Controversy exists to this day whether the Hindenburg disaster, which took nearly three dozen lives and forever ended lighter-than- air passenger service, was caused by a spark of static electricity or by sabotage. There is ample evidence for both theories, as indicated by the hundreds of books and articles that have been published on the subject. Threats of sabotage by groups in Germany and elsewhere who hated Adolf Hitler and the Nazi regime were known to have been made on the airship. There also were constant minor leaks of the highly flammable hydrogen gas, wet mooring lines, and possible breaks in the airframe.
The Hindenburg, named after Paul von Hindenburg, Germany’s World War I hero, was the most advanced dirigible of her time. At 803 feet—or one-sixth of a mile—long, she was an airliner that could carry 70 passengers plus freight. First used as passenger liners before World War I, cigarshaped dirigibles were made of a light metal framework with a treated fabric skin. They were held aloft by bags of lighter- than-air but flammable hydrogen and propelled by diesel- driven propellers. After the war, Dr. Hugo von Eckner and his German engineers developed the dirigible into the acme of passenger luxury. By the mid-1930s, the German airline Lufthansa, with the help of government subsidies, carried passengers to South Africa and ran regular transatlantic service to South America and the United States. The Hindenburg herself made 54 flights, 36 of them across the Atlantic, and was beginning her second season in 1937.
On 6 May that year, the weather was gusty and showery on the U.S. East Coast as the Hindenburg arrived from Europe. The airship was ten hours behind schedule and was making her second attempt at landing at her U.S. base, Lakehurst’s Naval Air Station, the first attempt having been foiled by bad weather. As the dirigible came within a few feet of her mooring mast, the Hindenburg exploded and burned quickly.
A crew of U.S. Navy personnel had been assigned to handle the mooring lines as the Hindenburg neared the landing area. The enlisted personnel were students at the base weather forecasting school. Among them was a 22-year-old seaman, William J. Barnard, then a five-year Navy veteran. After graduating as an aerographer, he later attended flight school, became an enlisted pilot, and was commissioned before World War II. He saw action with Patrol Squadron VP- 74, continued a distinguished postwar career, and eventually retired as a captain.
Barnard, now 87, is believed to be among only a few from the mooring crew still alive. He recently recalled his experiences with two friends, retired Navy Captain Warren G. Stevens, a high school classmate of mine, and myself. As a Navy journalist, I served under Barnard during the Korean War. Here are some of his recollections:
“The aft gas bag exploded first, but there was a flash at about where two of the three bags touched, and then came the explosion of the rear bag. The first flash was in the vicinity of the aft port engine nacelle. The three bags went in succession from stern to bow. The reason for the bright flames [was] obvious. Not only was there a rapid flash-burning of the chemically doped fabric, but the aluminum framework itself was burning, as well as furniture and all the other accoutrements within the airship.
“It was a matter of only seconds from the first flash to the total immersion in flames. It has been estimated at about two minutes. The ship settled on the ground from the stern to the bow as the lift was removed from the sequential bag explosions. True, the people were jumping from the passenger area from the time of the first flash until the ship hit the ground. As soon as the entire length of the ship was aground, the Navy crew was entering the innards of the blazing framework and pulling the people out. Some [of those] whom we pulled out had been blasted or burned out of their clothing, and as you grabbed their arms their flesh came off in your hands.
“By the time the framework had cooled, all of the personnel had been removed, both dead and alive. I have never before or since . . . been in the mood ... to go into a fire-surrounded structure to grab out people. Some of them were still sitting in their seats. None of them had the time to take any evasive action other than by jumping.
“I have forgotten the exact time of the initial explosion, but we were relieved by [units of] the New Jersey National Guard and Army from Fort Dix at about 0130 and sent to the barracks. We had missed the evening meal, so they manned the mess hall and fixed coffee and sandwiches for us. We students from the aerological school all sat together at a couple of mess tables. I recall all of us just sitting there, not eating or even sipping coffee, just staring at each other and occasionally smelling our hands, which [still] reeked of burned flesh.
“A few days later, [Dr.] von Eckner and other Zeppelin Corporation and German Air Force types were on the station as a board of investigation. Most of the naval station officers were called as witnesses, but none [from] the enlisted ground crew or the civilian ground crew was called.
“The German board’s line of reasoning was, and the Navy board of inquiry agreed, that here was a normal leakage of hydrogen from the fabric bags that usually was taken care of by the flow of air through the structure (there were a number of openings in the overall fabric cover). Some gas had collected near the aft port engine. A frame member had developed a small fracture near the nacelle. The bow mooring line, which would have been the nose mooring and winching line, was water soaked. It had been exposed to the weather for some time after they opened the nose aperture where the winch and line were stored and where the main mooring apparatus was located.
“As the water-soaked linen [line] 1.5 inches in diameter hit the earth, the accumulated static electricity from the stern arced across the frame to the pocket of hydrogen and started the series of explosions. To the best of my knowledge, those are the abbreviated findings of the various boards. That also is my opinion of the happenings.
“Each member of the Navy crew got a letter of commendation from the station commanding officer, the governor of New Jersey, and the chief of the German Air Force, Hermann Goring. Goring’s letter begins with, ‘My Dear Fellow American Airman.’
“[Copies] of the letters remained in my service record until I retired. During World War II it was fun to be called to the air squadron personnel office and asked about the letter and if I wanted it to remain in my records. I did, so that the next skipper or personnel guy could ask me how I got a German Air Force commendation.”
