Petaluma’s Past: Local reaction to the Hindenburg Disaster

The major headline in our Argus-Courier on May 6, 1937 was, “HINDENBURG CRASHES. 150 DIE!” The dirigible Hindenburg had been the largest Zeppelin ever built. She was 804 feet long (nearly three football fields), with a framework of aluminum, powered by two Daimler-Benz 16-cylinder engines, and she was filled with 7 million cubic feet of inflammable hydrogen. Hindenburg was the pride of Nazi Germany, and the entire world was watching the tragic story of her demise in 1937. The Argus continued, “The stern hit the ground with a crash. The heat was terrific. It was a terrifying sight, likened to a nightmare.”

That Argus headline, however, had just been an estimate.

On that May 6 trip, she had carried just 97 people, and 35 had perished, including 13 passengers and 21 crew, plus one ground crew member. What happened?

Hindenburg had been approaching her landing, was less than 200 feet off the tarmac and the ground crew was hauling her in, when a flame burst out of the aft section. There was a terrible explosion, “bodies came pummeling down,” and within a single minute, “she was gone, just a metal skeleton left.”

The Hindenburg had flown in to Lakehurst, New Jersey that day, after a transatlantic flight from Frankfurt, Germany. It was not a new story that “lighter-than-air-craft” had suffered problems. English, Italian, French and American airships had also met disaster. But none of those had drawn such worldwide attention as the giant Hindenburg, and (for the first time) the tragedy was caught on film!

Theories and explanations abounded, and one of them was sabotage. Hindenburg’s captain said they had been warned of “some kind of incident.” Had she been destroyed in an anti-Hitler plot? Could it have been the result of a gunshot or bomb? Or, was it a mechanical failure? Was she landing too fast? There was a lightning storm brewing at the time, could it have been a lightning strike?

The ship’s skin had been coated with a cellulose nitrate/aluminum compound and that could have been sparked from a lightning bolt. If there was even a slight helium leak, that too, could have exploded from a spark.

President Franklin Roosevelt, who had just begun his second term, called for an FBI investigation and German officials flocked to New Jersey as well. But no firm answers were forthcoming, and that disaster effectively spelled the end of dirigible air passage worldwide. Argus Editor Olmsted sagely opined, “One cannot help wondering whether the huge airship is really worthwhile.”

In other flight news of ’37, Pan American Airlines flew their first commercial flight across the Pacific Ocean, and famed female flyer Amelia Earhart disappeared in a Trans-Pacific flight, never to be found.

The year 1937 was a big one for world news.

Edward VIII, King of England, had relinquished his throne to marry (as he said) “The woman I love.” She was twice-divorced American Wallis (“Wally”) Warfield Simpson, and their whole sordid affair had been conducted amid great controversy. The crowning of Edward’s younger brother, George VI, also meant that the new king’s 11-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, then became first in line for the throne. Elizabeth eventually would become queen.

She’s still in place, as Britain’s longest-serving monarch.

Japan invaded China that year, and started the Sino-Japanese war. The Basque town of Guernica was completely destroyed in Spain’s civil war. And Hitler and Mussolini were also making war noises.

But in more positive news, auto maker Henry Ford had just adopted the 32-hour week, and U.S. Steel Corp. raised wages to $5 a day. Plus, it was in 1937 that DuPont Corp. patented something called “nylon.” In literature, John Steinbeck published “Of Mice and Men,” J.R.R. Tolkien released “The Hobbit,” Hemingway came out with “To Have and Have Not,” and “Gone With The Wind,” by Margaret Mitchell, won the Pulitzer Prize.

Comedian Charlie Chaplin starred in “Modern Times” that year, and Walt Disney debuted “Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs” in color! Elmer Fudd and Daffy Duck also debuted (what was not to like?). A few other names to remember from ’37 include Mae West, Cy Young, Byron Nelson, Ty Cobb and Joe Louis.

In 1937, a loaf of bread cost 9 cents, a pound of hamburger 12 cents, and gas was just 10 cents a gallon! U.S. Record unemployment had dropped 6.7% from a high of 14.3% in 1936, as the Great Depression finally began to ebb.

The big news in Northern California, meanwhile, was the opening of the Golden Gate Bridge on May 27! Interestingly, a young Petaluman, Raymond Tholson, was the first to cross it. In our downtown, the U.S. Bakery was making “Special Raison Buns” at 10 cents a dozen, in celebration of the bridge’s opening, and Tomasini Hardware was advertising a “Copeland Washer w/Full Balloon Wringer. $59.50” (in case you had some ‘full balloons’ to wring, I guess?). Also that year, our last Petaluma survivor of the American Civil War, Charles McDade, passed away at age 93. Mr. McDade had lived here at 318 Keokuk for more than 60 years.

Petaluma politics were heating up early that year as new sewers and a new fire station were the big issues. Editor Olmsted observed in May, “There will be opposition candidates for many of the offices to be filled this year.” He continued, “The sewer system is rotten. The fire house is inadequate and the fire apparatus dates back to the days before the automobile.”

And then, this, in case you thought Big Brother wasn’t watching. On Aug. 2, the U.S. Congress passed a bill making something called marijuana “illegal in all precincts.” It was called the “Marihuana Tax Act.”

Let’s see … that was 81 years ago, right?

Guess the government didn’t yet know how to spell in Spanish, back then.

(Historian Skip Sommer is an honorary life member of Heritage Homes and the Petaluma Historical Museum. Contact him at skipsommer@hotmail.com)