Chapter 6
The Trouble with E. L. Cord
Errett Lobban Cord was to ALPA what Satan was to the early Christian church—both encouraged membership. Ask any pilot who flew for the airlines prior to 1932 about the origin of ALPA, and more than likely he’ll say something about E. L. Cord, usually punctuated by the kind of stately profanity that went out of vogue with Harry Truman. These pioneer pilots have neither forgiven nor forgotten what Cord tried to do to them so long ago, and it behooves every member of the profession today to know about it. Forewarned is forearmed—a modern-day Cord is still possible.
Actually, Cord had nothing to do with the origin of ALPA. The
first “formal” discussion among six pilots representing three airlines was held
at the old
“Dave [Behncke] selected the five of us because he thought he could trust us, and he started from there,” remembers R. Lee Smith of Northwest Airlines, probably the only surviving participant in that meeting. “E. L. Cord came into the picture a little bit later. We had been talking about a new pilots’ association since at least 1929, but we really got rolling on it in 1930 because that was when the airlines got together on reducing pay. They felt we were overpaid and underworked, and they were going to chop us down to size.”
The others who met with Behncke and Smith were Lawrence W. Harris
and Walter A. Hallgren of American Airways (AAL), J. L. “Monty” Brandon of
United Airlines (UAL), and one other UAL pilot whose name Behncke erased from
ALPA’s records because he went over to management a few days following the
founding meeting. Although his memory is extraordinarily good, Smith cannot
recall the identity of ALPA’s “lost” founder. He attended the
E. L. Cord’s real value was
to make working pilots of that era realize just how ruthless their employers
could be, thereby encouraging the growth of unionism. Not that flying for one of
the major airlines was any piece of cake to start with.
“I can show you in my logbook,” says James H. Roe of Trans World Airlines (TWA), who retired in 1965, “where I flew part of every day in June 1932. I reached the Department of Commerce limit, 110 hours, on the last day.”
But at least Jimmy Roe was getting paid well for flying—Cord’s design was to put a stop to that.
Because he was a quiet man who shunned publicity, Cord never achieved anything like the notoriety his wealth and success would otherwise have commanded. He preferred to remain in the background, functioning as the gray eminence behind such corporate subordinates as C. R. Smith, the hard-driving young Texan who rose through Cord’s empire to head AAL after Cord gained control of it.
Cord appeared out of nowhere
during the Great Depression to head a series of automotive enterprises, the
major ones being the Auburn Automobile Company and Checker, the taxicab
manufacturer. Generally, he was best known for a short-lived car design called
the Cord, which featured the revolutionary concept of front-wheel drive.
Airline pilots knew about him principally because of his ownership of two
regional airlines, each bearing the name Century. Cord won their attention
because he offered employment to pilots at wages as low as $150 per month and
got all the applicants he wanted at that price. That was drastically below the
prevailing wage rate for airline pilots, but because Cord had no airmail
contract, he saw no reason to follow the Post Office Department pilot pay
scales. The Post Office paid its pilots as much as $1,000 per month under
certain “bonus” circumstances. The private contractors who took over the mail
routes in the late 1920s generally continued to pay similar wages, at least for
a while.
Anyone familiar with Cord’s history as an employer knew there was bound to be trouble. His industrial enterprises were notorious for low wages, union-busting, and poor working conditions. But personally Cord was a charmer, a characteristic he shared with a great many other early airline owners.
A. M. “Breezy” Wynne, who went to work for AAL in 1934 after a stint in the Army Air Corps, remembers this contradictory aspect of Cord’s personality well:
If you got him by himself, E. L. Cord was just as down-to-earth
as anybody you ever saw, a nice guy to talk to. But he was a bastard when it
came to business. At the time I went to work for American, there was still a lot
of disgruntlement over what Cord had pulled on Century. We knew there had been a
bad situation there in
Well, our mothers didn’t raise stupid children! We could see that what Cord had done on Century he’d sure as hell wind up doing to us on American. After Dave explained the thing to us, we all signed up, captains and copilots—all of us.
The trouble with E. L. Cord began abruptly in 1932, just when
Dave Behncke needed it least. At the time he was trying to organize pilots on
airlines scattered all over the country, juggle several apples simultaneously in
It began on a gray February evening in 1932 as Behncke sat in his
office on the second floor of
ALPA was Behncke’s full-time preoccupation. He spent almost every
hour when he wasn’t sleeping or flying at the
Dave was feeling pretty good about the world that evening. He had good reason to be pleased, for in the space of a year he had organized nearly half the working airline pilots in the country into a real honest-to-goodness union, complete with an American Federation of Labor (AF of L) affiliation.
Of course, there was some grousing about the tie to organized labor, because some pilots already thought of themselves as “professionals,” the equivalent of doctors and lawyers, who had no need for the protection of the AF of L. Behncke had done it anyway, despite what people said about pilots being too individualistic, too cantankerous ever to submit to union discipline. They even said Behncke would surely lose his own job flying for United if he persisted in his obsessive quest to create a union.
The crushing depression that followed the stock market crash of 1929 eased Behncke’s task. As bread lines lengthened, pilots became a little less cocky, a little more willing to listen to his arguments, as Behncke buttonholed them in airports and hotels.
Behncke’s reverie that
evening was interrupted when a snow-bedraggled band of 23 Century Airlines
pilots trooped in, led by a Michigan Dutchman named J. H. S. “Duke” Skonning.
“Well, here we are,” he declared. “We have been locked out. Now what is the
Association going to do about it?” Behncke suddenly found himself in the middle
of a dispute that would command national attention.
Trouble had been brewing on Century Airlines for some time, but Behncke had paid it little attention, for there were weightier matters on his mind. The situations on Eastern Air Transport and TWA, for instance, were far more critical, for both were big, important airlines employing many pilots, few of whom were ALPA members. Eddie Rickenbacker’s tough antiunion stance at Eastern frightened away many potential ALPA converts, and TWA’s management had a nasty habit of changing a pilot’s domicile if they suspected him of belonging to ALPA. Needless to say, the mere thought of having to uproot wife and kids, sell a house, and move was enough to discourage TWA pilots from joining. At a time when he was fighting some real toughies, Behncke didn’t need a two-bit sideshow like Century to contend with. Still, the Century boys were ALPA members. They needed help and there was no way Behncke could dodge the issue.
Both Behncke and Cord had
come from hardscrabble backgrounds. Neither had much formal education, and they
were about the same age. But, while Behncke had been rising slowly from Army
private to commissioned aviator during World War I, Cord had avoided service,
emerging instead as the most successful automobile salesman in a large
During the 1920s, while Behncke was trying to make a living by turns as barnstormer, airport operator, and airmail pilot, Cord was steadily expanding his business influence, seemingly leading a charmed life as he climbed into the rarefied world of 1920s-style finance. He got control of Auburn Auto in 1924, reversing its fortunes by ruthlessly reducing labor costs while introducing several new automobiles.
Although the depression blighted most careers, it seemed to act as a tonic for Cord’s. It wasn’t until after the crash that he began to achieve notoriety as a tycoon, dealing mostly in aviation, automotive, and related corporate operations. By the time of the Century strike, his stable of industries included Auburn Auto, Duesenberg, Yellow Cab, Checker Cab, dozens of lesser manufacturing enterprises, and, of course, Century Airlines.
Cord’s decision to go into the airline business stemmed from his control of Stinson Aircraft Corporation and later acquisition of Lycoming Aircraft Engine Company. Cord had learned to fly in 1929, taught by his personal pilot J. C. Kelley, and he owned a Stinson Detroiter. He flew only when the weather was perfect, and he always had Kelley along with him. Nevertheless, Cord professed to believe that anybody could fly an airplane.
In 1930 Cord declared, “I
feel that ‘aviators’ have fostered an erroneous conception of flying. There was
a time when I was no different from any other person who looks upon flying as
something for especially gifted ‘birdmen.’”
Cord was trying to sell Stinsons by convincing people that it was no more difficult to fly an airplane than to crank up the family Chevy. “It is my conviction,” Cord told the press, “that any normal person can easily and safely handle an airplane.” Frankly, Cord was contemptuous of pilots, with their scarves, goggles, and pretensions. Such attitudes stood in the way of selling “personal” Stinsons, and Cord would have none of it.
The depression put a stop to Cord’s plan to put an airplane in every garage; people could barely afford garages, let alone airplanes. But, being a versatile and clever man, he saw an opening. The government’s decision to release military aviators from active duty in an economy move swelled the ranks of unemployed pilots. Cord had airplanes and engines. All he needed to start an airline was pilots, now available in abundance.
Cord’s Stinson trimotored airliner was originally known as the
Corman 3000, but when equipped with three Lycoming engines it became the Stinson
SM6000B, commonly referred to as either the Model “T” or “U,” depending upon
modifications. It was a high-wing aircraft (in contrast to the later low-wing
versions), carried 10 passengers, and required only one pilot (so Cord
claimed). The Stinson Trimotor sold for less than $25,000. Its competition, the
Bach Trimotor, also carried 10 passengers but sold for $30,000. (Ford Trimotors
cost $40,000 and carried only four more passengers.) It was a good airplane and
became a profit-maker for Luddington Airlines, the first to adopt it.
Luddington, a commuter airline serving
The result was Century
Airlines, which began flying in March 1931, offering three round trips daily
between
Although Century Airlines was only a small part of his empire, Cord was intrigued by its profit potential, especially if he could get his hands on an airmail contract. Most of his profit resulted from substandard wages, especially for his pilots, whose pay was well below the average annual salary of $7,000 then prevailing on the major airlines. Cord paid his pilots a flat $350 per month, plus $3 per hour for daytime and $5 per hour for nighttime flying.
Cord, however, believed his pilots’ salaries were too high. When
he started Century Pacific Airlines between
It seems that Cord had in mind a nationwide network of airlines, all named Century, but with regional designations such as “Century Southwest,” operating at the bare bones cost of 38 cents per mile, which was roughly one-half the amount the Post Office airmail contractors were paid. Cord reasoned that if he could prove to Congress that he could fly the mail at half the going rate, then the chances were good that Congress would cancel the old contracts and reopen them for competitive bidding. When this happened, Cord was sure he could underbid everyone else, win a contract, and make a killing.
To get his costs down, Cord planned to lower the Century pilots’ salaries to the standard $150 per month he paid on Century Pacific (and planned to pay on Century Southwest, which was due to begin operating soon). The Century pilots balked, pointing out that they already worked for below-average wages, and that to lower them further would result in a considerable hardship. “Starvation wages,” Duke Skonning called them.
They wanted to bargain with
Cord, and although Cord agreed to a 10-day delay in instituting the new
salaries, he had no intention of backing down. Too much was at stake here, he
believed, to let the pilots foul it up. When the 10-day “truce” was over, Cord
hired armed guards to meet each pilot as he reported for work at
Actually, Behncke relished the Century explosion because it gave him a chance to try his hand as a negotiator. He prided himself on being reasonable and persuasive and he thought he could talk Cord out of it. But he hit a stone wall; he tried to make an appointment to see Cord and got nowhere. Nor would Cord’s secretary put through Behncke’s phone calls. There was nothing to do but fight.
When the unusual spectacle of a strike by airline pilots hit the newspapers, the connection with the AF of L began to pay off. AF of L President William Green publicly blasted Cord, citing substandard wages in his various manufacturing enterprises, and ordered the Illinois State Federation of Labor into action on ALPA’s behalf.
Victor Olander, secretary of the state federation, promptly went
to work with Behncke to devise a publicity campaign, set up a strike fund, and
map strategy. He secured free time on WCFL, a
The popular nightly broadcasts generated a surge of public support for the Century strikers, but they didn’t pay the grocery bills. Behncke assessed every ALPA member $25 a month, raising nearly $5,000 the first month, to distribute among the strikers. They used part of the money to rent an airplane that strikers took turns flying alongside every Century plane arriving in Chicago—a unique attempt to persuade passengers to boycott the airline through the use of aerial picketing.
Within a week, however, Cord had managed to resume daylight flights, as out-of-work pilots quickly responded to his advertisements. Before Century could resume its night schedules, however, the new pilots would have to “night qualify,” which involved making five landings at each airport along the route. The Department of Commerce obligingly agreed to send a special team of flight examiners to check out Cord’s new hires, and, even worse, the Army and Navy released a number of qualified military pilots from active duty, specifically so they could go to work for Cord.
Behncke then tried a new tactic. He sent squads of Century
strikers to politely persuade the strikebreakers to come to the
Nevertheless, Behncke’s attempt to contact his pilots directly worried Cord, forcing him into his first mistake. In an attempt to insulate his new hires from contact with the strikers, Cord forced them to live in a guarded dormitory, take their meals together, and ride to and from the field on a bus with an armed guard. He also stationed armed guards to keep the strikers off the airfield.
Behncke checked the
The city council invited Cord to appear before one of its sessions to explain himself. Cord ignored them. After this, ALPA’s fortunes began to improve, for elected officials dislike being snubbed.
News of the Century squabble did Cord no good in
Rep. Fiorello LaGuardia, known as “The Little Flower” among
It would be a mistake to think that the Century strike was a
burning issue in
LaGuardia’s speech making worried Cord and forced his second
great mistake: he persuaded a congressman from
This action enraged LaGuardia. Whatever Dave Behncke was, he certainly was not a racketeer. And since most airline pilots were military-trained, many still holding reserve commissions, it stood to reason that they were not communists either. This assault on war veterans, especially in view of Cord’s own conspicuous lack of service, brought several congressmen down on him, including Rep. William Larson of Georgia, who accused Cord of being “a notorious exploiter of labor” whose airline did not “have satisfactory men to man the ships.” Rep. Melvin Maas of Minnesota, who called himself the “flying congressman” and took off at every available opportunity for Randolph Field in Texas to “inspect” (i.e., go flying in) the latest pursuit aircraft, urged the secretaries of the Army and the Navy to deny leaves of absence to military pilots who planned to work for Cord.
Things were snowballing against Cord, and he was seriously worried. On Feb. 29, 1932, he sent every member of Congress a printed statement of his position in the dispute, entitled “A Patriotic Interview with E. L. Cord.” He declared flatly that most pilots were opposed to unionization and that ALPA was “infiltrated by Reds engaging in anarchistic activities,” and asked for federal protection of his planes and pilots.
LaGuardia was furious. Taking the House floor on the day after Cord’s “patriotic interview” was circulated, LaGuardia described him as “low, dishonest, a liar and a gangster.” In the course of his speech, LaGuardia introduced a committee of Century strikers who were present in the House gallery led by “Duke” Skonning and “Red” Williams.
“Gentlemen,” LaGuardia said as he introduced the men, “over 50 percent of the pilots referred to as ‘Reds’ by this miserable person are ex-servicemen who served as fliers in our Army during the World War.” He insisted that Cord’s airplanes were unsafe, his mechanics poorly paid, and his pilots unqualified. “There is not a meaner employer of scab labor than this man who disregards the truth and calls it a ‘patriotic interview,’” LaGuardia concluded, “and I hope to express the sense of this House when I say that we shall expect and insist that all operators of airplane companies having contracts with the government shall operate their planes safely and skillfully and shall treat their pilots and labor decently.” LaGuardia sat down to an ovation from his fellow congressmen. Cord’s hopes for an airmail contract were dead.
Shortly afterward one of Cord’s airplanes crashed in
Cord was enough of a gambler
to see that his luck was running out, so he cashed in all of his airline
operations, selling Century Pacific to American Airways. Cord gave up his
aircraft, equipment, and personnel in exchange for 140,000 shares of stock in
Aviation Corporation (AVCO—the parent company of American). Within a year Cord
had parlayed this block of stock into effective control of AVCO and hence
American. He dared not take personal control of the airline, however, for he had
too many enemies in Congress. In order not to endanger American’s airmail
contract, Cord placed another of his lieutenants, C. R. Smith, in charge of
operations. But Cord remained the force behind the scenes.
ALPA proved that it could effectively arouse public and congressional support during the Century strike, but in some respects the outcome was not altogether satisfactory Neither the Chicago strikers nor the strikebreakers were included in the merger with American, for Cord had closed down Century and released the pilots prior to the merger. Only Century Pacific’s pilots automatically gained new jobs.
Behncke worked hard to find jobs for ALPA’s Century stalwarts, placing all of them by 1936, despite the tight job market. The luckless strikebreakers were in deep trouble, however, because Behncke saw to it that their names were published in boldface type in every issue of ALPA’s monthly publication, The Air Line Pilot. “The vilest enemy of the morale of aeronautics is a scab,” Behncke once editorialized in The Air Line Pilot. “Those scabs recently let out by Mr. Cord will start floating around the country, making every effort to find employment. It will be our duty to see they don’t get it. Their plea may be that of need! Match that with the fact that it took guts, faith, and sacrifice for the Century pilots to fight something they knew was wrong.”
Although ALPA could not prevent an airline from hiring a Century strikebreaker, everybody knew their names, and no ALPA member, which by the late 1930s included nearly every pilot, would work with them. Behncke eventually relented and allowed a few of them to join ALPA, but not until all the Century pilots had been placed, and only then, as he put it, “to prove definitely ALPA has a heart.”
Through a combination of clever public relations and support in
Congress, Behncke managed to turn the Century strike into a victory for ALPA,
emerging from it as a labor leader of national reputation. Postmaster General
Brown, in reality the czar of the airlines because of his control of airmail
contracts, flew with Behncke from
This kind of support offered enormous opportunity for Behncke to
pursue his goals in
That friend was the AF of L. Without its support, it is unlikely
that Behncke and ALPA would have been able to sustain themselves during the
strike. As Behncke once put it: “If we had gone down there to
Most pilots realized that Behncke was right, and that they could not depend upon their skills alone to protect their livelihoods. After their encounter with the likes of E. L. Cord, most pilots came to accept unionization as a necessity of life.
Cord likewise came away from
his encounter with ALPA considerably chastened and, one might speculate, angry
enough to try to settle scores. Certainly the first generation of airline pilots
believed Cord would try to get them later, if the opportunity presented itself.
The fact that ALPA had miraculously managed to thwart Cord by establishing a
presence in Washington during the Century flap was no guarantee that this
presence would be permanent, nor did it mean that Cord’s money and power would
not someday turn events around.
For the moment, ALPA held the upper hand over Cord and others
like him who would try to increase their profits at the pilots’ expense. But one
thing was certain: the fight was not yet won, and ALPA’s only sure path to
survival led through
And what of the principals in this long-forgotten affair? E. L.
Cord lived for many years in seclusion in
That pattern of overwork began during the intense battle with E.
L. Cord, and it would continue. Behncke was driven to see to it that ALPA would
survive, and it is no exaggeration to say that he was the only pilot in
There would be no rest for Dave Behncke. Events were moving
rapidly in