered no end of mechanical difficulties. Unlike Rodgers, however, he dropped out of the contest within a week and a half—having failed to fly much west of Hammondsport, where his aeroplane had been built.

Ward started his own aviation exhibition company, at one point appearing with Blanche Stuart Scott. Increasing competition and declining public interest forced him out of the business in 1913. He spent the next two years trying to develop the “Ward Cycle Car,” an automobile equipped with a motorcycle engine and wheels. He then went into business with Horace Wild, a former dirigible pilot, serving as chief instructor of the International Aircraft Company.

With the advent of World War I, Ward found work as a civilian instructor for the army air service. He resumed public instruction and exhibition flying in Arkansas after the war, and he was one of the few “barnstormers” who could claim pre-war experience. Although he was a careful flyer who claimed never to have had a serious accident, Ward lost a finger and part of a hand in 1920 while cranking a propeller before a flight.

It’s unclear when Ward last flew. After his wife died in a hotel fire, the distraught Ward drifted to Miami, where Glenn Curtiss sheltered him. As Ward’s depression worsened in early 1923, Curtiss had him committed to a state mental institution. He died there later that year of a cerebral hemorrhage, at the age of 37.

Ward’s life is the subject of a biographical sketch, Shooting Star: Aviator Jimmie Ward of Crookston, by Steven R. Hoffbeck.

Save

Shooting Star