When
I walked into the office of the AP-Paris one day in '77,
Jacques Langevin, a stringer, was preparing the suitcase
darkroom and transmitter for a trip. (You undoubtedly know
Jacques' name. He's a superb photojournalist and a really
nice guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time when
Lady Di was tragically killed in the Paris auto accident.)
Jacques was off to the Normandy coast to cover the arrival
of the first transatlantic balloon crossing.
Moments
after Jacques raced out the door, the bureau Photo Chief,
Mr. Michael O'Reilly Nash, called me in. " You may be
wondering why Jacques is going instead of you," he asked in
his very British accent as he sat back and twirled his
handle-bar moustache. "This balloon's not going to make it,"
he continued. "But, we had to send someone, just in case."
Sure enough, Jacques drove around Normandy all night long in
miserable weather, chasing false reports of landings.
It
was many years before I fully appreciated how helpful Mr.
Nash, may he rest in peace, was to my career. He was always
quietly making sure that I was given the right assignments,
the ones that built reputations. I regret to this day that
he died before I realized this and got a chance to thank
him.
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Maxie
Anderson and his crew reach land over the French coastline
in 1977 aboard the Double Eagle II. Upon landing in a corn
field under a sky filled with press helicopters, French
farmers flooded the fields and engulfed the adventurers.
With champagne in hand, the crew toasted their achievement
and slept that night in the same bedroom at the American
Embassy in Paris that was used by Charles Lindbergh after
his flight. This image graced the cover of Newsweek Magazine
at the time. (photo © Randy Taylor)
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Not
many weeks later, Mr. Nash called me in again. "There's a
helicopter waiting for you at the airport," he said. Double
Eagle II was approaching the French coastline. Now, if
you've ever heard the expression "Looking for a needle in a
haystack", finding this balloon was the epitomy of that. We
flew up and down the coast, sighting dozens of tiny specs on
the horizon, until one turned out to be the balloon.
It
was also one of thoes exciting and memorable, fleeting
moments in my life. At the instant that Maxi Anderson and
the others touched down in a farmer's field, a half-dozen
helicopters were jockeying for position overhead, like so
many seagulls waiting to be fed. The sun was exactly
setting. Cars stopped along the highway, and people ran
joyously through the chest-high barley to greet the
adventurers. Within seconds, the barley was trampled as flat
as a stage, champaign corks flew, and the dirty, unshaven
crew were hoisted onto shoulders in a frenzied celebration
reminiscent of the American liberation of France. In fact,
the farmer who's crops were trampled (and paid for by the
balloonists) later said how happy he was that he could
finally repay America in some small way for rescuing France
in WWII.
The
crew received a hero's welcome in Paris where they drew lots
to see who would sleep in the Lindberg bedroom at the U.S.
Embassy. My shot of the balloon crossing into France was
played really well, including the covers of Newsweek and
Sports Illustrated. The AP gave me another raise, my third
in a year, and everyone slept well, except maybe for
Jacques.
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