Author Archive for Allan Janus

Pilot Error, Evidently

Published by Allan Janus on April 24, 2012 in Aviation.
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Ivanov

Ivanov's Landing - SI 90-5858

 

In the years before the invention of the flight data recorder, the “black box” that records essential flight data, an aircraft accident investigation could occasionally degenerate into a mere finger-pointing exercise, like this one from Russia during World War I — a group of aviation cadets at the Gatchina Military Flying School near Petrograd (now St. Petersburg) point fingers of scorn at a student pilot identified only as “Ivanov” after his less than perfect landing, fortunately injuring only his dignity. The photograph comes from the collection of Alexander Riaboff (1895-1984) — he’s the finger-pointer at the left — who served in the Russian Army Air Service and was trained at Gatchina. After the Revolution, Riaboff flew in the Red Air Fleet and also with the counterrevolutionary White forces before fleeing in 1920 to Harbin, China. Later, he emigrated with his wife and daughter to the United States and settled in the San Francisco area. Years later, Riaboff wrote up his adventures as a pilot during those tumultuous times, and as edited by National Air and Space Museum curator Von Hardesty, they were published in 1986 as Gatchina Days: Reminiscences of a Russian Pilot.

Allan Janus is a museum specialist in the Archives Division of the National Air and Space Museum.

A Hero of the Titanic in the Files

Published by Allan Janus on April 15, 2012 in Highlights from the Collection.
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Taft & Butt

Photograph by Carl H. Claudy Sr.; Claudy Glass Plate Negative Collection - SI 95-8465

It’s July 26, 1909, and President William Howard Taft (left) has arrived in his superb White Motor Company Model M Steamer at Fort Myer, just across the Potomac from Washington, to watch the Wright brothers’ preparations for the trial flight of their Military Flyer. On the following day, Orville Wright would make a record flight of over an hour, covering approximately 40 miles.

Sitting next to the President is Senator Jonathan Bourne Jr. of Oregon. Taft’s military aide and good friend, Captain Archibald Willingham Butt, is standing in the car. Born in Augusta, Georgia in 1865, Archie (as everyone called him) Butt began his career as a reporter, then served as first secretary to the U.S. ambassador to Mexico. In 1900, Archie received a commission in the U.S. Army. He served in the Philippines for four years, and as Depot Quartermaster in Washington D.C. he met President Theodore Roosevelt in 1904. In 1908, Archie was appointed Roosevelt’s chief military aide, and when Taft succeeded Roosevelt as president in 1909, Archie remained at his post. One of his duties was to stand by when Taft became the first president to throw the ceremonial first pitch at a Washington Senators’ game in 1910. In 1911, Butt was promoted to the rank of major.

Loyal to both T.R. and Taft, Archie Butt was caught in the middle of the growing feud that would lead to Roosevelt’s run for the presidency against Taft in 1912. Worn out and in declining health, Archie requested a leave of absence. President Taft granted it, and in the early spring of 1912, Archie left for a six week European tour, accompanied by his longtime companion, Washington artist Francis Davis Millet.

For his return trip, Archie booked passage in first class aboard RMS Titanic for its first Atlantic crossing (ticket number 113050; fare, £26 11s; cabin number B38) and boarded the ship at Southampton on April 10. On the night of the 14th, he dined with Titanic’s captain, Edward J. Smith, and was playing cards when the ship struck an iceberg at 11:40. There are several stories of Archie Butt’s actions before Titanic sank at 2:20 in the morning of April 15 – he was said to have assisted women and children into the lifeboats; one survivor, Irene Harris, contributed a sensational account:

“He became as one in supreme command. You would have thought he was at a White House reception, so cool and calm was he. When the time came he was a man to be feared. In one of the earlier boats fifty women, it seemed, were about to be lowered when a man suddenly panic stricken ran to the stern of it. Maj. Butt shot one arm out caught him by the neck and jerked him backward like a pillow. His head cracked against a rail and he was stunned. ‘Sorry,’ said Maj. Butt, ‘women will be attended to first or I’ll break every damned bone in your body.’… Maj. Butt escorted me to a seat in the bow… he helped me find a space, arranged my clothing about me, stood erect, doffed his hat and smiled and said ‘Good-by.’ And then he stepped back to the deck, already awash. As we rowed away we looked back, and the last I saw of him he was smiling and waving his hand to me.

Major Archibald Butt and his friend Frank Millet both drowned when Titanic went down; Archie’s body was not recovered.

Archibald Butt

Captain Archibald W. Butt. Library of Congress photograph LC-USZC2-6249

 

President Taft was grief-stricken when he heard the news. At a memorial service for Archie back in Augusta, he said, “If Archie could have selected a time to die he would have chosen the one God gave him. His life was spent in self–sacrifice, serving others. His forgetfulness of self had become a part of his nature. Everybody who knew him called him Archie. I couldn’t prepare anything in advance to say here. I tried, but couldn’t. He was too near me. He was loyal to my predecessor, Mr. Roosevelt, who selected him to be military aide, and to me he had become as a son or a brother.”

In 1913, Archie’s friends dedicated a fountain to him and to Frank Millet - the Butt-Millet Fountain still stands on the Ellipse, not far from the White House.

Allan Janus is a museum specialist in the National Air and Space Museum’s Archives Division

And Now, the Easter Balloon Bunny

Published by Allan Janus on April 7, 2012 in Archives.
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Easter Bunny

Best Easter Wishes, 1911 - Krainik Ballooning Collection, NASM 7A 47278

 

In the early years of the 20th century, one of the ways that enthusiasm for all things aeronautical found expression were in colorful chromolithographic postcards, like this Easter postcard featuring an intrepid, though slightly nervous-looking, rabbit who takes to the sky onboard a festive aerial egg balloon. The card was mailed to one Elinora in Frederick, Maryland by her cousin Louisa in April, 1911. Yes, a lighter-than-air bunny may be a little unlikely, but surely no more than a turkey piloting a biplane.

Allan Janus is a museum specialist in the Archives Division of the National Air and Space Museum.

 

The Santa Claus Express, Then and Now

Published by Allan Janus on December 24, 2011 in Archives, Hidden Treasures, History and Stories.
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Santa Claus

NASM 7A45388; Courtesy of the Goodyear Tire & Rubber Company Records, the University of Akron, University Libraries, Archival Services.

 

In 1925, Mr. S. Claus was looking for a modern alternative to his old-fashioned reindeer-powered sleigh. Having once shown an interest in lighter-than-air flight in the form of hot-air balloons, Santa was favorably inclined when Goodyear came up with a solution — toy delivery via airship, in this case, Pilgrim I, renamed the Santa Claus Express for the occasion. In the photograph shown here, Pilgrim’s pilot Carl Wollam holds the gondola door for Santa (as portrayed by Goodyear employee Jack Yolton). Curiously, they seem to be unconcerned about the effect of drag from the presents festooning the gondola, but as Pilgrim’s top speed was only about 40 MPH, it probably didn’t make much of a difference. Here are some more photographs of Goodyear’s Santa Claus Express, 1925-1927, from the University of Akron’s library. By the way, the Pilgrim gondola is on display at the Museum’s Udvar-Hazy Center in Chantilly, Virginia — we might consider loaning it out to qualified Jolly Old Elves around this time of year…

 

santa

Photograph by Edward E. Ogden. Courtesy of the Goodyear Tire & Rubber Company

The Santa Claus Express was re-instituted by Goodyear last year to support the Marine Corps Reserve’s Toys for Tots program. Santa, portrayed in the photo shown above by Spirit of Goodyear mechanic Ron Heaps, and Spirit pilot Gerald Hissem re-enact the original Santa Claus Express photograph.

The staff and volunteers of the National Air and Space Museum hope that all of our readers, visitors and friends have a fine holiday season; and that whatever method of aerial transport Santa chooses, that you’ll get a visit from him on Christmas Eve.

 

Allan Janus is a museum specialist in the National Air and Space Museum’s Archives Division

 

 

A Poultry Pilot

Published by Allan Janus on November 22, 2011 in Archives, Aviation, Hidden Treasures and Highlights from the Collection.
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Turkey Aviator

A Turkey Aviator - Chromolithographic Postcard, c.1910. SI 96-15868

 

Turkeys are generally  considered to be flightless birds, but as this postcard from the files of the Museum’s Archives Division vividly illustrates, they are capable of short hops, especially when at the controls of biplanes.

If you’re flying to your Thanksgiving destination, bon voyage, and keep your eyes peeled for flying turkeys.

Allan Janus is a museum specialist in the Archives Division of the National Air and Space Museum.

Secretary Langley on a Really Good Cup of Coffee

Published by Allan Janus on October 25, 2011 in Archives, Hidden Treasures, Highlights from the Collection and History.
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Langley

Samuel P. Langley, Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution. Photograph by R. H. Lord

Samuel P. Langley, Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution. Photograph by R. H. Lord, SI 87-17019.

Blogs across the Smithsonian will give an inside look at the Institution’s archival collections and practices during a month long blogathon in celebration of October’s American Archives Month. See additional posts from our other participating blogs, as well as related events and resources, on the Smithsonian’s Archives Month website.

As the Museum’s Archives Division packs up and continues with our epic move to the Stephen F. Udvar-Hazy Center, we’re occasionally featuring highlights from our collections. When I was working on a collection of the aeronautical papers of Samuel Pierpont Langley (1834-1906), the third Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, I was struck by the wealth of detail in his research and the meticulousness of his note-taking. And as a man whose interests ranged from astronomy, astrophysics, aeronautics, and bird flight, mathematics, and the reckoning of standard time, Langley enjoyed observing and describing all sorts of processes — and then suggesting improvements. Take this undated memo in which Langley describes in minute detail the preparation of of a really good cup of coffee at the Posthof café in the spa town of Carlsbad in Bohemia, then part of Austria-Hungary (now Karlovy Vary in the Czech Republic) to his niece Mary:

Dear Mary,

I hope this will interest you.

Affectionately,

Your Uncle Samuel

The best coffee in Carlsbad is at the Posthof, and is as good as I know of anywhere. I have been looking into the kitchen this morning and seeing it prepared. The statement that figs or anything of the kind are employed is legendary. There is absolutely nothing but coffee, and it owes its superior excellence to the freshness and the pains taken in its making.

1. The coffee in the berry.

There are four kinds of coffee bean employed: the Menado, Ceylon, Java and Preanger. I do not know the English equivalents for the first and last. They are of very different sizes indeed, and this difference in size of the berry must make it difficult to burn them equally.

2. Roasting.

The roasting is done in a rotary wire mesh over a slow fire. The coffee is renewed three times daily. Each time 10 to 20 pounds of coffee is roasted, a girl turning the handle, and the process occupying in each case nearly an hour. In spite of this care, when the beans come out some of them are very dark and these are picked out.

3. Grinding.

The coffee is then ground to a very uniform fineness, something between the head of a small pin and a coarse sand. It is in no ways ground into a snuff-like powder, but is always clearly perceptible as particles between the fingers. The color of the ground coffee is a light chestnut.

4. Mixing with water.

Somewhat over one-quarter of a pound of the ground coffee is measured in a tin and this is emptied into a tin pail holding, I suppose, four to six gallons. Into this is poured, actually boiling soft water, enough to make 10 portions of the coffee. This softness is considered so important, that if the water be at all hard, a little soda is first added to soften it. The coffee and water are then well stirred with a spoon, and the lid put on and allowed to remain two minutes, when it is poured onto a thick straining cloth placed in a tin vessel with large holes at the bottom through which it drains into a white stone pitcher, which is itself set in boiling water. From this pitcher it is poured into the little ones in which it is served on the table.

5. Serving.

The amount of coffee and water just described will, as I have said, make 10 portions, each of which will be, with the addition of the milk, two of the little cups here, or hardly one good breakfast cup as we have it at home. It is served ordinarily with milk which has been boiled, and which has a little whipped cream on top.

6. Comment.

The one criticism I can make is that the coffee with the above proportion of water, is served too diluted for a café au lait. It would be better made half as strong again and diluted with a larger proportion of hot milk.

 

(From the Samuel P. Langley Collection (Accession XXXX-0494), box 38, folder 58. Another collection of Langley’s papers is held by the Smithsonian Institution Archives.)

 

Very interesting — who actually uses figs in coffee-making? But if Secretary Langley were still with us today, I think that I would rather not be the barista at his local coffee shop.

 

Allan Janus is  a museum specialist in the Archives Division of the National Air and Space Museum.

 

Costume Ideas from the Great War

Published by Allan Janus on October 21, 2011 in Archives, History and News & Events.
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ballet

An Aeronautical Ballet, 1918. NASM 9A 02153

If you’re still stumped over what your costume will be for next Saturday’s big Air & Scare at the Museum’s Udvar-Hazy Center (October 29 from 2 – 8 pm), the photograph shown above, from the July 1918 issue of Die Luftflotte, might provide some inspiration. The Hamburg Youth Division of the German Airfleet Association (the Deutscher Luftflotten-Verein) performs their “great and patriotic” aeronautical ballet Through Battle to Victory at a rally of the association to benefit  injured pilots and their families. The dancers outfitted as monoplanes are a superb touch – the fellow on the right with the hammer must be Thor, but there’s no explanation in the original caption as to what the other characters portray. Maybe the chap with the umbrella is portraying a Morane Parasol fighter?

If you picked an aircraft-themed costume for Halloween, what would you choose? I’d like to go trick-or-treating as a sleek SPAD XIII or an Albatros D.Va. But sadly, I’d be more realistic as a blimp… Add your choice to the comments.

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

 

Packing up Our Secret Decoder Ring

Published by Allan Janus on October 16, 2011 in Archives, Behind The Scenes, Hidden Treasures, Highlights from the Collection and Uncategorized.
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Blogs across the Smithsonian will give an inside look at the Institution’s archival collections and practices during a month long blogathon in celebration of October’s American Archives Month. See additional posts from our other participating blogs, as well as related events and resources, on the Smithsonian’s Archives Month website.”

 

Contents of Box

Flat box containing "Aircraft Recognition Training Materials" collection, Accession XXXX-0158.

 

You know when you’re packing up for a move to a new house — boxes everywhere — frantic activity to get everything stored away before the movers arrive,  and you still have to clean out the fridge.  Suddenly you come across an old family treasure — a photo album, your old baseball cards, or maybe your raygun collection — and everything stops while you rummage nostalgically for a few minutes. That’s what’s been going on from time to time in the Museum’s Archives Division offices, as we prepared for our move to the Stephen F. Udvar-Hazy Center this month. We would pause from time to time to appreciate some of our favorite things — our chief photo archivist Melissa Keiser tells the story of one such artifact:

One day I was in the Archives storage box at the Paul E. Garber Restoration and Storage Facility in Silver Hill, Maryland looking for something in the Basil Lee Rowe Collection (NASM Accession XXXX-0019). The large 20 x 24 inch flat box I needed to check was under another big box; when I moved the top box, something inside the flat box slid heavily and went “Clunk!” Fearing some damage might have occurred to the contents, I opened the box to check.

 

The box, labeled Aircraft Recognition Training Materials, NASM Accession XXXX-0158, seemed to be full of a variety of manila envelopes, but on top of everything was this great big colorful circular thing with a World War II vintage P-39 screaming through the clouds — wow!

 

Wheel Chart

World War II Aircraft Identification Wheel Chart (Volvelle), NASM 9A-07661.

 

(It’s a wheel chart, also known as a volvelle, a device with a rich history, still used for pilots’ flight computers like the famous E6B “Whiz Wheel”.)

I’ve seen lots of aircraft recognition training aids in our collections, but they’re usually black and white silhouettes, or sober halftone photographs. This thing was more like a giant cereal box prize or a secret decoder ring! Obviously intended to appeal to a more general audience, I could picture Dad coming home from work one day with this spiffy doodad to share with the kids. Now we can ALL have fun watching the skies for enemy aircraft!

 

Reverse wheel chart

Reverse of Aircraft Identification Wheel Chart, NASM 9A-07662.

 

And on the back, there’s a selection of colorful US Army Air Forces squadron insignias. Melissa passed it around, and we all admired it for a minute or two, and then we got packing once again. Because the moving van is already at the door.

Allan Janus is a museum specialist in the Archives Division of the National Air and Space Museum.

Mountain of Arabia

Published by Allan Janus on October 9, 2011 in Archives, Hidden Treasures, Highlights from the Collection and History.
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Joseph Mountain

Joseph D. Mountain. Al Jubayl, Saudi Arabia, May, 1935.Photograph by Max Steineke. SI 92-16169

 

Blogs across the Smithsonian will give an inside look at the Institution’s archival collections and practices during a month long blogathon in celebration of October’s American Archives Month . See additional posts from our other participating blogs, as well as related events and resources, on the Smithsonian’s Archives Month website.


In 1934, Joseph Dunlap Mountain, a thirty-two year old former Army Air Service pilot, signed on with the California-Arabian Standard Oil Company (CASOC, now Saudi Aramco) to serve as a pilot, aerial photographer and mechanic on the company’s 1934-’35 survey expedition to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

 

water holeWater vendor. Al Hofuf, Saudi Arabia, March 19, 1935. Photograph by Joseph D. Mountain. SI 92-16126.

 

The expedition was, of course, looking for oil. In addition to the aerial photographs he took from the expedition’s Fairchild 71 monoplane, Mountain also snapped hundreds of other photographs, making a fascinating document of the desert kingdom at the very edge of the tremendous changes that the petroleum era brought to the Gulf. The images are a fascinating record of traditional Saudi Arabian life, crafts and architecture. Mountain photographed portraits of dancers at Eid al-Fitr celebrations, market scenes in Hofuf and the Old Town of Al Jubayl, camel caravans, Saudi hunters with their hawks, and pearl fishermen and their dhows. Mountain also extensively photographed members of the CASOC expedition – Art Brown, Hugh Burchiel, J. W. (Soak) Hoover, Russell Gerow, Dick Kerr, Schuyler (Krug) Henry and Max Steineke – at work and relaxing with their Saudi co-workers and acquaintances.

 

 

well

Looking down on the well, Fort Dammam. January 5, 1935.Photograph by Joseph D. Mountain. SI 92-15966.

 

Later, Joseph Mountain flew as a pilot for Trans World Airlines. During World War II, he returned to active duty with the U.S. Army Air Corps. He was awarded the Bronze Star while serving in the China-Burma-India Theater and supervising supply missions over “The Hump” – the dangerous air route over the Himalaya Range. After the war, Mountain worked in the nascent computer industry and founded a computer manufacturing company and a data processing firm. Joseph Mountain died on November 25, 1970 at the age of 68, and his family donated his photographs, diaries and flight log books, reports, and maps to the National Air and Space Museum. His Saudi photographs can be viewed online – portraits of an exotic, but not so distant past.

Allan Janus is a museum specialist in the National Air and Space Museum’s Archives Division.

Bill Chases the Hindenburg

Published by Allan Janus on May 6, 2011 in Archives, Behind The Scenes, History and Stories.
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Bill Eaton

Bill Eaton, Museum volunteer

May 6th marks the anniversary of the tragic end of the airship Hindenburg, destroyed by fire as it came in for a landing at the Lakehurst Naval Air Station, New Jersey, in 1937. Last year, to commemorate the anniversary, we posted the story of Anne “Cookie” Chotzinoff Grossman, who, on October 9th, 1936, spotted the Hindenburg in flight from her Connecticut schoolyard. She took off in hot pursuit along with her brother Blair, but the giant airship got away from them; Cookie and Blair trudged back to school, and Cookie was made to write “I will not follow the Hindenburg” on the blackboard a hundred times.

Last week I mentioned this story to my colleagues at the Museum’s Archives Division reading room at the Paul E. Garber Facility, and Bill Eaton, one of our volunteers, told us proudly that he too had chased after the Hindenburg as a child. We begged him to tell us the story; here it is:

The scene opens in the schoolyard of Blessed Sacrament School, Providence, Rhode Island. It’s the early afternoon of May 6th, 1937 and recess has just started. A bunch of the kids, including young Bill Eaton, seven years old and in the third grade, have just chosen sides for a round of Alevio, the hot game of the season. Suddenly, another group of kids starts shouting and pointing upwards. Bill looks up and spots the Hindenburg, sailing over Providence…

“… I really took a step back — Holy Smoke, it was big, really big! [It was] pointed right at us — just then, it began a slow turn to the left, showing us its complete side and tail. We could hear the motors — a vibrant hum — not too loud, but strong…”

Huge uproar among the Blessed Sacrament students ensues — ”What is it?” “Where’s it going?” And even “Is it dangerous?” Bill recalls that a number of the children were terrified of the huge, looming shape — one of the younger kids even had an unfortunate accident (Bill refuses to name the victim, even at this late date). One of the more air-minded kids tells the others that they’ve spotted the Hindenburg; Bill, his pal Bobby Aldritch, and a bunch of the other boys jump the schoolyard fence and take off after the dirigible, out to Regent and down Academy Avenue.

map

Bill Eaton's Chase of the Hindenburg, via Google Maps.

The Hindenburg soon pulls out ahead of its pursuers, and as the kids watch, the airship begins a slow climb, levels off, and it’s gone, on its way to Lakehurst. Recess was still going on as Bill and his friends returned to the schoolyard. One of the teachers turns on the radio and they hear all about the great airship’s journey from Germany.

Later on at home, Bill’s mother also turned the radio on, and they heard the news from Lakehurst — at 7:25 PM, the Hindenburg caught fire as it was coming in to land — 13 passengers, 22 crew members, and one member of the ground crew died. On Saturday, Bill and his buddies went to the movies and saw the famous newsreel footage of the disaster.

Bill didn’t have to write at the blackboard, as Cookie did, because of his escapade, but he didn’t get off entirely scot-free, either. The eagle-eyed principal of Blessed Sacrament had spotted Bill legging it from the playground, and she called Bill’s father and turned him in. As his father listened to the principal’s testimony, Bill waited in trepidation — his father was not shy about handing out punishment. Imagine Bill’s relief when he heard his father reply, “Sister, Bill saw a piece of history today!” It was decided that, as a witness to history, young Bill could be excused just this once. And after his father hung up the phone, he said to Bill, “Son, you won’t forget this for the rest of your life.” Today, Bill Eaton is 81 years old, retired from the Air Force as an Electronic Warfare Officer on B-52s and B-66s. He lives in Vienna, Virgina, and kindly volunteers his time helping us catalogue and rehouse photographs from our Wright/ McCook Field Still Photograph Collection. And he still hasn’t forgotten the day he and his pals chased the Hindenburg down Academy Avenue.

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