The Goodyear representative, Bruce Harding, was used to such reactions.
“We needed a big building to build the navy a big airship,” he said, smiling.
“What does it cost...” Dugan began to say.
“To heat it in winter?” Harding said, answering the unasked question.
“How did you know that would be my question?” Dugan asked.
“Because, Lieutenant Dugan,” Harding said, “it’s the first one everyone asks.”
“So?” Dugan said.
“A lot,” Harding said, as he directed Harding farther inside.
WHEN FINISHED, u.s.s. Akron would be a behemoth. The flexible skin would contain 6 million cubic feet of gas. Power would come from eight Maybach Model VL-11 engines that each produced 560 horsepower. The power plants were a twelve-cylinder V-design with a dry weight of 1,200 pounds each.
Housed in eight engine rooms, the Maybachs transferred power via sixteen-foot-long shafts to the propeller shaft. The two-bladed, sixteen-foot-diameter propellers rotated so that they were able to provide thrust in four directions.
To fuel the eight engines, Akron would carry 126,000 gallons of fuel stored in a total of 110 tanks. Extensive pipes throughout the ship would allow the aircraft commander to redistribute the fuel as it burned. This, in addition to the unique water-recovery system—a collector was mounted close to the hull above each of the eight engines—allowed the commander to keep the ship on an even keel. But that only touched on what needed to be finished.
“Everything is on schedule, Lieutenant Dugan,” Harding said. “It’s just a lot to do.”
The electrical power needed for radios, telephones, lights, winches, pumps, and fans would come from a pair of eight-kilowatt internal combustion generators. The radios were state-of-the-art, with both intermediate-frequency and high-frequency transmitters. The high-frequency transmitter gave Akron a radio range of 5,000 nautical miles. Future plans called for the addition of facsimile equipment for receiving weather maps and other data. The antenna streamed 100 feet along the hull and sometimes 800 feet deployed alongside.
Because of the 785-foot length and the many systems requiring monitoring, communication aboard the airship would be critical. A total of eighteen telephones would be installed aboard Akron, with each able to sound an alarm. Voice tubes, a holdover from days past, would also be used. Mechanical engine telegraphs, similar to those on other navy ships, would be used to communicate with the engine rooms.
“What about the control car?” Dugan asked.
“It will be a streamlined affair,” Harding said. “The forward third will house rudder, ballast, engine controls, and the like. The middle third is the navigation station. The last third provides access into the hull via a ladder.”
“What about a redundant control station?” Dugan asked.
“It’ll be located in the stem at the bottom of the lower control fin,” Harding said.
Dugan had studied the plans. Most of what Harding was saying was old hat.
There was to be an airplane compartment of seventy by thirty-two feet, where the five Curtiss F9C2 airplanes would be hangared. Then there were the living accommodations that would be built on each side of the aircraft compartment—a total of eight eight- by ten-foot spaces housing the crew’s toilet and washroom, bunk rooms with canvas bunks, galleys and messes for the officers, CPOs, and regular crews.
Akron was to be a minicity, complete with airport, when finished.
“It gets cold up there in the wild blue yonder,” Dugan said.
“Aluminum piping from the forward engine rooms provides heat to the control rooms, common areas, and hangars,” Harding said, “and I’m sure the navy has some nice warm clothing for those that venture in the walkways while aloft.”
“Do you know they just changed the crew roster again?” Dugan asked.
“No,” Harding said, “what’s the latest?”
“Thirty-eight men, ten officers, and the pilots,” Dugan said.
“Over fifty men, then,” Harding said easily.
“That’s the current plan,” Dugan said.
Harding stared at the intricately woven struts that formed the single massive ring suspended from the ceiling of the hangar. “When she’s done, she’ll carry them,” Harding said, “and a whole lot more, if need be.”
ALONGSIDE THE FRAMEWORK of Akron, the Goodyear workers looked like ants on a watermelon. The workers swarmed from place to place as orders were shouted over radios and through bullhorns. The radio calls went to the operator of the overhead cranes, who carefully maneuvered the completed sections into place to be bolted to the frame. The bullhorns were used by the workers on the hull who were attaching the pieces together.
Today, the nose cone was being mounted.
The bow section was a thing of beauty: gently arcing longitudinal struts that met near the point at a small circular opening crisscrossed with aluminum support beams. It was delicate in design, sturdy in appearance, and detailed in the extreme. The crane operator dropped a hook into the center and waited while a harness was attached.
Then the crane operator raised the piece a few feet into the air to check the balance. Satisfied, the operator radioed down for the workers to attach another pair of lines starboard and port. These were attached to a second set of cranes. Once the cone was rigged, it was slowly hoisted upright, rotated sideways, and then brought alongside the main section of the hull.
Once positioned, the bow section was moved inch by inch into perfect alignment, then temporarily pinned and later bolted into place. By January of 1931, the main sections of the hull were in place and fastened down. The next few months saw the addition of the fins, elevators, and rudders. Once that was done, work began on the outer covering. The covering was sixty-five-pound-strength cotton seventy-four feet long and a foot or two wide with eyelets that were laced to the framework. This was covered with four coats of dope, two regular acetate, the last two containing aluminum powder. More than thirty thousand square yards of fabric would eventually cover the framework.
By July, the engines, propellers, water-recovery system, and other mechanical parts were being installed. On August 8, 1931, U.S.S. Akron was christened at a ceremony in Akron, Ohio. September 23 would be her maiden flight.
u.s.s. AKRON, THE latest U.S. military airship, came from a long line that stretched back to the country’s formation. President George Washington witnessed the first U.S. balloon flight in January 1793, when Frenchman Jean-Pierre Blanchard touched down from Philadelphia. Years later, the Civil War brought balloon development on both the Union and Confederate sides. Even so, it was not until the turn of the twentieth century that development truly accelerated.
In France in 1903, Albert Santos-Dumont built a successful powered dirigible, which he flew over the Parisian rooftops. A half-dozen years later, fellow Frenchman Louis Bleriot made a successful crossing of the English Channel in a powered airship capable of forty-five miles an hour. The following year, the U.S. Navy formed her first aviation group at Greenbury Point, Maryland, near Annapolis.
That first group was primarily concerned with airplanes, but there were students of lighter-than-air flight as well. By the year 1911, the British military had proved the worth of airships by successfully using them for North Sea patrol duty. That same year in Germany, Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin began the first commercial airline, with a total of five dirigibles in service.
World War I saw the first airship attack, as German lighter-than-air craft bombed London. Aviation was moving from science to practicality, and the uses continued to grow. By 1921, the U.S. Navy was compelled to form a new bureau to handle aeronautics. The bureau would be led by Admiral William A. Moffett. Almost immediately, the program suffered losses. On August 24, 1921, while undergoing trials near Hull, England, the airship that the navy had planned to purchase from England, to be designated U.S. Navy ZR-2, broke apart. Forty-three men were lost, including most of the infant U.S. Navy aeronautics program.
Using L-49, a captured German zeppelin, construction was under way on a similar 680-foot airship, to be designated ZR -1. She was scheduled to fly in 1923. In the meantime, only two weeks before the crash of ZR-2, the navy had taken delivery of an Italian-made semirigid airship they would name Roma. Quite honestly, Roma was a pile of trash. Her half-dozen Asaldo engines were found to be unreliable and were later replaced with U.S.-made Liberty engines. Her outer covering contained a total of 184 holes that needed patching. Once those hurdles were overcome, she took to the air. At this time, hydrogen gas was used instead of the safer helium because of cost. Roma made a few flights powered by the unstable gas.
On February 22,1922, however, all went wrong.
While on a flight from Langley Field to Hampton Roads, Virginia, the pilot was unable to control the unwieldy airship. Striking a telephone pole that sparked, the Italian craft burst into flames. Of the forty-five aboard, thirty-four were killed and eight injured. Remarkably, three on board exited the wreckage virtually unscathed. The incident forced the U.S. Navy to take a hard look at using hydrogen as a lifting agent and at the aeronautics program as a whole.
By 1927, when Charles Lindbergh made his historic solo flight across the Atlantic Ocean, the U.S. Navy had only a single airship in service, Los Angeles, which had been constructed in Germany. Around this time, the navy put out contract specifications for the construction of two large airships to supplement the fleet. The bid was won by the Goodyear-Zeppelin Corporation, based in Akron, Ohio. Two years later, in 1929, interest in lighter-than-air craft increased. The German airship Graf Zeppelin attempted a round-the-world flight, which was featured daily in the Hearst newspapers.
That same year, the U.S. Navy took delivery of ZMC-2, a pudgy, metal-clad zeppelin that featured eight tail fins arranged at equal intervals around the stern. From the rear, ZMC-2 had the appearance of an airplane nose cone, complete with stubby propellers. ZMC-2’s length was just under 150 feet, and she was powered by a pair of 200-horsepower Wright Whirlwind engines.
The next year, initial construction began on U.S.S. Akron.
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1931, was a big day. Today Akron was due to be commissioned. In the huge hangar at the Rigid Airship and Experimental Squadron at Lakehurst, New Jersey, the crowd was filled with dignitaries. President Litchfield of the Goodyear-Zeppelin Corporation led the speeches.
The entire affair was broadcast on NBC affiliate WEAF for nationwide consumption. From New York City, John Phillip Sousa and his band performed a lively rendition of “Anchors Aweigh.” From Baltimore, Secretary of the Navy Charles Francis Adams made remarks, followed by Assistant Secretary of the Navy David Ingalls. From Washington, Rear Admiral William Moffett added his comments.
Back in New Jersey, the future commander of Akron, Captain Charles Rosendahl, listened to the ceremony in amusement. Rosendahl was no rookie to zeppelins. As senior surviving officer aboard the ill-fated U.S.S. Shenandoah, Rosendahl was known as a courageous airman. After that, Rosendahl had spent some years as skipper of Los Angeles, and had been a participant on Graf Zeppelin’s round-the-world cruise.
Rosendahl was seasoned and ready.
FIVE DAYS AFTER the ceremony, Akron made her first official flight. The passenger list included 10 officers and 49 men. This load was complemented by 31 members of the press and 19 other guests. Total passenger load was 109. Once everyone was aboard, Rosendahl began the orders to lift off.
“Engines three, four, seven, and eight,” Rosendahl said, “tilt toward ground.”
An airman repeated the instructions.
“Course two, seven, zero,” Rosendahl said.
“Roger,” the helmsman said.
The time was 7:15 A.M. Akron was flying south toward Annapolis.
“There’s the academy,” Milton Perkins, the rumpled Associated Press reporter, remarked.
His compatriot from the New York Times, Harold Temper, stared down at his wristwatch. “I make it twenty minutes past nine.”
Less than an hour later, Akron was above Washington, D.C.’s naval yard.
Lunchtime came with Akron high above the Pennsylvania countryside.
Temper stared at his plate of food. “Think the crew usually eats like this?”
Perkins cut a piece of steak and left it on his fork while he wolfed down a shrimp. “Nope,” he said, “this spread is just for the special guests and reporters.”
“They must want a nice story to come out,” Temper said.
“They must want Congress to give them more money,” Perkins said, “so they can build some more of these.”
“Why not?” Temper said. “Why not?”
Later that afternoon, Akron passed over Philadelphia and steered down toward Trenton. Near sunset, she landed back at her base at Lakehurst.
All in all, it was a successful debut.
FOR THE ORDINARY sailor, choosing an airship instead of a water ship was usually rewarded with better working conditions. The fact was, airship duty was dangerous. Crashes at the start of the program were frequent, but they were becoming less so. Still, if an airship went down, the chance of dying was great.
However, if one put that aside, the actual work aboard was a great deal better than that at sea. For one thing, there was almost no rust to contend with—the great bane of sailors at sea. The duraluminum did not rust, and because of weight limitations, iron was almost nonexistent. As far as food and shelter went, airship travel had a lot going for it—for one thing, the crews were smaller.
Instead of the cook needing to feed thousands of sailors at a single sitting, the pace of work aboard a dirigible lent itself to small groups of men in the mess at one time. Everyone got a hot meal. As far as bunk arrangements went, because of the crew rotation the berths were never crowded. In addition, the motion of Akron gently rocked the canvas hammocks while under way.
Even so, the work was not simple and required a recruit with a higher-than-average intelligence and physical stamina. The numerous systems that made up Akron were complex and constantly in need of monitoring and adjustment, and it was important that accurate records were kept. As for stamina, movement inside the hull was along a series of ladders and walkways. The distances were great, and there was sometimes a need for speed.
And then there was the view—an endless carpet of America beneath you.
The view made up for any trying times.
COMMANDER ALGER DRESEL thought he was running late.
Steering his 1926 Pierce-Arrow Roadster past the guard gate at the entrance to Lakehurst, Dresel quickly accelerated down the access roads leading to the blimp hangar. The Pierce was a beautiful two-tone blue, with a tan top, and featured a golf bag compartment that was accessible from outside. He patted the thick buckskin leather on the seat in the forward compartment, then stared at the dash, where an ornate windup clock was set in the stainless steel engine-turned dashboard. Like everything aboard the aged automobile, the clock worked perfectly. Dresel was a lover of all things mechanical, and he personally maintained the Pierce-Arrow to perfection. Nine-fifteen A.M. He would arrive right on time.
Quickly parking, Dresel turned off the engine and removed his luggage.
“ASCENDING,” THE RUDDER man said loudly.
It was Sunday May 8, 1932, just before 6 A.M. Akron rose above Lakehurst on the first leg of a cross-country cruise. So far, only one of the new Curtiss planes, XF9C, had been delivered. The new plane and the older-model N2Y would fly up and attach to the amidships hook hanging under Akron’s belly once the airship was over Barnegat Bay, some sixty miles south.
This was Captain Rosendahl’s last cruise as commander of Akron. His future replacement, Dresel, stood alongside him in the control car. At 7:20 A.M., just past Toms River, the telephone rang. Rosendahl lifted the receiver.
“Captain,” a crewman in the aircraft dock said, “both planes are safely aboard.”
“Very good,” Rosendahl said. He turned to Dresel. “Both p
lanes are secured. How would you like to take over command for a time?”
“That would be fine, Captain,” Dresel said.
“Command to Commander Dresel,” Rosendahl said.
Rosendahl turned to leave the control car. For the last couple of weeks, he had observed Dresel while on the ground. Rosendahl’s observations had led him to believe that Commander Dresel was a calm and sober officer who cared about his men and his command. Rosendahl was not worried about turning Akron over to him, he just wanted to give the junior officer the benefit of as much flight experience as possible.
Rosendahl had learned that ground training went only so far.
LIEUTENANT HOWARD YOUNG started back down the ladder into his Curtiss. It always felt odd to enter the plane when she was hanging below Akron. Climbing up out of the plane was not so strange—the huge fuselage of the airship was overhead, and the mass signaled safety—but descending was another matter. First, the plane was attached by a hook that did not appear to be all that stable. Second, when climbing down, a person had a bird’s-eye view of the ground passing thousands of feet below.
Young made it inside. He retrieved his logbook and a pack of Beeman’s gum he had left inside. Slipping the book inside his leather flight suit, he pulled up the zipper so the book rode close to his stomach, then started back up the ladder. Young was no stranger to blimp operations—he had nearly five dozen takeoffs and landings under his belt—so climbing the ladder was nothing new. He quickly bounded up the rungs. Halfway between the plane and the opening into Akron, Young missed a rung. Luckily, his hands were firmly attached to the steps above. As Young’s feet broke loose, he hung in the air by his hands as the wind outside buffeted him. A crewman above started down the ladder, but Young quickly recovered and continued up the ladder.
Clive Cussler; Craig Dirgo Page 34
