Business: Eddie Rickenbacker, 1890-1973

He was America’s “Ace of Aces,” the most decorated pilot of World War I. He was a pioneer of U.S. commercial aviation and the last of the early flyers to run one of the nation’s great airlines. But of all the legends that trailed him throughout his long lifetime, none seemed to please Eddie Rickenbacker so much as the legend of his invincibility. “I’ve cheated the Grim Reaper more times than anyone I know,” he liked to boast. “And I’ll fight like a wildcat until they nail the lid of my pine box down on me.”

He was by any measure a remarkable, many-faceted man who represented some of the best attributes of an earlier America. Born Oct. 8, 1890 in Columbus of immigrant parents (his father was German Swiss), he left school at 13, took a correspondence course in mechanical engineering and became a racing driver in the early days of the automobile. By the time he was 21, he had won seven national championships.

In 1916 Rickenbacker sailed to England to buy engines for a racing team. He was already known to sportswriters as “the Happy Heinie” and “the Wild Teuton,” so suspicious British officials took no chances with him. They detained him on arrival, tore his shoes apart looking for messages and scrubbed his chest with lemon juice in the hope of finding secret writing. He was, of course, both completely clean and completely loyal.

When the U.S. entered the war, Rickenbacker joined the Army and properly enough was assigned as chauffeur to General John J. Pershing, commander in chief of the American Expeditionary Forces. As soon as he could, he transferred to the fledgling Air Corps. “If you’re as dangerous to the Germans as you are to me,” Pershing told the racing driver, “you’ll be an ace in no time.”

So he was. Rickenbacker learned to fly in 17 days, joined the 94th Squadron under Captain James Norman Hall (later the co-author of Mutiny on the Bounty), and soon was diving in his Nieuport fighter to within 150 yds. of enemy planes before opening fire. When Hall was shot down and captured by the Germans, Rickenbacker took over Hall’s group—and later the entire squadron—in the battle against the “Flying Circus” of “Red” Baron Manfred von Richthofen. By the end of the war, Rickenbacker had shot down 26 German planes and blimps, and had been awarded 56 decorations, including the Medal of Honor.

After the war, he helped manufacture an automobile that bore his name, the Rickenbacker; but the company failed in 1927, leaving him $250,000 in debt. He paid his bills and bought the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, which he continued to run until 1945. His press parties at Indianapolis on the eve of each Memorial Day 500 were notorious; liquor flowed until dawn, and Captain Eddie—as he liked to be known —customarily called for order by hammering the table with a baseball bat.

In 1934 General Motors asked him to take over the management of a money-losing subsidiary, Eastern Air Lines. Red ink was hardly unusual in the aviation business in those days; no airline, in fact, had ever operated in the black. Within a year the tightfisted Rickenbacker made Eastern profitable, and in 1938 he raised $3.5 million and took control of the line. Every year from 1935 to 1960 Eastern turned a profit under Rickenbacker’s management, thereby disproving the prevailing theory that airlines inevitably needed federal subsidies. Rickenbacker worked hard as a salesman for Eastern and for commercial aviation, and he pioneered Eastern’s shuttle service between Boston, New York and Washington. He was a stern taskmaster as always, using a microphone at management meetings to heckle subordinates with withering sarcasm. “You’re not managers,” he would snap. “You’re leeches!”

Direct Hit. In February 1941, Eddie Rickenbacker was aboard Eastern’s Mexico City Silver Sleeper when the DC-3 crashed as it approached Atlanta. Rickenbacker was badly injured. In the hospital, he heard the radio voice of Walter Winchell announce that he was dying. “I began to fight,” Rickenbacker recalled later. “They had me under an oxygen tent. I tore it apart and picked up a pitcher. I heaved it at the radio and scored a direct hit. The radio fell apart and Winchell’s voice stopped. Then I got well.”

Only 16 months later, while making an inspection tour of wartime bases in a B17, Rickenbacker crash-landed in the South Pacific. For 21 days, he and six other men survived on three rafts; an eighth man died of his injuries. Though he was the only civilian in the group, Rickenbacker took charge; he carefully divided four oranges and made them last six days. One day a seagull landed on his head. He captured it, apportioned its flesh and used its entrails as bait for fish. He cursed one man who prayed for death, and dragged back another who tried to drown himself to make more room for the others. His comrades later credited him with taunting them into staying alive.

“The sensation of dying is sweet, sensuous, placid,” he once said. “It is the easiest thing in the world to die. The hardest is to live.” His will endured, but his strength finally faltered. Last week Eddie Rickenbacker died in Zurich, of a heart ailment, at the age of 82. In his final years he had remained spry, cantankerous and active, devoting much of his time to right-wing political causes. TIME Correspondent Jerry Hannifin recalls seeing him disembark from a jetliner at Washington’s Dulles Airport only a year ago, gruffly rejecting someone’s offer to help him with his crutches. “Hell no, thanks, I can make it down on my own, goddammit,” he said. Then, leaning the crutches against the stairs, he stopped to give autographs to a swarm of admirers, a hero to the end.