The USS Shenandoah: A local Tragedy
Betsy Taylor
When I was teaching, I rarely went to the teachers’ lounge during my work period. My classroom, silent for forty-five whole minutes, was the best place to plan lessons, grade papers, calculate grades, and update student records. But on September 3, 1995, Kennedy’s Bakery doughnuts had been delivered for the school staff and there was no way I could pass up a cream-filled pastry.
After all these years I remember the time because my friend, another science teacher, was there enjoying a doughnut and a cup of coffee as he contemplated the date.
“I chatted with my dad last night,” he said, “and he reminded me that today is the anniversary of the downing of the USS Shenandoah.”
“I’ve heard of that,” I said as I munched. “But I don’t know much about it.”
He told me the story as his dad remembered it. His dad wasn’t there when the airship went down but, like residents from miles around in Noble County, he came to the site to get a look at the debris field left by the crash.
Ava, a village south of Cambridge and north of Caldwell along what is now I-77, was the closest community to the crash. We didn’t talk about the ship’s physical construction, the fuel that powered it, the gas that kept it elevated, or the storm winds that brought it down. Instead, my friend lamented the deaths of the crew and the behavior of souvenir seekers who scavenged the ship’s remains.
“Dad said they swarmed over the wreckage and gathered up pieces they could carry away. They even ripped off the fabric skin and made it into raincoats. Can you imagine?” Bewildered by the thefts, he shook his head.
Truth was – I really couldn’t imagine. At the time I hadn’t seen photos of the crash site, the crowds surrounding the devastation, or the government property they hauled away as keepsakes. After all, the event had taken place seventy years ago, only thirteen years after the sinking of the Titanic. Ancient history.
Since that day a plethora of articles have been written to commemorate the crash that took place almost in our own backyard. I’ve read many of them and found that the more I learn, the easier it is for me to imagine the course of events that made up the tragedy.
The USS Shenandoah, the first lighter-than-air rigid airship to be made in the U.S., promised to secure a place in the future of naval aircraft. Known as The Daughter of the Stars, she had just completed a 9,000-mile cross-country journey to test docking stations and showcase her magnificence. Capt. Zachary Lansdowne, an Ohio native and skilled pilot, was a well-known aviator. He understood the vagaries of midwestern weather patterns including the frequent late-summer storms in Ohio. When Lansdowne was ordered to make a six-day public relations flight through the Midwest, he advised his superiors to wait until early autumn. They refused and the die was cast.
The Shenandoah’s destination was the Ohio State Fair in Columbus. The journey was a rough one with high winds buffeting the airship like a tailless kite. The eighth-of-a-mile long craft carried a gondola suspended beneath it by cables. In it 14 men were tossed like toys.
The gondola broke away when the Shenandoah split into two pieces. It crashed killing all fourteen crewmen on board. The heavy back portion of the inflatable dropped quickly and came to rest in a field. But the lighter front portion drifted in the opposite direction. A farmer heard the crewmen aboard calling as they descended. He grabbed a dangling rope and tied it to a tree anchoring the bow in place. All crewmen were saved except for those riding in the gondola.
Because the airship was held aloft with helium gas, the possibility of explosion was slight. Hydrogen gas that has greater lifting power but is highly flammable was no longer used following the Hindenburg disaster.
The Navy has abandoned its lighter-than-airship program. The last flight of a naval airship occurred on August 31, 1962. But the USS Shenandoah had already provided evidence that the endeavor lacked practicality.
