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Janelle Croy

Mrs. Wray

Honors Sophomore English

26 May 2009

A Burning Vision

Have you ever had one of those out of body experiences, one of those heart- stopping moments when the world slows down and you see something terrible coming but you can’t stop it? I have. Once. It was the worst moment of my whole life. My memory flickers, yet I can still recall the agony, the despair, the horror at the sight of those fiery 200 ft tall flames licking the sky, devouring the fruit and the future of mighty

Germany herself. It was as if the universe had exploded, as if the sun had finally given up and gone out with a last, epic bang, and I stood alone and helpless while I watched years of dedication burn long and loud. The only thing left to do was run.

Mine is the story of the Hindenburg, the most magnificent flying machine of

German pride and ingenuity ever to become airborne. Most people think that they know what a tragedy it was, but I’ll tell you what really happened, because I was there.

But let me back up to the very beginning. My name is Wilhelm Dimmler. I was born in Friedrichshafen, Germany, in 1903. Growing up in the city of zeppelins, I would watch as the great man-made airships, cigar-shaped and majestic, floated like toy balloons back and forth across the sky. My father explained that the Zeppelins aided the war effort, and proved to the world that Germany was the mightiest power of them all.

He told me they were used to spy on the enemy, and were the eyes of Germany in the sky. They were also bombers, carrying packages of death, and were employed as great Croy 2 flying escorts to protect our navy ships from above. To me they were mammoth watch dogs, silently guarding the blue German air, and from my earliest memory, I wanted to protect Germany and learn how to fly the man-made clouds.

In 1926, I was 23 years old when I took a job as an airship mechanic. I had just graduated from college with a degree in engineering, so my father exploded when he found out I’d become a mechanic. But I was where I’d always dreamed of being – with the birds – and so the next ten years of my life were spent on and around airships, making airships, mending airships, and breathing airships. I learned how an airship flies, how the bags of lighter-than-air gas hold up the ship, how the engines turn propellers that steer the nose of the beast. I learned to drop heavy bags of ballast weight to control the altitude of the ship, and to scamper up and down mooring lines like a monkey climbing rigging. I learned that I really loved Zeppelins and that as long as I was in the air, I was happy.

Since I was old enough to read, my hero was the one and only Count Ferdinand

Von Zeppelin, a.k.a., “The Father of Airships”. He invented the modern airship, and then founded the Zeppelin Company, which went on to build the biggest, the best, and the most famous airships of the time. Everyone started calling airships “Zeppelins”, even if they didn’t come out the doors of a Zeppelin Company factory. I remember watching

Zeppelin-shaped clouds drift overhead in the summertime, white, fluffy shadows of the real marvels. I was 26 when I flew around the world on the Graf Zeppelin as a member of the crew, and I will never forget the pure wonder of floating weightless above countless miles of blue, roiling waves, the horizon distant and light blue, limitless.

Then they built the Hindenburg. It was the largest airship ever built. Father said,

“This ship will scare the Americans back into their Yankee hideaways for good!” The

Americans had refused to sell us helium to fill our ships with, but Germany had prevailed Croy 3 and used hydrogen instead. It was weightless, available, and cost efficient. I remember walking out to glimpse the Hindenburg as they unveiled the lady from her shed in

Friedrichshafen before her maiden voyage. Bursting with pride, I wore the uniform of engineering officer; one of three to serve beneath Captain Max Pruss while the

Hindenburg was making its glorious way across the Atlantic Ocean to America and back.

Journalists loudly scribbled on large notebooks and a flock of birds cawed raucously overhead, headed back to their home in the north on the bright March morning.

Above the grassy field, a huge round shadow loomed, like some ancient monolith, a perfectly cylindrical mountain of gelatin-latex plastic cloth and artificial wind. My eyes grew wide with wonder as I turned to stare down all 804 feet of her rigid gray body, and craned my neck to gaze a few hundred feet into the air at her pointed nose. I knew from my engineering calculations that after her 16 airbags were filled with hydrogen for the journey, the mammoth would hold over 7 million cubic feet of gas. My eyes filled with tears of elation. My dream of flying for Germany was finally coming true!

I ran to back up from the ship’s shadow. Identical swastikas, symbols of Hitler’s reign, squatted against each of the Hindenburg’s tail fins. Flashing bulbs popped and winked as reporters loudly called out questions, and all I could do was stare at the letters running proudly along side the belly of the ship – my ship. The make of the ship, “D-

LZ129”, lay painted in black letters, the same numbers on the belly of the Hindenburg’s twin sister, the Graf Zeppelin II. But scrawled in large red gothic script, the word

“Hindenburg” burned a pattern on the inside of my eyelids. “The Hindenburg is my home now!” I remember thinking, as people cheered and waved and threw flowers at the crew. I took a deep breath, and I still remember the taste of that golden German air, with Croy 4 the wind picking up to a breeze and the excited shouts of the Hindenburg’s first passengers ringing in my ears.

I quickly climbed the small winding stairs of the mooring mast, the high, stable tower that anchored the airship until departure. The passage lurched and shook slightly as the behemoth ship eagerly pulled at its moorings, testing the wind, unconscious of its own strength. Wind whipped my hair into frenzied circles as I stepped off the mast, into the ship, and it felt as if some great whale of a bird had swallowed me whole, with space below me, space above me, and space before me. A crewman with a tiny square moustache took my cigarette lighter and my pack of cigarettes, promising to return them to me at the end of the trip. I understood – hydrogen was extremely flammable, and precautions had to be taken by everyone. I found the observation deck and glimpsed my

Father waving solemnly from the scattered crowd, his face recognizable in the sea of ants because of his bright green shirt.

“Schiff hock!” shouted the captain. “Up ship!” I saluted once before I could no longer see my Father in the specks of color that moved but made no sound, and then I was off to America on the Hindenburg.

It would take at least three days to get there and three days to get back. All told I was to make 10.5 such round trips to America onboard the Hindenburg (21 crossings of the Atlantic Ocean) before travel on airships was banned forever.

It was the morning of May 3, 1937, and the Hindenburg prepared for its eleventh trip to the United States: destination Lakehurst, New Jersey. Our passenger load that day mostly consisted of wealthy, upper class businessmen and their wives, or movie stars, people who could afford the expensive $720 ticket. Of course, that covered the gourmet chefs, premium cuts of steak, luxury cabins, running water, and baby grand piano. Croy 5

Although the Hindenburg was equipped to carry many persons comfortably, only 97 boarded on that fateful morning, and when I close my eyes, I can still picture their bustling, exhilarated wonder as they climbed the mooring mast stairs, lugging faux fur coats and brown suitcases, pulling young children by the hand. I recall buttoning up my engineer’s uniform and saluting to the captain. Then we took off.

Every liftoff was the same, flawless and thrilling. The ground crew, earning a dollar apiece, stood ready with the mooring lines. The customary “Schiff hock!” rang out clear and long, and then the men let go. The Hindenburg seemed to hover in the air for a single suspended second before a great burst of wind picked up the ship like an oversized bird and thrust it aloft in one heart stopping rush. Even after two months of traveling on the airship, I still couldn’t get used to the vast silence and smoothness of flight on the

Hindenburg; that effortless feeling of defying gravity, of being carried in the arms of an angel. A few passengers glanced out the window an hour later to exclaim in surprise as they realized we had already taken flight! Through the soles of my feet, I can still hear the subtle rumble of the four 1,200 horsepower V-16 Mercedes-Benz diesel engines working tirelessly, feel the steady thrum of the ship’s 20 foot wooden propellers turning in unison. For that morning in May, I checked the gauges in the engineering room, reported “Alle guten! All good!” and settled back for the 60 hour trip. It was a quiet flight.

Two and a half days later, May 6, 1937, the Hindenburg approached America.

Watching with spyglasses, the passengers gathered in the promenades and lounges on either side of the ship, shouting enthusiastically at the lumpy purple mass of land on the horizon. I routinely worked to check the status of the ship, printing graphs, monitoring Croy 6 gauges, turning gears, when suddenly the Chief engineer broke into the room with an urgent telegram.

“Was ist das?” I cried. “What is it?”

“Einen groben sturm!” he replied, shaking his head. “A big storm!”

The air station at Lakehurst had contacted the Hindenburg to warn of 25-knot winds blowing off the coast, and while simple for a fishing boat to navigate, dangerous to a lighter-than-air ship, that might capsize. I felt slightly uneasy – those were storm conditions, with lightning – but shook off the feeling; we would be home before dinnertime.

Cruising at 78 miles per hour, at an altitude of 650 feet, the captain steered the ship away from Lakehurst and an expected landing time of 2:15. We instead flew over

Manhattan, and for the first time, I glimpsed the Statue of Liberty. She was strong and proud, and from a birds eye view, I realized that Americans were not so different than

Germans loving their country.

We circled continuously from north to south for several hours, with Lakehurst commander Charles Rosendahl sending frequent updates. At 5 pm, a loud siren signaled the American civilian ground crew of 139. By 6 pm it was raining steadily, followed by an entourage of strong headwinds and thunderstorms, so the Hindenburg drifted, passengers talking, or smoking in the smoking lounge, or playing pool, or writing letters with customized Hindenburg stationary. At approximately 6:12, the tower sent a much- welcomed message: “Conditions now considered suitable for landing.” We sent a message back: “Earliest possible landing 7:10”, and headed back to New Jersey at full speed. The storm had passed. I secretly breathed a sigh of relief. Croy 7

The ship passed over the airfield, heading for the mooring mast. Family and friends waved scarves and reporters swarmed underneath, held back by men in blue uniforms. Landing was always a big deal, and people would come from miles around to catch a glimpse of the legendary Hindenburg. I watched from the observation deck of gondola three, on the starboard side of the ship, where I was scheduled to take a landing station. Circling, the airship slowed down, its altitude lowered, and as it descended on the crowd, made a sharp left turn. Men rushed by me, shouting, on their way to drop

1,300 pounds of ballast water weight to correct the tail heavy Hindenburg. I smiled, watching a few lucky spectators jump away from a splashing, only to get drenched. The air rushed around my face, stirring my hair into wild curls, and sweeping the sweet scent of grass into my nose. A little black starling, flying unusually high, twittered past my ear.

At that moment, I remember thinking I was in the place that I’d always wanted to be.

Then suddenly a remarkable stillness fell upon the ship. No command or call or cry reached my ears, just an eternity of light and wind and freedom. It was as if the world was holding its breath, for something marvelously amazing or something unthinkably disastrous. The sky stretched pink and yellow beyond the horizon, a perfect ending to a feverish May day. Then a light, dull detonation broke the moment of silence.

It was a small sound, no louder than the gasp of a soda bottle being opened. I turned to look toward the lower center of the ship and a puff-like speck appeared and began to glow a delicate rosy hue, bright against the grey of the ship’s hull, as pink as a newborn sunset. And immediately my worst fears were confirmed: the Hindenburg was on fire.

Time stretched to an infinite, immeasurable moment, as we floated 300 feet in the air, almost 1000 feet away from the mooring mast and safety. The airship took a great shuddering groan, and then suddenly I was pitched onto my back as the tail of the Croy 8

Hindenburg slid sideways and down. People were everywhere, running for their lives.

Windows popped and shattered as chairs, tables, and the baby grand piano were tossed about like toys. I grabbed the railing, just in time to narrowly miss being hit by an airborne lounge couch. I will never forget the terror-ridden screams of helpless, burning people. My hands bled, my tongue bled, and my heart bled.

After the longest 32 seconds of my life, the Hindenburg gave one last groan and plummeted to the ground in a fiery heap. I was thrown onto the wooden rails, all that was left of the once mighty Hindenburg. Flames leaped around my feet and exploded high above my head. I could hear the wails of sirens in the distance, and the continuous random hissing of hydrogen air pockets being found and devoured by the fire. My hands burned, my lungs burned, my hair burned, and the air around me, so sweet less than a minute before, was a raging inferno of dry soot that swept up my nose and burned down my throat. It was hell.

And I knew I was going to die. I expected to die.

And then, like a burst of rain on a cloudless day, a balloon of ballast weight water exploded over my head, soaking me from tip to toe. Merciful cool wetness trickled down my spine, and hissed as it met the tattered remains of my burnt skin. I took one look around me at hell unleashed, spied an opening between two fallen beams, and hobbled to the safety of heaven. Ambulance sirens screamed, fire-truck sirens screamed, people screamed, and large patches of floating debris screamed, hissing and snarling with orange, unquenched rage. Five years of dedication, planning, hope, gone forever in one single puff of smoke. I saw the last of life squeezed from people crushed between burning beams. I saw human torches leaping from the glowing wreckage to the ground a hundred feet below, only to be engulfed in a roaring ball of falling fire. Croy 9

I wept, long and loud. My ship, my beautiful ship, the Hindenburg, was gone forever, taking 36 innocent flaming souls with her. Only later did we discover that her delicate gray dress was flammable paint. Her death was inevitable.

With a last glance backward at the glowing skeleton of dreams, I started off; to a new life in America. A tear rolled from the corner of my eye.