"L. A." to Pasture

"Gentlemen, a new world's record: 5,060 miles continuous flight!"

Big, bearded Dr. Hugo Eckener barked that proud announcement on Oct. 15, 1924 as he stepped from the gondola of the LZ-126 in the Navy's airship dock at Lakehurst, N. J. Neither his drill-sergeant bearing nor his snapping eyes gave hint of the ignominy in his mission: he was delivering the ship to the U. S. Navy from Friedrichshafen where his Zeppelin Co. had built it as a Reparations payment. Within the silvered hulk was a crew of stolid Germans, a mail cargo, a tabloid edition of Vossische Zeitung, 1,000 toys for Wanamaker's store, a walking doll for the small daughter of a U. S. officer. . . .

Four years later to the day after his first arrival Dr. Eckener landed again at Lakehurst, this time in command of the LZ-127 (Graf Zeppelin). His ship moored fast, Dr. Eckener left it to the horde of sightseers, sauntered across the floor of the dock, beamed up at the LZ-126, long since renamed. Eyes brimming, he muttered: "Das ist mein schatz" ("That's my baby").

Proud as Navy lighter-than-air men are of the great new Akron, most of them have a strong affection for "the old L. A." Nearly all prefer to travel in her because, built as a peace ship, she has comfortable quarters in a gondola like the Graf Zeppelin's. Aboard the warlike Akron officers & crew (except the captain) are tucked deep in the ship's bowels. More fundamental is the Navymen's admiration for a ship which was the training school of practically all the lighter-than-air personnel; which flew some 140,000 mi. in 250 flights with never a serious accident;* which submitted stanchly to all manner of experiments; which was the first airship ever to outlive her usefulness.

Early one morning last week in the same dock a crew of 79 bluejackets ranged themselves abreast the same ship. Among them were two machinists' mates who had been in her crew since November 1924 when she was christened U. S. S. Los Angeles by Mrs. Calvin Coolidge. Commander Fred T. Berry, master, read aloud orders from a paper. Capt. Harry E. Shoemaker, commander of the station, did likewise. Then up stepped an orderly who hauled down the commission flag, a long, thin pennant which hung beneath the Los Angeles' snout. The training ship Los Angeles was now decommissioned after eight years. Reason: to save $280,000 a year.

There were no more ceremonies, no speeches, no cheers. Mechanics turned to promptly, removing the five engines from their egglike gondolas (but leaving the propellers), valving out 60% of the helium into storage tanks. To the chance observer the ship looked about as usual. As everyone knows, a rigid airship's skin is taut whether the gas cells are full or empty.

From within the ship were removed to storage most detachable parts, including the instruments (with their legends in German); including also the pictures which decorated the smoking compartment--a cartoon of the ship by a member of the crew, a tropical scene by the daughter of an officer in Panama. Not removed from its place of honor in the control car was the photograph of Mrs. Coolidge which she had inscribed: "To the good ship Los Angeles from her sponsor mother. 'Go forth under the open sky and may the winds of heaven deal gently with thee.' "

No one last week could read the Los Angeles' future. From dead storage she could be recommissioned in 30 days. Her crew will doubtless be assigned to the U. S. S. Macon, the metal framework of which was completed last week in the Goodyear-Zeppelin dock at Akron, Ohio while a delegation from Macon, Ga. waved flags. The Navy has been approached by prospective purchasers of the Los Angeles (prominently mentioned: Chicago World's Fair) but manifests no desire to consign the ship to unpracticed hands.

Had the L. A. a memory she might recall:

P: Being bled of her hydrogen a few days after arriving from Germany, borrowing the Shenandoah's helium supply for her first flights in the U. S. (Because the gas was scarce in those days, the Shenandoah had to stay at home while her new sister went forth.)

P: Behaving disgracefully at Anacostia, D. C. on christening day, breaking away from an inexperienced ground crew and having to be lowered by waste of helium so Mrs. Coolidge could douse the ship's gondola with River of Jordan water.

P: Carrying scientists for a high-altitude view of the solar eclipse in dead of winter, 1925.

P: Mooring to the tender Patoka off Bermuda, for the first time.

P: Being treated in 1925 for what Commander Rosendahl called "airship measles, intestinal disorders and even broken bones"; having to stay in dock for months after she was repaired because the Shenandoah had crashed, losing their joint supply of helium.

P: Searching the Atlantic Coast for Nungesser & Coli, later for Mrs. Frances Grayson who was lost in the airplane Dawn.

P: Making the first nonstop flight to Panama.

P: Being stood on her nose at the Lakehurst high mooring mast by a sudden gust of wind, and suffering no ill.

P: Being blown from the same mast in a snow squall and dragging aloft seven of the ground crew, all of whom were rescued.

P: Helping evolve the mobile stub mooring mast to minimize such risks and to reduce the ground crew from 200 to 60.

P: Taking aloft the first women guests ever to ride in a Navy airship, Queen Rambai Barni of Siam and two companions.

P: Getting permission from the Great Powers to participate in U. S. fleet maneuvers.

P: Taking off overweight for nearly every flight because she was invariably loaded down with extra equipment for all manner of experiments, notably: first launching of a glider from an airship; first hook-on of an airplane in flight; first radio reception of map facsimiles in flight; first test of an echo altimeter; first "narrowcasting" of voice on a light beam; tests of scores of navigation devices.

Many Navy men dislike formal "last cruises" or "last flights" of craft about to be taken out of service. They are supposed to be unlucky. The L. A. landed for the last time at 6:24 a. m. June 25. She was scheduled for a final flight June 27 but did not leave her hangar. Reason given: bad weather.

Costumes by Fokker

From the trans-Atlantic flight of Sir Charles Edward Kingsford-Smith in a Fokker plane, Fokker Aircraft Corp. got certain publicity. Last week the company found the publicity had cost $16,454, scarcely a bargain.

The facts were revealed by trial of a suit against the Fokker company by Abercrombie & Fitch, swank Manhattan outfitters. Shortly after their arrival from Ireland in the Southern Cross, Sir Charles and his three companions trooped into Abercrombie's escorted by a Fokker pressagent. Silk pajamas at $15, shoes at $12, brushes, razors, etc. etc. were spread before them. Who would pay the bill--$1,299? The pressagent's answer was a wave of the hand. The Fokker company would see to that.

Despite its claim that the pressagent had no authority to charge the merchandise, Fokker Corp. was ordered to pay, with interest. In course of the trial a Fokker officer testified that the company had contributed $5,000 to the backing of the flight, only to learn that impetuous Anton Hermann Gerhard ("Uncle Tony") Fokker, who resigned from the company last year, had promised the flyers $10,000. "Mr. Fokker's promise aroused considerable controversy among our officers. We did not feel that he had any authority to make the promise and we didn't think we got value received in publicity, but rather than incur his ill will we paid the money."

* Last week the Graf Zeppelin made her 251st flight; Dr. Eckener took her over England. She has flown 261,000 mi., has carried 16,000 passengers.

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