Missing Something?

Most of us have a “junk drawer” that contains, among other oddments, stray keys.  Restoration specialists working on the Douglas World Cruiser “Chicago” recently found two such strays in the aircraft:

Since the “church key” (can opener) was found on top of the engine, it was probably used to open oil cans rather than refreshments for the pilots. The skeleton key is more mysterious.  Restoration specialist Will Lee, who found it in the seat of the rear cockpit, reports that it was pristine but unmarked.  So, if your house predates the 1924 flight, have you been wondering where one of your keys is?  We might have it!

Anne McCombs is a restoration specialist in the Collections Division of the National Air and Space Museum.

The Veteran Behind the Airplane

The docents at the Udvar-Hazy Center enjoyed meeting a special visitor on May 16, 2009. His name is Jim Henry, a WWII naval aviator. Henry was one of the pilots that flew the F4U-1D Corsair that is on display at the Center. He and his wife Debra traveled from California with the express purpose of visiting his former aircraft.

Jim Henry and Udvar-Hazy Center docent Bruce Cranford, one of the docents who met with Henry, in front of the Corsair.

He carried with him a small briefcase packed with aircraft identification, photos, and memorabilia of his years in the military. Henry located the craft by reading a publication that identified by bureau number those Corsairs that still survive. He shared a number of photos with us, which verify that the BU numbers match the Museum’s aircraft.

Henry said he first flew the aircraft in 1944 on the East Coast and later in the southeast, although he was never assigned to a squadron that maintained the aircraft. When he was posted to an overseas assignment in the Pacific along the coast of China, he piloted Grumman F4F Wildcats, which he felt was a letdown after flying the Corsair.

He was a delightful and engaging person and it was a pleasure to meet one of the people behind the artifacts we so often talk about during our tours at the Udvar-Hazy Center.

Jim Iannuzzi is a member of the Udvar-Hazy Center docent corps and currently serves as Docent Council chairman.

The Museum, the Udvar-Hazy Center, and Tysons Corner, Virginia

“You wrote a book about Tysons Corner? Isn’t that a shopping mall?”

Tysons Corner, Virginia circa 1957. Photo courtesy of Fairfax County Library, Photographic Archive.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve gotten this response from colleagues when I tell them that, yes, I wrote a book about Tysons Corner, Virginia, a suburban crossroads about ten miles west of the National Air and Space Museum. What’s more, I wrote it on “company time,” as part of my duties as a curator in the Division of Space History. Tysons Corner is home to Tysons Corner Center, one of the largest malls on the East Coast, and Tysons Galleria, an upscale mall that is a little beyond my budget. It is also home to “Fairfax Square,” where one can buy Hermes scarves, Gucci loafers, and Tiffany… whatever they make (way beyond my budget).

Tysons Corner, VA in 2005.  Image courtesy USGS

Tysons Corner, VA in 2005. Image courtesy USGS

But that’s not why I wrote the book. What private company is the largest single employer in Northern Virginia? The answer: Northrop Grumman, which in 2004 had 19,000 local employees, scattered throughout the Dulles Corridor. General Dynamics has its headquarters in nearby Falls Church, and Boeing and Lockheed Martin are also major employers in the region. True, they do not make airplanes or spacecraft here. What they do is the vaguely-defined “systems integration,” or that catch-all phrase, “IT” (Information Technology). The CEO of Northrop Grumman recently said that Northrop Grumman is fundamentally an IT company that also happens to build air and space craft. The company was formed in 1994 by the merger of Northrop, whose “Polar Star” is on display in National Air and Space Museum’s “Golden Age” exhibit, and Grumman, which built the Lunar Modules that took twelve astronauts to the Moon 40 years ago. Let’s hope that U.S. aerospace companies continue to build flying machines of such beauty. I wrote Internet Alley because, as I drove to and from the Udvar-Hazy Center during its construction, I wanted to find out what was going on in all the buildings that I passed on the way.

One final note on the title: “Internet Alley” refers to the Dulles Corridor, where historically the management and overall design of the Internet took place, even if its engineering was done elsewhere. For many years the primary switch for all East Coast Internet traffic was located in the parking garage of a modest building in Tysons Corner, and to this day the “root server” that keeps track of all the dot-com addresses is located near Dulles Airport.

So there you have it, and perhaps you may think of all this the next time you go to the mall.

Paul Ceruzzi is a curator specializing in aerospace computing and electronics in the Division of Space History at the National Air and Space Museum.

Blériot's Cross-Channel Flight

NASM-2B02568, Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum Archives

Louis Blériot sitting in his Bleriot XI at the start of his cross-Channel flight of 25 July 1909. NASM-2B02568, Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum Archives

Early in the morning of July 25th, 1909 – a hundred years ago today - Louis Blériot (1872-1936) crossed the English Channel, a distance of 22 statute miles (36.6 km) from Les Barraques (near Calais) to Dover. There had been longer flights and further flights, but the conquest of the Channel by air was a sensation and brought Blériot instant fame. Blériot had been a successful manufacturer of automobile headlamps who became fascinated by aeronautics in starting in 1901.  He brought his latest aircraft to Les Barraques, the Type XI, a little monoplane fitted with a 25-horsepower, 3 cylinder Anzani motor. The London Daily Mail had put up a £1,000 prize for the first airplane flight across the Channel, and Blériot was competing with two other aviators, Hubert Latham and Charles de Lambert. Lambert, who received his training from Wilbur Wright, had been injured in a test flight and was out of the running. Latham had already attempted a Channel flight – he had made it halfway across the Channel in his Antoinette IV monoplane on July 19 when engine failure brought him down in a forced landing in the sea.  On the morning of the 25th, Latham was ready for another attempt with a replacement aircraft, but was still fast asleep when Blériot took to the air.

The flight took 36 minutes, 30 seconds, and was not without suspense. Blériot had also been injured in a test flight and was in pain with a badly injured foot. The photograph above, taken just before the flight, shows the strain that Blériot was under. It began to rain, and Blériot feared that the moisture would cause the Anzani to pack it in. The weather became turbulent, and visibility declined; he later recalled thinking – I am alone. I can see nothing at all. At Dover, the wind nearly caused him to crash, and his landing gear and propeller were damaged. But he had made it, and he was declared the winner. It was the first successful flight by an airplane over a large body of water. Hubert Latham was not happy when he finally woke up.

Louis Blériot, standing on the left, after landing at Dover. SI93-9132, Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum Archives.

Blériot became a hero, celebrated on both sides of the Channel. And his Type XI became a best seller – many were produced by the Blériot firm, others by foreign licensees, and many were built by enthusiastic amateur builders in Europe and America. The Museum has a Blériot Type XI built by Blériot Aéronautique at Levallois, Perret, France, in 1914 and originally flown by Swiss aviator John Domenjoz, a Blériot company flight instructor and noted daredevil. Blériot’s original Type XI is in the possession of the Musée des Arts et Métiers in Paris, which has a special exhibit on Blériot’s flight. A replica Type XI built by Pascal Kremer will attempt to repeat the flight today – here’s a video of it in flight.

A postcard caricature of Louis Blériot, 1909 - an example of Blériotmania from the time of his flight. Georges Naudet Collection (Acc. XXXX-0479), SI 85-17170.

Allan Janus is a museum specialist in the Museum’s Archives Division.

The World’s First Military Airplane

The 1909 Wright Military Flyer on display at the National Air and Space Museum. Smithsonian image 2005-20387

This summer, the world is marking the 40th anniversary of one of the greatest milestones in aerospace history, and one of the most remarkable of all human achievements—the first Moon landing by Apollo 11.  But the summer of 2009 also marks another meaningful event in aerospace history.  It is the centennial of military aviation.  Almost from the outset of successful human flight following the Wright brothers’ breakthrough flights in 1903, the application of this new technology for military purposes was discussed and speculated upon.  Just as most recognized the airplane would change the world in general, many foresaw, with a fair degree of accuracy, that the airplane would have profound implications for warfare and military defense.

The National Air and Space Museum famously has in its collection the original 1903 Wright Flyer, but the Museum also possesses the 1909 Wright Military Flyer, the world’s first military airplane.  After bringing their design to a level of practicality in 1905, the Wright brothers set about finding a customer for their invention.  An obvious choice was the U.S. Army, who had already been developing an aeronautical program with lighter-than-air vehicles.  In 1908, the U.S. Army Signal Corps advertised for bids for a two-seat observation aircraft, and Orville Wright came to Fort Myer, Va., with a Wright machine to demonstrate and attempt to meet the Army’s performance requirements.  Midway through the trials, on September 17, 1908, the Wright airplane malfunctioned and crashed, severely injuring Orville and killing his passenger, the Army’s official observer, Lt. Thomas E. Selfridge.  Both Wilbur and Orville returned to Fort Myer in 1909 with a new airplane and successfully completed the trials.  On August 2, 1909, the Signal Corps officially accepted the Wright airplane, the first purchased and put into service by any government.  The 1909 Wright Military Flyer served until 1911, training Army pilots, and was then transferred to the Smithsonian Institution for public display.  It is the seed that spawned the military aerospace industry, and a significant portion of aviation history.

In these modern times, when it is almost impossible to talk about military actions without an aviation component, I often think of a quote from Orville Wright, who during World War II was asked if he had any regrets about inventing the airplane in light of the massive destruction then being wrought from the air.  He replied: “I don’t have any regrets … .  I feel about the airplane much the same as I do in regard to fire.  I regret all the terrible damage caused by fire.  But I think it is good for the human race that someone discovered how to … put fire to thousands of important uses.”  Of course, when reflecting upon the military applications of flight technology, its destructive and somber elements must never be dismissed.  But we must also appreciate and admire the skills, goals, and accomplishments with which military aviators have employed the Wrights’ invention.  In 2009 we observe a century of military aviation, and it all began with that frail Wright machine that hangs in the National Air and Space Museum.

Peter L. Jakab is Associate Director for Collections and Curatorial Affairs at the National Air and Space Museum.