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Awesome, lumbering creatures from the past, magnificent in their day, the great dirigibles were inevitable losers in the evolution of speedy transport. For the wealthy, the spectacular airships were to the Thirties what the luxury lines had been to the first two decades of the century - an exciting, daring, luxurious mode of transportation. Yet the ephemeral nature of their appeal was almost predictable, for the airplane was already and encroaching reality. "The path followed by the Wright brothers was the true vision," wrote one authority, "and that followed by County Zeppelin misguided." Even before the Hindenburg crashed in 1937, the demise of the great dirigibles was sealed.
The Thirties opened with the much-publicised successes of Germany's Graf Zeppelin airship - including luxury tours of the British Isles and nine speedy trips from Germany to resorts in South America. At $ 2,250 for a roundtrip flight, only the rich could afford airship travel, so in 1934 the Zeppelin Company of Germany announced plans for a sort of "average traveler's" airship, still luxurious but offering budget fairs of $ 400. The flagship was to usher in a new era of mass transportation and would be called the Hindenburg - a name soon to be synonymous with disaster on a spectacular scale. The maiden voyage took place in the early spring of 1936; its fateful last voyage came in spring of the following year. For the intervening period, the press heaped superlatives on the Hindenburg and the hype was merited. It was twice the size of the Graf Zeppelin, nearly one sixth of a mile long, but its fuel cost was no more than an automobile's. The airship was easier to steer than a car, and it traveled to inland locations unreachable by ocean liner. Further, it cruised at a speed of just under 80 miles per hour. Then there was the enticement of luxury. The ship boasted of private cabins. An ornate lounge with an aluminum grand piano, and two long observation decks for those who liked to walk while they "sailed" and enjoy an unimpeded view of the scudding world below through massive windows. If the interior resembled that of an ocean liner, the look was intentional. There was also a smoking room - for despite the uncomfortable proximity of seven million cubic feet of inflammable hydrogen, Zeppelin engineers had constructed a sealed, double-door chamber kept at a higher pressure than the rest of the ship, so that any leaking hydrogen could not drift inside. Why was it necessary to accommodate smokers on a vehicle that was itself an incendiary device ? In the Thirties smoking was not the opprobrium it is today; it was commonplace among men, and something of a new fad among "liberated" women. The spectacular Hindenburg disaster - captured on film and broadcast live on radio, immeasurably dramatising the event - effectively put an end to the vogue of airship travel on 6 May 1937. Due to delaying headwinds, the Hindenburg arrived above Lakehurst eight hours late, where the press and cameras were assembled. The ship's chief rigger, Ludwig Knorr, confided to a crew member that gas bag number 4, near the tail, seemed to be leaking and should be checked. As the ship manoeuvred to align with the docking tower, several crew members heard a sound that one of them compared to the pop of a gas stove burner igniting. The chief engineer saw near gas bag number 4 a sudden and intense glow. Within seconds the giant airship was engulfed in flames as seven million cubic feet of hydrogen turned into a gigantic blazing torch. Those aboard were the last to know they were part of an escalating catastrophe. Many gazing from observation windows saw the calamity first as mirrored in the horror-stricken faces of the people below. The radio commentator, providing an eye witness account of the Hindenburg's arrival, grew so distraught his sentences became incoherent. As the glowing ship plummeted, cameras captured the horror of human beings racing from the flames. Miraculously, 62 of the 97 people aboard survived. Many people have argued that it was the dramatic film footage, shown in cinema halls around the world, as well as the anguished cries of radio-commentator Herb Morrison - "Its broken into flames! It's flashing- flashing! It's bursting into flames-" - that sealed the fate of airship travel. Newspaper coverage of a disaster can be disturbing enough, but for millions of people to hear the tragedy live, to be able to listen again as the anguish is replayed and replayed (as it was), then to see human lives extinguished in newsreel after newsreel - it was in essence, a glimpse of calamity 20th century style, and it made an indelible impression on the world. More lives were lost with the sinking of the Titanic, but that horror was not broadcast in real time and captured on celluloid. What caused the leaking hydrogen to ignite is still unknown, though an electrical storm had passed through the area, and electrical disturbances, including lightening, lingered. Whatever the cause, the destruction of the Hindenburg captured for a new technology of radio and film, put an end to the intercontinental flights by hydrogen-filled airships. A Thirties vogue had ended. Reproduced from The Asian Age with permission. |
| OTHER ARTICLES OF ASI SEPTEMBER'98 ISSUE | News In Brief | Letters To The Editor | World Records | | A Tale Of Two Quantums | | The Flying Castle Which Finally Crashed | | Applied Sport Psychology : Peak Performance | | Bridging The Gap | | Aircraft Crosses The Atlantic Without A Pilot |  More articles on Ballooning
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