by Glenn Beck
“My friends,” Armstrong began again, but his voice failed him. He felt the first tears begin trailing down his face.
Others in the audience started to join in the vocal protest. Applause began slowly and then spread throughout the room until the roar of it was ringing in his ears. The engineers were coming to their feet in an ovation that seemed as if it would never end. They were cheering and chanting his name, and then one of them ran up onto the stage and put Howard Armstrong’s treasured award right back into his hands.
• • •
When he got home from the meeting he told Marion all about it, and the two stayed up most of the night talking about the future. She’d been by his side through virtually every trial and tribulation, lending him her strength, and he loved her more every single day.
By morning, for the first time in years, the road ahead seemed bright.
Ever since David Sarnoff had asked him to tackle the static problem, Armstrong had been quietly at work. The challenge had been monumental, but now the prototype was nearly done—and wide-band frequency modulation would be an invention all his own that no man alive could ever dispute. Outside his wife and Harry Houck, only Sarnoff, now the president of RCA, had been privy to the progress so far. Finally, it was ready to be announced.
Armstrong wrote in his journal that morning:
An era as new and distinct in the radio art as that of regeneration is now upon us. After ten years of eclipse, my star is rising again.
A few sleepless days and nights later, a team of company engineers assembled in Armstrong’s temporary lab at RCA headquarters.
Howard turned on the latest model of the Radiola and then tuned in a signal until the sound was as clear as he could make it. There was music playing, a classical piece, exhibiting the thin, tinny audio of a typical program of the day.
“There are two transmitters upstairs,” Armstrong said. “One is broadcasting with yesterday’s technology, and that’s what you’re hearing now. Watch, and listen.”
Armstrong flipped a switch near him and a spark generator began spitting bright white arcs of electricity across its gap. The radio signal was immediately overwhelmed by interference and the program disappeared into the hiss.
With a sweeping gesture, Howard Armstrong then switched the output to the new FM receiver right beside him.
The same orchestra music filled the room, but the difference was breathtaking. For minutes they all listened in utter fascination—for the first time, a broadcast signal carried the full audio spectrum discernible to the human ear. And despite the static generator that was still going strong, the reception was so pure and clear that one could hear the whisper-quiet sound of the violinist turning his pages of music.
When the demonstration was over, David Sarnoff dismissed his team of engineers to the next room and took Armstrong aside.
“Well, you’ve done it again, Howard,” he said. “This FM business, it’s going to change everything one day.”
“One day?” Armstrong replied. “It’s changed everything already, starting today.”
“Let’s sit down over here,” Sarnoff said. When they arrived at the table, Armstrong saw what looked like a corporate contract was already waiting for them. “This is an agreement between you and RCA. Among other things it entitles you to a significant share of the profits that might come from your work here.”
Armstrong began to read. His enthusiasm began to leave him, though, before he’d even gotten halfway through.
“This transfers all my patents for FM over to your company.”
“That’s right. You and I will always know who invented it, but to the rest of the world, FM will belong to RCA. And that’s not all.”
“What else?”
“I’m not going to announce these results,” Sarnoff said, “and neither will you. Nothing you showed us here today will be made public.”
“What do you mean? You said this was another revolution—”
“And it is, but we’re not ready for it yet. We’ve only just gotten AM into widespread acceptance. I’ve got millions of radio sets out there in the market, and tens of millions more on the production line. That gear would all be obsolete, not to mention the stations and broadcasters who’d all have to replace their equipment overnight. Once people hear your new system, they’d never want to listen to AM radio again.”
“But that’s wonderful—”
“No, Howard, it’s not wonderful. It’s a threat to the fortunes of a thousand men that you don’t want to cross. More than that, they would never allow you to cross them, and neither will I. You’re right about one thing, this is the future, and you should be proud of what you’ve done. But the future has to wait.”
Armstrong was getting angry.
“I won’t do it. What if I don’t sign? Then what are you going to do?”
“You don’t want to find that out, Howard. Don’t you read the business section? I don’t get ulcers, brother, I give them.”
“You’re going to threaten me now? Don’t make me laugh! The patents are mine—”
“Did de Forest teach you nothing at all? Do you really imagine you can walk out on this deal with any hope of beating me at my own game?”
“I’m not walking out,” Armstrong said. “This is my laboratory—”
“No, it isn’t, Howard, not if you turn this down. And I take it your answer is no.”
“That’s right.”
“Okay,” Sarnoff said. “You’ve got until the end of the day to pack up and clear out. You can go back to that basement at the university because I need my space here for another team. While you’ve been playing around with radio, we’ve been working on something much bigger.”
Sarnoff paused to let the tension build.
“Television.”
• • •
Over the next few years Howard Armstrong poured every ounce of time and energy into the uphill battle of promoting the benefits of FM radio.
The costs were astronomical. He created a production chain to make and sell receivers to a growing number of enthusiasts along the East Coast. He sold franchises and licensed other entrepreneurs to manufacture his name-brand sets. At the same time, he built a 40-kilowatt FM radio station, W2XMN, to transmit his high-fidelity broadcasts for a hundred miles in all directions. He also inked a deal with the Yankee Network to help them found the first FM radio conglomerate. Before long more than 200,000 listeners were tuning in to FM every day.
It was grueling work and the budget was always down to the bone, but he and Marion were happier than they’d ever been. Their destiny was in their own hands.
One afternoon, Armstrong returned to his small office to find David Sarnoff sitting in his chair.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Sarnoff said.
“What are you doing here, David?”
“I’ve got one last offer for you,” Sarnoff said, sliding a document across the desk.
At first glance it looked like the same offer that Armstrong had turned down long ago, with one notable change: Rather than a permanent share of all future profits from his FM patents, the figure was now a flat fee: one million dollars.
“Why on earth would I accept this?” Armstrong asked.
“Because it’s the only way you’re ever going to win.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m on my way to half a million listeners. I have new stations on the drawing board from here to Chicago. Before long we’ll be as big as NBC.”
“If you don’t believe any other thing I say today, Howard, believe this: That will never, ever happen.”
“A million dollars? Just my facilities here are worth more than that, not to mention future earnings on FM. I wouldn’t sign my rights away for a hundred times what you’ve offered.”
“Last chance,” Sarnoff said, but there was no reply. He shook his head and stood, and then he took his time to fold and pocket the rejected contract. “Very well, then. Get a long last look at this friendly face, Howard. B
ecause the next time we meet, I’m afraid you’re going to see another side of it.”
In the back of his limousine on the way back to New York, David Sarnoff picked up the handset of the car’s intercom.
“Make a note on my schedule,” he said. “When I walk into my office I want a conference call waiting with Frank McNinch in Washington, D.C. . . . Yes . . . The office of the director at the Federal Communications Commission.”
• • •
The lawsuits began almost immediately. Some were filed against Howard Armstrong, and others Armstrong was forced to file himself.
The months tied up in court once again turned into years.
RCA was openly using FM technology for its television arm, while blatantly ignoring Armstrong’s patents. Rumors flew that Sarnoff was encouraging other corporations to disregard Armstrong’s patents as well. It became a sort of unspoken coalition, with a single unarmed man on one side and ten Goliaths on the other.
Everywhere Armstrong turned a new wall rose in his path, but still he pressed on. At one point the opposing lawyers kept him coming back to the witness stand for over a year, asking him questions of no consequence to the case just to stall for time and wear him down. Then, one day, it was finally David Sarnoff’s turn to testify. Much of this time was a blur to Howard, but he would never forget what Sarnoff was about to say.
“Mr. Armstrong has asserted,” the opposing attorney said, “that you once offered to pay him for the rights to develop FM technology, which he now claims to be his own original work. He’s put the figure in question at one million dollars. Is this true?”
“It is not,” Sarnoff said.
“You never offered to pay Mr. Armstrong, on behalf of RCA, for the use of his work?”
“At some point, I may have offered him something. We were old friends, you see, and he always seemed to be having legal troubles—”
Armstrong’s lawyer objected to this, and as usual, was overruled.
“In any case,” Sarnoff continued, “if I offered him anything it would have been nowhere near the figure you mentioned. It would have been a gesture, nothing more.”
“Mr. Sarnoff,” his attorney began, “I’ll close with a simple question for you. Who developed FM?”
David Sarnoff leaned forward to make sure the court could hear every word that he said.
“The FM system that is in question here today was developed, beginning to end, by RCA. It is the sole invention of our corporate engineers.”
1941
On December 7, 1941, the United States was again thrown into war.
As before, despite his own ongoing battles, Howard Armstrong immediately offered his services, and turned over every patent he held for the use of his country in the war effort.
Lee de Forest, now sixty-eight years old, and always game for publicity, announced his development of a self-guided bomb to be used against enemy forces in the air campaign. At the demonstration, the bomb veered off course and nearly fell among the generals who’d gathered to witness its power. All in attendance left feeling lucky to have escaped with their lives.
While David Sarnoff had been denied a navy commission back in 1917, this time was different. For the duration of the war he left the safety of the boardroom for an active role in support of the Allies. In the end, he directed the development of a communication system that helped make possible the invasion of Normandy.
When the war was finally over, it was back to business as usual.
Unbelievably, Howard Armstrong was still hanging on—refusing to back down. But Sarnoff had an ace in the hole that he’d hoped he’d never have to play.
Sarnoff made another phone call to Washington, and within a month of American Telephone & Telegraph joining his lobby, the ruling he’d requested came down from the FCC:
The FM broadcast frequencies were to be permanently moved, far up the spectrum from where they’d always been. In that one stroke, every unit in existence that was designed for FM transmission and reception was rendered obsolete.
River House Apartments, 13th Floor
East 52nd Street, New York City
January 31, 1954
Edwin Howard Armstrong had held on for nearly nine years more. Royalties had dwindled, debts were piling up, his health was failing, his savings were gone, and his hard-fought patents were about to expire. Just over two months earlier, on Thanksgiving night, he had finally taken all he could stand.
“They’ll never let me alone!” he’d shouted. “They’ll keep after me until I’m broke or dead, and nobody cares which it is!”
“I do, Howard,” Marion pleaded. In all these years together she’d thought she’d seen him at his worst, but this was different. “We can still get through this—”
“But I can’t! Why won’t you see that? I’ve wasted my life and yours! Everything I’ve ever done means nothing!” In the midst of his rage he’d grabbed a fireplace poker and swung it again and again at the walls, the family photographs, and the many awards that were carefully arranged on the mantelpiece.
When he’d looked at his wife again he was horrified by what he saw. In his blind anger he’d struck her. Marion’s arm was bleeding. For the first time since he’d met her he’d put fear into those beautiful eyes.
The metal bar in his hand dropped to the floor and he fell to his knees in front of her, but she had already left him and run for the door.
That was the last time he’d seen her, and the very last time he ever would.
And so it ends, Armstrong whispered.
It had been quite a chore to remove the air-conditioning unit from the bedroom window, but at last it came free and the way was clear.
The night was cold, but he was well dressed for it. All that lay before him was that final step.
He had always loved the feeling he got from standing way up high. That night, at that moment, the feeling was no different. His regrets were all behind him.
And with that thought, Edwin Howard Armstrong took a last deep breath, and then walked off into the air.
EPILOGUE
Armstrong’s body lay hidden until the next morning, crumpled and still on a third-floor landing. The maintenance man who discovered the body knew immediately who he’d found.
The suicide made the front page of every paper in town.
Lee de Forest got the news and quietly made a number of calls in pursuit of the gory details. He then issued a statement regarding the death of his long-standing enemy: “Armstrong is dead, and I am alive, and hope to live on for many years. What a contrast!”
De Forest spent those remaining years constructing what he hoped would be an everlasting place for himself in history. He lobbied for a Nobel Prize and, also unsuccessfully, tried to convince his fourth wife to pen a glowing biography to be titled I Married a Genius. Among the source material was a sampling of future predictions he had made along the way:
While theoretically and technically television may be feasible, commercially and financially it is an impossibility.
I do not foresee “spaceships” to the Moon or Mars. Mortals must live and die on Earth or within its atmosphere!
The transistor will more and more supplement, but never supplant, the Audion.
As a PR stunt, his publicist once sent a letter made out to “The Father of Radio, Hollywood, California.” Upon its successful delivery to him, de Forest was to use it as proof to the newsmen of his unchallenged legacy.
The letter was soon returned by the Postal Service, marked Addressee Unknown.
Though money isn’t everything, history records that when he passed away in 1961, Lee de Forest had less than $1,300 to his name.
When David Sarnoff was told of Armstrong’s suicide, he was quiet for a time, and then, as though he stood accused by the messenger, he said, “I did not kill Armstrong.” The company was closed on the afternoon of the funeral, and Sarnoff himself led a large group of mourners down the street to attend the service.
Marion Armstrong did not suffer
her husband’s death in silence. Not long after he’d been laid to rest, she took up his many legal battles against some of the most powerful corporations in America.
Using funds from a settlement with RCA, Marion stood up to the giants one by one. Motorola, Philco, Admiral, Emerson, Sylvania, Packard Bell, and many others, by intent or oversight, had profited from the work of Howard Armstrong—and she believed that it was long past time for them to pay for it. But, for Marion, as with her late husband, it was never about the money.
In his ruling against Emerson Radio & Phonograph, Judge Edmund Palmieri found the corporation’s arguments on the up-for-grabs origins of FM to be “speculative, inconclusive, and unconvincing,” and declared that “Major Armstrong was truly a pioneer in the field in theory and in fact.” At last, FM belonged to Armstrong.
The decision was so definitive that Emerson’s lawyers saw no hope in an appeal. Upon learning of this result, several other companies who’d banked on similar cases suddenly proposed generous out-of-court settlements. The last holdout, Motorola, lost their final appeal in October 1967. More than half a century since the legal challenges began, and thirteen years after his death, Edwin Howard Armstrong had finally won.
• • •
Long after he was gone, Armstrong was honored by the International Telecommunication Union. There, among his peers, his name is forever enshrined alongside those of André-Marie Ampère, Alexander Graham Bell, Michael Faraday, and Guglielmo Marconi.
Edwin Howard Armstrong’s discoveries formed the basis of communications technology for many decades to come. In fact, his FM broadcast system was later used by another pioneer who bore the Armstrong name, though the two were related only in spirit.
In 1968, in a moment that would have delighted one of the twentieth century’s greatest unsung inventors, Neil Armstrong spoke to the world via FM radio from his station on the surface of the moon—the very place that Lee de Forest believed mankind would never visit.
3
Woodrow Wilson: A Masterful Stroke of Deception
PROLOGUE
