In the early days of flight, airships were hailed as the future of war. Then disaster struck the USS Akron.
It would be the greatest day in the history of Akron, Ohio. Forget the opening of the Ohio and Erie Canal, which allowed the budding metropolis to become an industrial center. No, the Rubber City—so-called because of the factories established there by Goodrich, Firestone, General Tire, and Goodyear—had never seen anything like this. Akron means “high” in Greek, and now, fittingly, the future was up in the sky.
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The Worst Air Disaster You’ve Never Heard Of |
Before the sun rose on August 8, 1931, people poured into the streets. Lloyd Weil, Akron’s mayor, had declared a holiday, freeing from their desks and assembly lines those workers lucky enough to have jobs during the depths of the Great Depression. Cars converged from all directions, carrying people from Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Erie, Toledo, and farther afield. Many navigated epic traffic jams en route to their destination: the Goodyear-Zeppelin Airdock, where the day’s action would take place.
In all, some 250,000 people came to witness the official launch of the new U.S. Navy airship.
It would be called the USS Akron, after the city where it was engineered and built over a span of nearly three years. Dubbed by the press “the Queen of the Skies,” it was the culmination of America’s effort to conquer the heavens using dirigibles—vessels steered through the atmosphere buoyed by gas that was lighter than air. Aviation leaders and enthusiasts were eager to see the new ship take flight; Amelia Earhart was among the luminaries who came to Akron for the launch.
The city had the air of a carnival. Goodyear offered an aerial view of the festivities in a small blimp, a technological predecessor of the mighty airship, for a dollar a ride. A music teacher for the city’s schools had written a song for the occasion, and now glee clubs stood ready to belt out “Ode to Akron.”
Thousands of people queued up in the bright sunshine to enter the egg-shaped hangar where the airship was moored. The building was so enormous it contained its own climate—rain occasionally fell inside. As the crowds streamed in, listening to no less than five brass bands blaring away, spectators blinked to adjust their eyes. Before them sat a behemoth.
Locals had seen Goodyear crafts drifting overhead before—the company had manufactured balloons since 1912 and its now famous blimps since 1925—but the Akron was an order of magnitude larger. It stood 14 stories high, ran 785 feet long, and weighed 400,000 pounds when fully loaded, dwarfing anything that had ever taken flight. The ship’s cavernous body, formed by a skeleton of curved metal sheathed in lacquered cotton, could have held everyone assembled, though the Akron’s official capacity was 2,200. It required fewer than 100 crew to fly.
As two radio broadcasters, James Wallington of NBC and Ted Husing of CBS, competed for superlatives to describe the ship to rapt audiences around the nation, the guest of honor arrived—the First Lady of the United States, Mrs. Lou Hoover, Herbert’s vivacious wife. She would perform the christening.
Preceding her at the microphone was the man most responsible for the day: Rear Admiral William Moffett, known in military circles as the “air admiral.” He reached out his hand and placed it gently on the Akron’s nose as he spoke. “We do not lead the world in our merchant marine, nor, alas, in our navy,” he said, “but we do, by the construction of this great airship, now take the lead in lighter-than-air in the world.” A roar went up from the crowd.
Moffett then quoted Henry Wadsworth Longfellow—“Sail on, not fear to breast the sea!”—before Mrs. Hoover stepped forward. “I christen thee Akron!” she declared. She pulled a red, white, and blue cord, and the front hatch of the airship opened. With a shriek, out flew 48 racing pigeons—the exact number of states in the Union.
As the brass bands struck up “The Star-Spangled Banner,” crewmen untethered a rope, and without a sound the Akron floated a few feet off the ground. When the crowd noticed that the ship had risen, a deep “oooohhh” rippled through the hangar. After a few minutes, the ship was pulled back to the ground, its brief maiden voyage over. Great success would surely follow—even if believing so meant ignoring tragedies that had gone before.
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