I just hung on. . . I saw the other fellows fall and it didn’t make me feel any too

good, but there was nothing I could do about it—‘ceptin’ to hang on tighter. I

wouldn’t do it again for love or money.

--Navy Apprentice Seaman C. M. Cowart, May 12, 1932





Since the early 1900s, the U.S. military had been fascinated with the potential of lighter-than-air

aircraft. Between the world wars, U.S. Navy built several huge, helium-filled airships. But despite years of experience in airship construction, the dirigibles were risky to fly and often dangerous to land. San Diego would be the scene of a landing tragedy in May 1932.



The USS Akron was launched on August 8, 1931, after a christening by the president’s wife, Mrs.

Herbert Hoover, at the Goodyear-Zeppelin plant in Akron, Ohio. At 785 feet long and 152 feet tall, the steel-framed Akron was the biggest helium-filled airship ever built. Only the Germanbuilt, hydrogen-filled Hindenburg was larger.



Called the “Queen of the Skies,” the Akron was flying warship, protected by seven machine guns,

and carrying a crew of 89 naval officers and men. Along with her sister ship, the USS Macon, the Akron was designed for reconnaissance--to be the “eyes” of the Pacific fleet.



The Akron was also built as a flying aircraft carrier. A remarkable inboard aircraft hanger carried two Sparrowhawk reconnaissance biplanes. The airplanes could be lowered from the dirigible by a “flying trapeze” and then launched into the sky.



In early May the Akron left its base at Lakehurst, New Jersey for an assignment in the Pacific. It was a difficult flight. Crossing west Texas the Akron encountered a vicious sandstorm that tossed the airship around and caused minor damage. After 77 hours of nonstop flying, the ship with her exhausted crew reached San Diego on Wednesday morning, May 11.



Fog covered the city, but as the San Diego Union noted, the dirigible presented an “inspiring

spectacle” as it “bored its way through morning mist like gray gargantuan ghost.” Thousands of

San Diegans gathered on the mesa at Camp Kearny to see the huge airship and witness the

landing.



Approaching the parade field, the Akron lowered one of its Sparrowhawk biplanes on the metal

trapeze. From fifteen feet below the ship, the pilot released a catch; the plane fell earthward then

straightened out and flew away flawlessly. A second Sparrowhawk was then launched, carrying

Lt. Scotty Peck who would supervise the landing of the dirigible from the ground.



The Akron crept through thick fog until it reached clear skies at 1200 feet. But the morning sun

was expanding the helium, making the ship too buoyant. The captain, Lt. Commander Charles

Rosendahl, ordered the propellers turned skyward to push the airship closer to the ground.

At 11:00 a.m. the 400-foot docking ropes were dropped to the ground between two landing

crews of sailors. Lt. Peck shouted out instructions. Each man had to grab a trail rope and attach

it to “spiders,” fixed ground lines with wooden toggles. A separate mooring cable dropped from

the nose of the Akron, which was attached the mooring mast. A winch wound the mooring cable,

pulling the airship down.



The Akron slowly descended while the landing crews fought to hold the dirigible in position.

Unexpectedly, the tail rose up, threatening to stand the Akron on its nose. When the sharp angle

suddenly released tons of water from ballast bags, the airship rose. The sailors released the trail

ropes and the mooring cable was freed from the mast.



The sudden release surprised several men holding on to the mooring cable. As the Akron shot

skyward, they clung desperately to the line. One man let go at fifteen feet, breaking his arm in

the fall. But three other sailors still gripped the cable. Thousands of onlookers watched in

horror as one man, then another fell from between 100 and 200 feet. Both sailors died instantly

as they struck the ground.



Another sailor, Charles M. “Bud” Cowart, hung on. Straddling wooden toggles, he managed to tie himself in. “Will try to land man on tail rope,”

was the message radioed to the ground by Rosendahl. But the captain knew the sailor could be dashed to death on the ground if the dirigible descended too quickly.



The airship headed out to sea and calmer air while the crew worked out a means of rescuing Cowart. Two thousand feet above the ocean, the 18-year old seaman looked up at the airship two hundred feet above him and yelled,



“When the hell are you going to land me?”



A sailor in a bosun’s chair was lowered from the Akron to tie a line on the swinging mooring cable that held Cowart. After dangling for nearly two

hours, he was reeled in by a winch. Rosendahl radioed another message:



“Cowart OK.”