“You okay, sir?” the crewman asked, when Young entered the cockpit.
“Fine, fine,” Young said, smiling.
“I’m glad,” the crewman said, “because that’s one long step down.”
Young stared out the opening at the ground passing below.
“One real long step,” he said.
THE EASTERN SEABOARD passed underneath Akron as she cruised south.
With the officers, men, and pair of pilots, the total personnel aboard numbered eighty exactly. Staying over the ocean, Akron passed Cape Hatteras, then turned to land. By lunchtime, she was passing over the navy yards at Norfolk, Virginia; just after eight that night she was over Augusta, Georgia.
While the airship was under way, there was a litany of jobs to be performed. Along with the cooking and serving the food, the cooks and mess men were responsible for cleaning the galleys and planning the menu. Electricians prowled the walkways inside the hull, checking connections and tending to any minor or major troubles that might arise. Radio operators handled the communications chores, while engine men tended to each of the eight engines. Riggers climbed inside the hull, making sure that the cloth covering was taut and not leaking, while mechanics tended to the frames and supports. Akron was a miniature city while in flight.
MONDAY THE NINTH, Akron passed over Houston just before 4 P.M.
An hour later, the first problem arose.
“Sir,” the crewman shouted over the telephone, “we have a leak in a port fuel tank. Gasoline is entering the hull.”
Rosendahl was in command of the blimp.
“Shut down all the engines save number seven,” he said over the telephone to all hands. “We have liquid fuel inside the hull.”
Next he adjusted the telephone to recall the crewman reporting the spill.
“How much have we lost?” he asked.
“Fifteen hundred gallons, sir,” the man answered.
“Is the fuel still flowing?” Rosendahl asked.
“No, sir,” the crewman said. “It was a crack alongside a weld. The level in the tank is now level with or slightly below the crack. If the ship remains stable, we should not have any further flow.”
“I’ll send a mechanic,” Rosendahl said, “to see if we can temporarily patch the tank.”
“Yes, sir,” the seaman said.
Rosendahl turned to Dresel. “We need to vent the fumes,” he said. “Will you take charge of that?”
“Yes, sir,” Dresel said.
Akron limped along on engine seven as the fuel was vented.
An hour later, things were looking up. The thick fumes in the control car were receding, and Dresel was reporting that most of the liquid gasoline had flowed out of the hull between spaces in the covering. It seemed the worst had passed.
“Sir,” the radio operator reported by telephone, “San Antonio is reporting thunderstorms.”
Rosendahl stared ahead. The ominous black clouds were still miles ahead, and right now the only ones near Akron were a few white puffy clouds that looked like cotton balls. Just then the hair on Rosendahl’s arms stood out.
“Wow,” he said seconds later, as a huge bolt streaked from one of the innocent-looking clouds and struck the ground below, “all this air is charged.”
Dresel returned to the control car. “The fuel is vented as best we can,” he said. “The rest of the fumes will just need to work themselves out.”
“We’ve got a line of heavy weather ahead,” Rosendahl said. “I’m ordering a course change to the north.”
That night and all of the following day, Akron fought the storm.
Wednesday, May 11, Akron reached San Diego.
MOORING A BLIMP is not unlike mooring an aircraft carrier—there is a lot that can go wrong. Akron’s planes flew down through the cloud cover and landed safely; now it was the huge blimp’s turn to try. Camp Kearney outside San Diego sat on a plateau of scrub brush and dust. Prone to gusts of wind and changing temperatures, she was far from the ideal spot for a blimp base. Still, Rosendahl had little choice—Akron was low on fuel.
Fog and clouds made visibility difficult as Rosendahl ordered Akron to descend. They were less than 1,000 feet above the ground before the view cleared. Rosendahl caught sight of the primary winch. The time was 11:42 A.M.
“Get a line down to that winch,” he shouted over the telephone.
And then it all went wrong.
A freak of nature caused the temperature suddenly to drop ten degrees, causing a temporary loss of buoyancy. Rosendahl ordered the engines turned downward, but that stirred up the dust, making visibility difficult. Akron barely moved.
“Full open on the helium valves,” Rosendahl ordered.
But Akron’s angle kept growing.
Then several of the water ballast bags tipped over, pouring some three thousand gallons of water on those below. Nothing was going right.
“That’s it,” Rosendahl ordered. “I want free flight.”
Orders were given to cut the cable holding Akron to the winch.
Two men were assigned to the forward cable, but one had abandoned ship by sliding down the cable to ground when the ship had taken her last lurch upward. The single man left was unable to cut the 7/8-inch steel cable. He dropped the bolt cutters to a group on the ground, asking them to cut the cable from below.
At numerous points along Akron’s hull, sailors from Camp Kearney were holding lines that would later be attached to anchors. Only their weight held them to the ground. Once the cable was cut, Akron began rising.
APPRENTICE SEAMAN “BUD” Cowart suddenly found himself dangling from a line some twenty feet in the air. Three other seamen had dropped safely to the ground, while Cowart and two more hung on for dear life. As Cowart watched, one of the men on the rope let go. The man plummeted downward. Akron was at a height of one hundred feet and continuing the ascent.
Cowart stared toward the ground in horror.
While the body plummeted down, the other remaining sailor was hanging on by one hand. Just before the first man struck the ground, the second man dropped. Akron was at a height of two hundred feet. A sailor dropped through the air with his arms windmilling. Cowart watched as the man slammed into the earth, bounced a few feet in the air, then came to rest facedown.
Neither man would survive the fall.
Cowart was now alone, and the giant airship continued to climb. Finding toggles on the manila rope, Cowart managed to fashion a crude boatswain’s seat as Akron hovered at fifteen hundred feet of elevation. On board the airship, the situation was coming back under control.
“Men,” Captain Rosendahl said over the telephone, “the landing was aborted and now we have a situation on our hands. One of the landing crew is dangling from our mooring line, and we need to get him aboard. Proceed to that objective at a safe pace.”
Hanging the receiver back in the cradle, Rosendahl turned to Dresel.
“You just witnessed the worst that can happen,” he said. “Remember it, and don’t let it happen to you.”
“Yes, sir,” Dresel said.
“Now take over the helm. I’m going back to see how Lieutenant Mayer is doing on bringing aboard that sailor.”
Cowart shouted up at the Akron. “When are you going to haul me aboard?”
“It may take an hour or better,” Mayer shouted back, “so secure yourself to ride it out.”
“What’s the deal?” Rosendahl asked.
“We need to get a line to him,” Mayer said, “then try to winch him aboard.”
It would be two long hours before Cowart was finally yanked aboard.
Seven hours after the first attempt, Akron finally moored at Camp Kearney.
AKRON TRAVELED NORTH from San Diego to San Pedro. For the next few weeks, the airship would take part in training exercises off the West Coast of the United States. On June 6, the weather was right for the trip east to Lakehurst. From San Pedro to Banning, California, over the Salton Sea. Then south to Yuma, Phoenix, Tucson, and Douglas
, Arizona. Next came El Paso, Odessa, Midland, Big Spring, and Abilene, Texas. Across the state line and past Shreveport, Louisiana. Mississippi and Alabama, a stop at Parris Island, South Carolina, and then the return to Lakehurst.
Akron had been away thirty-eight days and had traveled more than seventeen thousand miles.
As THE NEW year dawned, Akron received her third captain in nineteen months as Commander Frank McCord assumed leadership of the blimp. McCord wasted no time on the ground—two hours after assuming control, Akron set off for a cruise to Miami.
Throughout January and February, McCord kept up a full flight schedule.
On March 4, Akron flew over the inauguration of President Franklin Roosevelt. That same night, she returned to Lakehurst and cold temperatures. The cold held for nearly a week, curtailing flight operations. As soon as it warmed enough, McCord set off for the warmer climes of Florida and the Bahamas. The grueling schedule continued throughout the rest of the month.
Then came the fickle winds of April.
AKRON LIFTED OFF from Lakehurst on April 3,1933, at 7:28 P.M.
Commander Frank McCord was in charge, and he was assisted by Lieutenant Commander Herbert Wiley as his executive officer, as well as Lieutenant Dugan as his engineering officer. The crew would consist of seventy-six officers and men, including Rear Admiral Moffett, who wanted to see Akron in operation firsthand.
The temperature at liftoff was 41 degrees Fahrenheit, and the barometer read 29.72. Akron was carrying 73,600 gallons of fuel, enough for six days aloft, though this cruise was scheduled for forty-eight hours. Because of the fog, plane operations had just been canceled. As Akron lifted from the pad then turned her bow east, one of the pilots who was securing his Curtiss on the runway turned and stared up at the giant blimp. She was a beauty, no doubt about that—her silver fuselage at bow and stem was lit by the red and blue of the ground lights, while the red and green of her running lights added a festive touch as well. The pilot watched as the airship ascended. In seconds, the upper part of the hull was barely visible in the fog; by the time a full minute had passed, only a hazy outline of the lower hull and control car remained in sight. Then that was gone.
“Set a course east to Philadelphia,” McCord instructed the navigator. “The weather report indicates they have only scattered clouds.”
“Aye, Captain,” the navigator said.
Less than an hour later, Akron passed over Philadelphia, finding the visibility fair to good. In the control car, McCord stared at the latest weather report. A thunderstorm was being reported in Washington, D.C., and was said to be moving north and east toward them. McCord decided on a course east by southeast to skirt the storm. If all worked according to plan, he would miss the storm’s fury and arrive off Newport, Rhode Island, for a test scheduled for seven the next morning.
The test would never happen.
SAINT ELMO’S FIRE. The brush discharge of electricity was dancing from the flagstaff of Phoebus. A flaming phenomenon that never signaled calm or comfort, a sign of disturbances in the heavens, a beacon of foul weather as sure as a snowball in the face.
Captain Carl Dalldorf burped as his ship rocked, tasting the sour tang of a dill pickle. Phoebus, a motor tanker registered in Danzig, Germany, was crewed by Germans. Dalldorf and his crew had spent a fine weekend in upper Manhattan, mingling with the German population and frequenting the Bierstubes. Casting off from Pier 6 at 2 P.M., Phoebus was bound for Tampico, Mexico. The ship had spent most of the afternoon and evening in a pea-soup fog. Now, just before 11 P.M., lightning began to strike the water around the vessel, while thunder reverberated loudly from the heavens.
Dalldorf stared at his barometer. There had been a sharp drop.
He knew the signs—this was a storm that bore watching.
UP THE DELAWARE River, starboard back across New Jersey, hit the water near Asbury Park—that was the course. But the storm kept advancing.
“Get me the latest weather map,” McCord said, just after 11 P.M.
Wiley headed for the aerological office above the control car and consulted with Lieutenant Herb Wescoat. Wiley liked Wescoat, who, unlike some of the meteorological officers Wiley had served with, had at least an inkling of a sense of humor.
“What have you got?” Wiley asked.
“We received about two-thirds of the map—it came in code,” Wescoat replied, handing Wiley the copy.
“This doesn’t look too promising,” Wiley noted.
“No,” Wescoat said, “it doesn’t.”
“Do you have any recommendations for the captain?” Wiley asked.
“I’d ask him to land as soon as possible,” Wescoat said logically.
“I doubt he’ll do that with Admiral Moffett aboard,” Wiley said.
“Hmm,” Wescoat said slowly. “Then I’d recommend we all pray.”
CAPTAIN DALLDORF WAS due to remain on watch until midnight. By the look of the storm, he might stay on duty a while longer. A rogue wave had just rolled over Phoebus’s bow, a most rare occurrence. In addition, not five minutes before, his second in command had come across a sailor lying in the rain on the walkway outside the pilothouse. After he was revived, the man explained that when he’d gone to grip a handrail, an electrical charge had shocked him and thrown him back six feet, where he’d struck his head. That was just bizarre. Lightning usually passes through ships, leaving no damage. Dalldorf guessed that because Phoebus was carrying a load of truck batteries to Mexico, maybe the pooled energy had somehow created the shock.
Whatever the case, the storm and the general feeling in the air were disturbing.
“Bring me some more coffee,” Dalldorf ordered a crewman. Then he lit an American-made cigarette and took a puff.
THEY WERE MINUTES from death and miles from safety, as April 3 became April 4.
A lightning bolt streaked through the sky, and Akron was lit as though it were in the beam of a spotlight. At just that instant, the control car lurched from side to side.
“Drop ballast,” Commander McCord ordered.
A second later, the helmsman lost control of the rudder as the wires parted. The wheel began to spin wildly. Five squawks rang out over the telephone system, signaling landing positions. Akron continued to lose altitude.
“Drop more ballast,” McCord ordered.
Just then, a horrible shrieking was heard from the hull of Akron. The ship’s structure was breaking apart. The upper fin had been lost to the violence of the storm, and the strain from the loss of the fin broke frame girders. Some of the broken girders punctured the helium bags. Akron began to leak like a water-filled balloon poked by a pin. The airship continued to descend.
Wiley stared from a small window in the control car, as the blimp lowered through the thick fog. At about two hundred feet, he first caught sight of the waves below.
“I see the water approaching,” he said ominously.
No one in the control car replied.
Throughout Akron, the seventy-plus men made preparations for a water landing. Those with time fastened their coats firmly; a few managed to grab some light personal items. One scribbled a note to loved ones and stuffed it into the pipe forming one end of his hammock, never to be recovered. Many simply awaited the inevitable.
Akron sagged lower, her bones broken and her lungs punctured.
Then, at a distance of less than fifty feet above the waves, she stopped and hung in the air for a moment. There was no doubt she was a beautiful ship. A second later, a final lightning bolt lit her gleaming silver hull and surrounded the ship with a glow of electrical energy.
Then, like a rock dropped from a bridge, Akron plunged down into the ocean.
“THE LIGHTS HAVE disappeared,” the lookout declared.
“Are you certain?” Dalldorf asked.
“Yes, sir,” the lookout noted, “they dropped below the horizon a minute ago.”
“It’s probably an aircraft,” Dalldorf said. “Fix our position.”
The navigator took a minu
te to make notes on a sheet of paper. “Latitude 39 degrees, 40 minutes north; longitude 73 degrees, 40 minutes west,” he said.
Just then his second in command burst through the door of the pilothouse.
“The smell of gasoline is very heavy,” he said. “It’s all around us in the water.”
“Prepare to lower lifeboat number one,” Dalldorf said, “and stand by to rescue survivors.”
Phoebus remained until first light, when the Coast Guard arrived. Three men were taken aboard the German vessel. They were the only survivors of the crash of Akron.
II
No Surfing in New Jersey 1986
ONCE I BEGAN RESEARCHING EARLY AIRSHIPS AND THEIR often tragic endings, I became hooked on their fascinating stories. The stories of Akron and her sister rigid airships Macon and Shenandoah tell of a bright future turned dark when all three fell out of the sky and crashed. I wondered if any of their wreckage had gone undiscovered.
Shenandoah’s crash site in Noble County, Ohio, is well known and marked in a farmer’s field by a memorial. Macon went down in deep water off Point Sur, California, in 1937. A search was launched for her resting site because of a desire to find the Curtiss aircraft that she’d taken into the sea with her. An expensive deepwater project was successful in finding her remains and a few of her aircraft, but none was salvaged. Video pictures of the wreckage revealed that the planes were too damaged and corroded by the sea to be restored, so they were left to rest on the bottom of the Pacific.
That left Akron.
I wish I could write an electrifying tale of adventure about finding Akron that would fire the imagination and leave a lasting impression. But the search was nothing but a struggle against a violent and unrelenting world. A search of the archives at the Washington Library put me on the track of the salvage vessels that recovered pieces of Akron’s wreckage and brought it to shore on a barge. An examination of the log of the Falcon, the famous navy salvage boat that had raised the submarine S-51 under the leadership of Commander Edward Ellsburg in 1925, and worked as a dive and survey boat for thirty years, put me on the track leading to the Akron’s grave. The logbook gave the coordinates where Falcon moored. Her position was reasonably close to the main debris field that was twenty-seven miles offshore from Beach Haven, New Jersey.
Clive Cussler; Craig Dirgo Page 35
