Joseph Späh

Passenger

Age: 32

Residence: Douglaston, Long Island, New York

Occupation: Vaudeville acrobat/comedian

Location at time of fire: Portside dining salon

Survived


Joseph Späh was a vaudeville performer. Born on March 14^th, 1905 in Strasbourg, he emigrated to the United States as a young man, and got into vaudeville as an acrobat and contortionist. He eventually took the stage name "Ben Dova" and developed a comedy act which centered around his acrobatic skills.

Joseph Spah as a young stage contortionist.

His signature act as "Ben Dova" was to drunkenly stagger out onstage in rumpled top hat and tails, search at length through his pockets for a cigarette (which, of course, was eventually discovered to have been in his mouth all along), and then to shimmy up the pole of a gas street lamp to light his cigarette. At this point the lamp would begin to sway wildly back and forth, with him holding on and going through a whole acrobatic routine as he pretended to desperately hold onto the lamp.

Films exist (and can be viewed HERE, courtesy of his granddaughter) of Späh doing his act, with the lamp post set up atop the 56-story Chanin Building in New York City, and an apparent 680 foot drop awaiting him had he lost his grip. In fact, as dramatic as it looks, the film is actually the result of some clever forced-perspective trick photography. Späh's lamp post was placed on the small, one-story brick structure on the roof of the Chanin Building, rather than on the edge of the roof itself. The angle of the cameras make it look as though Späh were hanging over the edge of the Chanin Building's roof, when in fact he was only facing a drop of perhaps ten or twelve feet to the building's main roof had he lost his grip. Nonetheless, it is an impressive illusion, and more importantly the film shows Joseph "Ben Dova" Späh performing the act upon which his entire career had been built.

Four images of Späh performing his lamp post act
atop the Chanin Building in New York City in 1932.

Späh did his act all over the United States and Europe, and in May of 1937 he was scheduled for a month at Radio City in New York, opening on May 12th, but he had been touring Europe since the previous November and had to get back to the States. Apparently he was supposed to take a steamship the week before from Cuxhaven, Germany, but was late and missed it by a few minutes. So, he had to raise the cash to take the Hindenburg out of Frankfurt instead, because at that point it was the only mode of conveyance that was going to get him home in time to start rehearsals.

On the evening of May 3^rd, 1937, all of the Hindenburg's passengers were aboard the ship and the ship’s commander, Captain Max Pruss, was delaying takeoff, awaiting the arrival of Lufthansa Flight 23, from Berlin, which carried the last pieces of freight and mail scheduled to be carried aboard the airship. Flight 23 also carried one final passenger - Joseph Späh. A fast taxi carried Späh across Rhein-Main airfield to the zeppelin hangar on the south field. Accompanying Späh was his pet Alsatian, Ulla, whom he had trained to perform with him in his stage act. She had appeared with him throughout his European tour, and he was now bringing her home as a pet for his children.

Since the rest of the Hindenburg’s passengers had had their baggage searched at the Frankfurter Hof Hotel in downtown Frankfurt prior to being bussed to the field, Zeppelin Company and government officials at the hangar quickly but thoroughly searched Späh and his luggage.  Späh, professional comedian that he was, reportedly made some playfully mocking remarks about the seriousness with which the officials conducted their search. Unamused, but satisfied that Spah carried no proscribed items or German currency within his luggage, the Zeppelin officials finally loaded his bags and his dog onto the ship. A steward led Späh up the embarkation stairs in the Hindenburg’s belly, and the Hindenburg took off more or less on time.

The Hindenburg's flight over the Atlantic passed uneventfully, with the ship fighting headwinds and sailing through pea-soup clouds most of the way, obscuring the passengers' view of the ocean below. Since opportunities for sightseeing were limited, Späh spent much of his time in the ship's bar and smoking room, telling stories and jokes with a number of other passengers. He also took films of his fellow passengers with the home movie camera he'd brought aboard. Amazingly, a spool of this film survived the fire, and selections from it can be found HERE. Späh also regularly visited his dog in her freight room far to the rear of the ship, in order to feed and walk her. This was to later prove unexpectedly problematic for Späh.

Joseph Späh looking out of the observation windows on the upper
level of the Hindenburg's passenger decks. This image (and the
two that follow) are taken from Spah's home movies of the last flight.

Joseph Späh leans out of one of the Hindenburg's observation
windows - and almost loses his cap in the ship's slipstream.

Joseph Späh (right) talks with Captain Ernst Lehmann, former commander
of the Hindenburg and flying onboard the ship's last flight as an observer.

Two and a half days later, on May 6^th, the Hindenburg reached New York and, after weather-related delays, flew down to Lakehurst to land. Späh's wife Evelyn and their three young children (Gilbert, age 5; Marilyn, age 3, and Richard, age 2) were waiting at the airfield to meet him. He was standing at the forward-most of the Hindenburg's portside observation windows, along with a number of other passengers as well as most of the Hindenburg's stewards.


Joseph Späh's location in the portside dining room at the time of the fire.


Leaning out of one of the forward-most windows, Späh was taking movies of the landing crew and had just aimed his camera at Lakehurst's massive Zeppelin hangar when the hangar started reflecting an orange glow. It quickly became obvious that the Hindenburg was suddenly and inexplicably afire. The whole ship tilted about 45 degrees down by the tail, and Späh managed to hold on to a rail while most of the others slid 15 or 20 feet down the floor to the back wall of the observation deck.

Once the ship began to descend and level out, Späh hung out of the nearby window, let go once he was about 20 feet above the ground and, his acrobat's instincts kicking in, tried to do a safety roll when he landed. He injured his ankle nonetheless, and was dazedly crawling away when a U.S. sailor came up, slung him under one arm, and ran him out of the fire zone.

Joseph Späh (arrow) hangs from forward portside observation window.

 

Joseph Späh (arrow) drops to the ground.

After being hauled away from the fire, Späh walked toward the giant airship hangar across the field. On the way, he encountered Herb Morrison, a radio announcer from Chicago who was on the scene to record a description of the Hindenburg's arrival and had gone onto the field to look for survivors. Späh spoke briefly with Morrison, gave him his name and a brief account of his escape, and then moved on toward the visitors' area. Morrison later mentioned Späh in his recording and passed his name along to officials who were assembling lists of survivors. Späh's name, along with those of fellow passengers Philip Mangone and Clifford Osbun, was among the first passenger survivors to be listed in early edition newspapers that night.

Späh found his family at last over near the airship hangar. His wife noticed that he was standing on one foot, and suggested that he have his leg looked at. It was the first time that Späh had noticed his injury. Together, they went to the air station's infirmary where a doctor informed him that he had broken his ankle, then bandaged his foot for him. As they were leaving the dispensary, a nurse called for anyone who could speak German. Späh said that he could, and the nurse led him into a nearby room where a terribly burned young crew member lay in a bed. He said his name was Erich Spehl, and he wanted to send a telegram to his girlfriend back in Germany. Späh wrote down the woman's name and address, and then asked Spehl what he wanted to say to her. Spehl replied with a simple two-word message: "Ich lebe." (I live.) Späh told the young man that he would go and send the telegram right away. As Späh turned to leave the room, however, Erich Spehl died.

By this time, reporters were swarming all over the air base and a number of them asked Späh for interviews about his escape. The Späh family finally went home later that night to their home in Douglaston, Long Island. Joseph Späh did an interview for a newsreel crew at his home, either that evening or the next day.

Joseph Späh at home after his escape, with his wife Evelyn and their children Richard (left), Marilyn (center), and Gilbert (right).

 

Joseph and Evelyn Späh safe at home after Joseph's ordeal.

Joseph Späh during an interview at his home following his escape.

Unfortunately, this wasn't the end of the Hindenburg story for Joseph Späh. For years afterwards, several Hindenburg crew members, including Chief Steward Heinrich Kubis and Captain Max Pruss, were convinced that Späh had sabotaged the ship. These suspicions were raised, at least by implication, in no less than two books on the Hindenburg crash. The "evidence" of Späh's involvement in a sabotage plot was that he was caught several times walking unaccompanied back to the aft freight room to feed his dog, Ulla (who, sadly, ended up being killed in the crash.). This was against the ship's rules and Späh got some fairly sharp words from the chief steward about it on at least one occasion. Since the cargo room in which the dog was stored was not far from the spot in the aft portion of the ship where the fire started, some took this as evidence that Späh had used his visits to his dog as cover to climb up into the interior of the ship and plant a bomb.

Several of the Hindenburg's stewards also claimed to have noticed odd behavior on Späh's part during the flight, particularly his impatience to land when the ship's mooring was delayed for several hours by thunderstorms. This impatience was, of course, understandable, as Späh had been away from his family for months, and was in all likelihood merely anxious to get home.

In the end, there was no solid evidence whatsoever to support these accusations. The FBI investigated Späh fairly extensively before concluding that he had nothing to do with the Hindenburg fire. His wife Evelyn would later recall that when word of the FBI's interest in her husband as a potential saboteur first appeared in the press and she read about it in the newspaper, she went outside to tell Joseph about it. He was cleaning windows at the time, and when she told him that he was suspected of having destroyed the Hindenburg, he was so shocked and upset at the news that he almost fell off the ladder on which he'd been standing.

In fact, most of the suspicion of Späh having intentionally destroyed the ship was likely psychological in nature, particularly on the part of Captain Pruss who, for the rest of his life, would insist that his last command had been sabotaged by "the man with the dog." If the ship wasn't destroyed by sabotage, then it of course stands to reason that it may well have been an operational failure, and it is understandable that the ship's crew wouldn't exactly be anxious to believe that the disaster had been due to a flaw in either their handling of the ship, or in its design. In other words, those who believed that Joseph Späh had sabotaged the Hindenburg seem to have done so primarily because they needed to believe it.

Späh lived a long life after the Lakehurst disaster. He continued to perform his lamp post act under the stage name "Ben Dova," eventually adding his youngest son Richard to the act, and he finally retired in the early 1970s. Several years later he appeared in a scene at the beginning of the film "Marathon Man" under his old stage name. No matter how many years passed, Späh never stopped being asked about his narrow escape from the Hindenburg, and he told the story again and again. There were some rather humorous misunderstandings connected to this. On one occasion about 20 years after the crash, Späh was out buying a paper at a news stand near his home in Douglaston when he noticed a couple of teenage girls eyeing him and whispering amongst themselves. Finally one of the girls came over and nervously asked him, "Aren't you the man who fell off the top of the Empire State Building?"

Joseph Späh passed away in Manassas, VA on September 30, 1986. His wife, Evelyn, passed away in 2006. They are buried side by side at Stonewall Memory Gardens in Manassas, VA.

Joseph Späh in later years performing his act on ice skates.

Years after his miraculous escape, Joseph Späh tells his tale to a group of fellow performers.

Joseph Späh (billed as Ben Dova) in the movie Marathon Man (1976)

Ernst Rudolf Anders

Passenger

Age: 63

Residence: Dresden, Germany

Occupation: Co-Owner, Teekanne Co.

Location at time of fire: Passenger decks, probably starboard lounge

Died in wreck


Ernst Rudolf Anders was a tea merchant from Dresden and was, along with Eugen Nisslé, co-owner of the Teekanne Company. As a young man, Anders went to work for Teekanne, which had been founded in 1882 as a subsidiary of R. Seelig & Hille. Along about 1890, Anders and Nisslé, a fellow co-worker, came up with the innovative idea of selling tea in pre-mixed and measured amounts. This allowed Teekanne to provide consistent quality regardless of year-to-year differences in tea harvests. This soon became Teekanne's main focus, and before long gained the company worldwide recognition.

In 1898, Anders and Nisslé took over the company, and the two families have owned it ever since. By 1913, Teekanne introduced their "TeeFix" and "Pompadeur" brands, which would continue to be popular in Germany almost a century later. During the First World War, Teekanne began to supply Germany's soldiers with pre-mixed, pre-portioned tea in small gauze bags. Known as "tea bombs", these were the forerunners to mass-produced tea bags.

After more than a decade of making these early tea bags by hand, in about 1928 or 1929, Teekanne developed the first tea bag machine. It could produce 35 fully-packed tea bags per minute, and was soon being marketed world-wide. Several years later, faced with the problem of the tea bag material giving the tea an unpleasant after-taste, Teekanne developed tea bags made of perforated cellophane, and later parchment. By 1937, under the TeeFix brand, these new tea bags were being marketed around the world.

In the spring of 1937, Ernst Rudolf Anders made plans to travel to the United States with his son, Rolf. Now a very successful businessman, Anders could afford to book passage for himself and his son on the Hindenburg. However, two weeks before the voyage, Anders suddenly decided to cancel his son's ticket and send him instead via steamer. Evidently, Anders didn't feel entirely comfortable with the idea of having both of them traveling on the Hindenburg, reportedly explaining simply, "Can't have two from the same family on one airship."

So, on May 3rd, 1937, Anders' family saw him off at the Rhein-Main airport in Frankfurt. As the Hindenburg rose into the evening sky, the clouds above her briefly parted, revealing a star above the airship. Frau Else Anders, perhaps nervous about her husband's last-minute decision to cancel their son's ticket, screamed and pointed, thinking that the star was, in fact, a spark and that the airship was catching fire. People nearby quickly reassured her that she wasn't seeing a spark and that the ship was in no danger.

Ernst Rudolf Anders watching icebergs off the Newfoundland coast, Wednesday, May 5th, 1937. (Image taken from home movies shot during the Hindenburg's last flight by fellow passenger Joseph Spah.)

Ernst Rudolf Anders, lower center with binoculars, enjoys the sights passing by the Hindenburg's observation deck. Probably along the North American coastline on May 6th, 1937. At left, silhouetted against an upright post, is fellow passenger Moritz Feibusch. To the right of Anders, facing the camera, is Lt. Claus Hinkelbein. (Image taken from home movies shot during the Hindenburg's last flight by fellow passenger Joseph Spah.)

Sadly, Frau Anders' apprehensions turned out to be well-founded. When the Hindenburg came in to land at Lakehurst three evenings later, Herr Anders was in the passenger section, probably in the starboard lounge watching the landing through one of the observation windows, when the ship suddenly caught fire. It is not known how Anders died, or whether he initially made it out of the ship alive and died in the infirmary or was simply trapped in the wreckage like many of his fellow passengers. He was later identified by a ring, his watch, and the spats and striped brown shirt he was wearing.

The approximate location of Ernst Rudolf Anders on the passenger decks at the time of the fire.

Anders' son Rolf, who may indeed have owed his life to his father's decision to cancel his booking on the Hindenburg, subsequently took over his father's co-ownership of Teekanne. Eight years later, on February 13, 1945, in the last few months of World War II, the Allies virtually incinerated most of Dresden in a two-day aerial firebombing campaign. The Teekanne Company's facility was badly damaged, and production was slowed. In 1946, what remained of the business was seized by the Allies, and the co-owners, Rolf Anders and Johannes Nisslé, were displaced. With only a backpack, a typewriter, and a bicycle between them, the two men fled to West Germany, They relocated to Viersen, just outside of Dusseldorf, where they began the process of rebuilding the Teekanne Company.

Within a few years, Teekanne was a leader in the tea business once again, and in 2007 the company, still owned and operated by the Anders and Nisslé families, celebrated its 125th anniversary.


(NOTE: For additional reference, the Teekanne website includes a section on the history of the Teekanne Co.)

Philip Mangone

Age: 52

Hometown: New York, NY

Occupation: Clothing designer

Location at time of fire: Passenger decks

Survived



Philip M. Mangone was born in southern Italy on November 29th,1884. He came from seven generations of tailors, and his father, Francesco Mangano, had a successful business designing dresses for the wealthy, often taking his whole staff around the country and staying at the homes of the people for whom they were doing work.

The Mangano family moved to New York in the early 1890s while Philip was a young child, changing their name to the more anglicized "Mangone" in the process. Due to his experience and reputation, Francesco immediately found work as head tailor in various prominent establishments. Philip became a US citizen by virtue of his parents' naturalization and he eventually went into the family trade, working after school with his father, learning to sew seams and quickly progressing to more complicated duties. When Philip was 18 he took a job as a fitter at B. Altman and Co., a 5th Avenue department store, and the following year he made his first trip abroad since his family's arrival, sent on a buying trip by his employer. Philip Mangone soon moved up to a position as a designer at a wholesale dress company owned by Charles M. Cohen, and eventually went into business for himself, opening Mangone Models in New York in 1916, and began to focus on women's suits and coats, having developed a knack for adapting the latest fashion trends from Paris to his own conservative American style. By the 1920s, his designs were being sold in over 200 stores across the country. In addition to his own company at 500 7th Avenue in New York, Mangone was also president of Sarto, Inc., in Cosenza, Italy.

Running companies in both the United States and Europe as he did, Mangone obviously became a seasoned traveler before long. He had, in fact, booked passage on the last voyage of the Lusitania in May of 1915, but cancelled at the last minute. On a trip home from Europe in October of 1919, Mangone was detained by United States Customs agents. He had purchased a jeweled mesh bag from a peddler in Paris for 700 francs (approximately $100) although the bag was actually worth over $1300. Mangone failed to declare it to US Customs on his return to the States, and was charged with smuggling. In late December, he was sentenced by a federal judge to a $500 fine plus a day in the custody of a United States Marshal.

During the late 1920s through the late 1930s Philip Mangone visited Paris four times a year. In May of 1937, he was returning from one of these European business trip. According to some sources, while in Europe he had spent time in Italy visiting a specialist for treatment of a stomach ailment. This may have been why, unlike most of his sea voyages, he was not this time accompanied by one or more business associates, such as Enrico Ruffolo or Mary Liotta. Perhaps this is why he chose the more expensive option of flying home on the Hindenburg.

Mangone, along with 35 other passengers, boarded the Hindenburg at the Flughafen in Frankfurt on the evening of May 3rd, 1937. He reportedly spent much of the flight in his cabin, sick with a particularly nasty cold. He did make it out for dinner and to socialize, however, and in later years recalled that even in the ship's pressurized smoking room "no one was allowed to strike a match on the trip."


Philip Mangone and his fellow passengers watch icebergs near Newfoundland, May 5th, 1937. Image taken from film shot by fellow passenger Joseph Spah (and later recovered from the wreckage.)


As the Hindenburg approached her landing field at Lakehurst, NJ on the evening of May 6th, Mangone was watching the landing operations from one of the long banks of observation windows which lined either side of the passenger decks. Accounts vary, however, as to whether he was in the portside dining room or the starboard lounge, although he was most likely on the starboard side.

Philip Mangone's possible location in the starboard lounge at the time of the fire.

Either way, shortly after watching the ship's landing ropes drop and the ground crew hauling them off to be connected up to winches near the air station's mooring mast, Mangone saw "a flash like lightning and heard a loud report" as the ship's stern suddenly erupted in flames.

As he later recalled:

Somehow, in the flashing second of the explosion, I retained my presence of mind. I grabbed a chair and smashed it through the window. I gripped the window sill and looked out. We seemed a little less than 200 feet high. I said to myself, 'I can't jump. We're too high. I'll break my legs.' But I couldn't wait. A moment or two later, as the wrecked ship sank downward, I jumped.

The framework of the dirigible pinned me down. I lay flat in the tangle of wreckage, but my body wasn't crushed. I worked frantically to get myself out of the wreckage. Desperately, I scraped a hole into the dirt. Somehow I burrowed myself out like a mole. I was conscious all the time. It seemed like an age before I squirmed through.

I stood up, dazed. I wheeled around dizzily. The shock had been so great I didn't know what I was doing. I was navigating without thinking.

All around me was the smell of burning flesh. Men were rushing about excitedly. Some were badly burned passengers, others members of the ground crew. The scene was indescribable. Everything was in a panic. Passengers were crying and screaming. I reeled under my own steam toward a building in the distance.

Meanwhile, on the ground, Mangone's 31 year-old daughter Catherine and his 30 year-old daughter Florence, her five year-old daughter Joan in tow, had been watching the landing from the visitors' area along with Mangone's business partner, Nathan Cohen. Young Joan had been given the rare treat of skipping kindergarten that day so that she could accompany her mother to the airfield, and as she watched the big silver airship hovering in the air, she suddenly saw what she thought were bright, beautiful fireworks. It was, of course, the Hindenburg going up in flames before their eyes. Though Joan was too young to understand what was happening, the rest of the family was horrified at what they were seeing, and none of them thought it possible that anyone could make it out of the inferno alive. Catherine frantically repeated to herself, "Daddy died right away… Daddy died right away!" as Cohen fainted and fell to the ground at her feet. Then, seeing people moving about near the wreckage, she climbed over the fence onto the field to find her father.

She hadn't gotten far before Herb Morrison, a radio announcer from WLS Chicago who had been recording a description of the landing and was now on the field looking for people to interview, grabbed her by the arm and asked her name and who she was looking for. Irritated, she tried to pull away from him. "Go away! I have to find my father!"

"Tell me his name!" begged Morrison. "If he's saved, I'll broadcast his name so that your mother will know he's safe." Catherine gave him her father's name and began to run again toward the wreckage. In fact, Mangone's name was among the first to be reported among the survivors by the press. Initially, the list of surviving passengers included only Mangone (misspelled "Mongon"), Joseph Spah, and Clifford Osbun.

Mangone himself, meanwhile, was staggering away from the wreckage. Sailors and other rescuers were trying to lead him to an ambulance, but he flatly refused. "I won't go. My daughters are here. They'll find me."

At that moment, Herb Morrison was approaching the wreckage when he saw Mangone, his hands raised high over his head, arguing with the sailors. When he realized that this was the same man whose daughter he had just talked to, Morrison offered to help Mangone find his family. He noticed, however, how badly burned and blistered Mangone was and as he escorted him away from the wreckage he made sure to hold Mangone only under his arms, remembering from his old Boy Scout training from his youth that under the arms would be the least likely place for him to be burned.

Not far away, Catherine Mangone was talking to another survivor named Joseph Späh and a couple of sailors when the headlights of a passing car illuminated her father and Morrison walking towards them. Overjoyed, she ran to her father and Morrison realized with alarm that she was about to throw her arms around him and hug him. Not knowing what else to do, Morrison slapped her before she could burst the blisters that covered her father's skin, possibly injuring him far more severely than he already was. Morrison immediately apologized profusely, explaining her father's condition and how careful they needed to be with him until they could get him medical attention.

The radio announcer then assisted the two of them into an ambulance bound for the air station's infirmary, and then headed back to his recording setup in the airplane hangar next to the huge Zeppelin hangar, where he made good on his promise to broadcast Mangone's name.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, I’m back again. I raced down to the burning ship, and just as I walked up to the ship, overclimbed those picket lines, I met a man coming out… dazed… dazed, he couldn’t find his way. I grabbed ahold of him: it’s Philip Mangone. Philip Mangone, M-A-N-G-O-N-E, of New York. Philip Mangone… he’s burned terribly in the hands, and he’s burned terribly in the face, his eyebrows and… all his hair is burned off, but he’s walking and talking, plainly and distinctly, and he told me he jumped! He jumped with other passengers! Now, there’s a Mr. Spay, it sounds like Spay, we’re not sure of it, and, uh, he also got out, and we noticed the, uh, lines… the different lines, the, uh, airship lines, and the American Airways, their ambulances are down there, and they’re taking people out of the wreckage! It seems that a number of them jumped clear when the explosion occurred in the tail. Now, I – I’ve just been running up with Mr. Mangone, and put him in a car, his wife and daughter met him, and I put them in the car with him, and sent him to the field hospital with the other passengers who have been saved."

In fact, Morrison was in error on one point. Philip Mangone's wife was not among those at the airfield waiting to meet them. The couple had been divorced for many years at that point, and though they were still on quite friendly terms with one another, she had not come out to Lakehurst with the others that day. (The "Mr. Spay" to whom Morrison referred was passenger Joseph Spah.)

As the ambulance dropped Mangone and his daughter off at the infirmary, Mangone told his Catherine, "Go telephone the family." Knowing that he wouldn't take no for an answer, she headed off to find a phone. She tried to use a phone in one of the Navy buildings nearby, but was told that it was for Navy use only. A sailor in a truck drove her over to the giant airship hangar where there was a Western Union telegraph booth. Unfortunately, since the air station's public relation's office had arranged for only one telephone for the press (thinking that it would more than suffice for a lightly-reported routine airship landing) the telegraph office was jammed with reporters, who were all trying to use it to get their stories filed. When they realized that Catherine was trying to send news about a survivor, they immediately put her at the front of the line where she sent two telegrams, one of which was to her uncle, Dr. George Mangone of Union City, NJ. She later learned that both telegrams were delivered within half an hour.

Dr. George Mangone immediately contacted his and Philip's other three brothers, Joseph, Nicholas, and Basil, and the four of them piled into George's car and drove down to Lakehurst. Philip, meanwhile, was given first aid at the air station infirmary, then his daughters and Nate Cohen took him to Paul Kimball Hospital in nearby Lakewood.

Mangone was still not truly aware of how badly he was burned, as the shock had still not worn off just yet. His face, head and ears were badly burned and his hair was almost all gone except for one small lock on his forehead. The back of his coat was burned straight through to his skin where he'd crawled under white-hot girders, and his hands were also badly scorched.

He later recalled:

"I was "alive" for several hours. That is, I knew what I was doing. The burns hadn't got to me yet; I didn't feel them too much. But that night, in the hospital, I was knocked out. I lapsed into unconsciousness. I was in great pain just before my sense deserted me. I was unconscious for a week and after that I was sick for weeks."

It may or may not have literally been a week, but when Mangone was conscious again his family was there with him. He kept asking Catherine how he looked. Though his burned face was badly swelled, to the point where his eyes were little more than slits, Catherine kept assuring him that he looked fine. Eventually he asked to see his granddaughter, Joan, who was with her mother Florence in one of the hospital waiting rooms. Catherine went out to get her niece, but first she made sure to tell her, "Granddaddy looks a little funny, but if he asks how he looks, tell him he looks fine."

She then took Joan into Philip's room, and as expected he asked the little girl, "How do I look, dear?"

Without missing a beat, the five year-old replied, "You look awful, Grandpa!"

Mangone erupted with laughter. "Thank God somebody'll tell me the truth!"

Philip Mangone remained hospitalized for six months. After a stay at Paul Kimball, he was transferred to Medical Center at the Presbyterian Hospital in New York, where he was unable to leave his chair for four months. In all, he spent six months in the hospital, undergoing skin grafts in spots where his burns had been particularly bad, particularly on his hands. When he was finally discharged, however, Mangone promptly took a trip to Chicago via airplane, mainly to prove to himself that he wasn't afraid to fly after his ordeal. Mangone later said that none of the Hindenburg survivors were burned worse than he was although several of them, notably Captain Max Pruss, would have very likely tended to disagree with him. Unlike survivors like Pruss, Mangone was not terribly disfigured by his burns. He lost small bits of both ears and most of his black hair grew back in white, with one small patch of hair above one of his eyes never growing back at all. He also had some heavy scars on his hands where he had been given skin grafts, but was fortunate in that he retained full use of his hands. But other than that the only indication that he'd been in a fire was the fact that, according to a nephew, Philips's face looked perpetually sunburnt for the rest of his life. He also kept, as a grim souvenir, the suit of clothes he'd been wearing when he escaped from the Hindenburg.

His medical treatment, however, ended up being costly. All told, his hospital bills totaled $37,000. He did eventually receive compensation of $5,000 from the German government, but that was hardly ample enough to cover Mangone's medical costs. Luckily, however, Mangone's business continued to thrive and it's unlikely that he wanted for money. Mangone continued his regular business trips to Europe, and especially Paris. The last time he was there before WWII, in 1940, he stayed until mid-May – thirty days before Paris fell to the Nazis. During WWII, Mangone designed the uniform and coat worn by the Women's Army Corps. He continued producing clothing designs after the war, many of which incorporated elements of his wartime military designs. In 1946, Mangone won Fashion Trades magazine's Gold Thimble award as one of the country's top ten designers, based on national polling of retailers. He continued to exhibit at trade shows and charity fashion shows throughout the rest of his life.

Philip Mangone passed away on December 6th, 1957, at the age of 73.

Philip Mangone in his later years.

(Special thanks to Philip Mangone's granddaughter Joan Ruffalo, as well as to Nick Mangone, Philip Mangone, and Philip Zies, grand-nephews of Philip Mangone, for their help in piecing together Philip's story.)

Clifford L. Osbun

Passenger

Age: 39

Residence: Park Ridge, IL

Occupation: Sales Manager - Oliver Farm Equipment Co.

Location at time of fire: Passenger decks - portside dining salon

Survived


Clifford Leroy Osbun was born in Nevada, OH on September 3^rd, 1897. An alumnus of Purdue University in Lafayette, IN, where he had been a member of the Alpha Gamma Rho agricultural fraternity, Osbun had worked for the Oliver Farm Equipment Company since shortly after his graduation in 1923. Initially, Osbun took a position in the advertising department when the company was still known as the Oliver Chilled Plow Works, based in South Bend, Indiana.

By 1926 Osbun had moved over to the export sales division, where he could make better use of his genial, outgoing nature. In late June of hat same year, Osbun married Irene Miller, an artist in Oliver’s ad department. Their first daughter, Jean, was born two years later. When Oliver Chilled Plow Works merged with three other farm equipment companies to form the Oliver Farm Equipment Company in 1929, Clifford Osbun remained with the newly expanded organization. He moved his family to Chicago, where he worked out of the new Oliver sales office at 400 W. Madison St. From 1933 onward, Osbun served as the company’s Export Sales Manager.

Clifford Osbun’s work frequently took him out of the country, particularly to South America and the Caribbean islands. Throughout the early-mid 1930s, Osbun often traveled via Pan American Airways’ growing network of Central- and South American routes, which provided much speedier service to the region than the steamship lines. However, the new fleet of flying boats that Pan Am used for their Latin America line was not without its teething troubles. In 1936, Osbun was on his way to Buenos Aires when the seaplane in which he was flying had to make a forced landing in the ocean near Puerto Rico. Osbun survived the crash unscathed, and was rescued along with the airplane’s other occupants by a small launch - not long after which the boat’s engine exploded. Despite two other passengers being seriously burned in the boat fire, Osbun himself was uninjured.

At the beginning of May, 1937, Clifford Osbun was on his way home from a three-month business trip that had taken him to South America, England, and Germany. He opted to book passage on the Hindenburg, which left on its first North American flight of 1937 on the evening of May 3rd. Osbun was one of four Chicagoans aboard the voyage, the others being Burtis J. Dolan, Nelson Morris, and Herbert J. O'Laughlin.

Like his fellow Chicagoan, Bert Dolan, Osbun had not told his wife that he was flying home aboard the Hindenburg. All they knew was that he was due home on Sunday, May 9th – Mother’s Day. He had, however sent his sister, Hattie Mae Austin, a postcard from Copenhagen the previous week in which he mentioned his plans to return to the United States via zeppelin. 

Clifford Osbun (right, facing camera) aboard the Hindenburg during its last flight. Fellow passengers Ernst Rudolf Anders (lower center, with binoculars) and Moritz Feibusch (left, silhouetted against upright post) are sightseeing through the ship's observation windows. (Image taken from home movies shot during the Hindenburg's last flight by fellow passenger Joseph Spah.)

As the Hindenburg came in to land at Lakehurst at the end of the flight on May 6^th, 1937, Osbun was apparently standing with Philip Mangone and several other passengers at the windows of the starboard observation deck alongside the lounge and the reading and writing room, talking about their voyage and watching the landing maneuver.

When the ship caught fire shortly afterwards, Osbun was able to get to a window, but he didn't remember exactly how he escaped. He later said, "I didn't jump. I know I didn't jump. I didn't know what happened. I can't describe it. I seemed to be dead and alive at the same time." Osbun most likely waited until the ship was on the ground, and then picked his way through the web of duralumin beams and steel wires in his path. When he came to his senses, Osbun found himself standing about 30 feet away from the wreckage, alongside of fellow passenger Philip Mangone,who had just finished digging his way out of the glowing mass of girders. The two men stared numbly at the twisted remains of the Hindenburg, later relating to a reporter,  "and as we looked at it, it was burning to cinders."

When rescuers found Osbun, he was bleeding "as though he'd been punched in the mouth" and was burned on his hands, but other than that he seemed to be uninjured. Along with Mangone and Joseph Spah, another passenger, Osbun was part of a very short list of survivors that went out across the wire services in the first hour following the disaster. He was taken to Paul Kimball Hospital in nearby Lakewood.

Osbun's family, of course, initially feared the worst when they heard of the disaster. This was compounded when some early news reports mistakenly listed Osbun as either missing or dead, while others included him among the reported survivors. At their home in Park Ridge, IL, Osbun’s wife stayed up late into the night with their three daughters, (Jean, 10, Suzanne, 5, and Sally, 3), anxiously awaiting word as to whether or not he was alive. Finally, the family received a wire from Osbun himself. Having learned of the conflicting news reports, he wryly telegraphed his wife, “Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.”

Irene Osbun took a train out to New Jersey the very next day to meet her husband at the hospital in Lakewood. Interviewed by reporters as she boarded the train in Chicago, Mrs. Osbun said "I'm so happy, so terribly happy that he was saved. At first we believed that he wasn't."

Irene Osbun on the train to Lakewood, NJ
to see her husband following the disaster.

Osbun’s injuries initially seemed superficial, primarily bruises and burns to his hands and face, and he expected to be released from the hospital and on his way home to Chicago within a few days. However, his condition began to worsen over the weekend. In addition to the burns and bruises, he was also suffering from smoke inhalation. As he crawled to safety through collapsed girders and wires, Osbun had evidently breathed in a large amount of the thick, greasy smoke that billowed from the ship’s burning fuel oil tanks, damaging his lungs. Complications quickly developed, likely from septic shock, which affected his heart and his kidneys. His skin beginning to yellow from jaundice, Osbun was given blood transfusions and placed into an oxygen tent in an attempt to improve his heart function.

Osbun was strong enough to speak with reporters on Monday, May 10th, telling them with characteristic cheerfulness, “I am recovering rapidly and hope to go home soon.” In fact, it was nearly a month before he was healthy enough to return to his Vine Avenue home in Park Ridge, IL. He had narrowly escaped death for the second time in a year, but this time it took a physical toll on him. Osbun’s lungs were slow to heal from the smoke damage, and talkative and gregarious as he was, he sometimes found himself having to slow down and catch his breath when his conversation grew too animated. His burned hands also continued to pain him, and he wore light gloves in public for some time following the disaster.

Once he had sufficiently recovered from his injuries, Clifford Osbun resumed his travels on behalf of the Oliver Farm Equipment Company. In January of 1941, just after the new year, Osbun left for an extended business trip to Central and South America, which included visits to Argentina (where Osbun was considering moving his family) and Cuba. While in Cuba, just before he planned to return home, Osbun took ill and was admitted to the Anglo-American Hospital in Havana. His condition was serious enough that the hospital contacted his wife, Irene, who left immediately for Cuba. Mechanical problems on two different airplanes delayed her arrival, however, and she was unable to reach Havana in time.

In the early morning hours of April 14, 1941, Clifford Osbun passed away at the age of 43 from complications related to chronic nephritis, a kidney ailment. Newspaper obituaries made a point of mentioning that Osbun had been in poor health since the Hindenburg crash, but it is unclear whether or not this contributed to his death.

Erich Spehl

Crew Member

Age: 26

Hometown: Göschweiler, Germany

Crew designation: Rigger

Location at time of fire: Mooring shelf in bow

Died in naval station's infirmary


Erich Spehl was born on December 5th, 1910 on a small family farm in the Black Forest village of Göschweiler. His mother died when he was young, his father later remarried, and eventually Spehl was part of a family of nine children. When he was 18 he left the farm and took an apprenticeship with a saddler and upholsterer named Karl Gratwohl in the village of Markdorf, near Friedrichshafen. Spehl spent the next three years learning the saddler's trade. By the time Spehl was ready to go out on his own, however, the Great Depression had hit Germany and like millions of other Germans, he could not find steady employment. He spent the next couple of years as an itinerant laborer, and finally enlisted for a one-year stint in the new Nazi government's labor corps.

After his government service had ended, in 1934, Spehl managed to find a job with the Luftschiffbau Zeppelin in Friedrichshafen. This was likely due in part to the fact that his father had been a member of the Nazi party since the 1920s, and had the connections that such a long-time association would tend to bring. But since Spehl quickly moved from a job in the airship construction facility to a position as a rigger with the crew of the LZ-127 Graf Zeppelin, his success at the Zeppelin Company was almost certainly based primarily on his own merits and abilities. And in fact, a note from his employment record from shortly after Spehl joined the Graf Zeppelin's crew states, "He dedicates himself to his new job with great care and enthusiasm."

Erich Spehl first flew as a rigger on the Graf Zeppelin on a flight to South America in November of 1934. He learned the rigger's trade under the tutelage of Chief Rigger Ludwig Knorr, a Zeppelin Company "old-timer" who had been an airship rigger since before the first World War. The skills Spehl had learned during his saddler's apprenticeship, particularly those involving needle and thread, served him well as a rigger and he learned to maintain and repair the Graf Zeppelin's outer cover, its ballast bags and control cables, and its huge gas cells.

Erich Spehl looking out porthole on starboard side of the Hindenburg's lower tail fin, near emergency control stand.

When the Zeppelin Company completed the LZ-129 Hindenburg in 1936, Spehl was transferred to the new ship where he continued to serve under Chief Knorr. He was aboard the Hindenburg's maiden flight on March 4th, 1936 and flew on most, if not all, of the ship's flights for the remainder of the year, including seven round-trip flights to South America and ten round-trip flights to the United States.

Erich Spehl (l.) and unidentified crewman on mooring shelf of the Hindenburg during a landing at Lakehurst, NJ, 1936.

Erich Spehl (r.) and Chief Engineer Rudolf Sauter (l.) pose atop the mooring mast at Lakehurst, 1936.

Spehl, whose father passed away in 1936, would still visit his family in Göschweiler when he had free time in between flights. A shy young man, Spehl would speak occasionally with his family and closest friends of his experiences on the Zeppelins and of his journeys across the sea to Rio and New York. He was, however, very proud to be a member of a Zeppelin crew.

During the winter of 1936-1937, the Hindenburg made no flights and was instead laid up in its hangar for a winter overhaul. Erich Spehl, along with a number of his fellow crewmates, served out eight weeks of compulsory military service during this time. Because of their position as members of a Zeppelin crew, and since the Zeppelin Company fell under the purview of the Reich Air Ministry, Spehl and his comrades were allowed to do their time at boot camp with a Luftwaffe unit. They were all back aboard the Hindenburg, however, when flights commenced in March of 1937.

Erich Spehl was aboard the Hindenburg for its first North American flight of 1937, which began in Frankfurt on the evening of May 3rd. As usual, Spehl's chief was Ludwig Knorr, and the two of them rotated watches with fellow rigger Hans Freund. The flight proceeded smoothy, without incident. On the evening of May 6th, Spehl finished his last two-hour watch of the flight at 6:00 PM and went to the crew's mess for dinner. The Hindenburg approached the landing field at Lakehurst, NJ about an hour later, and when the signal for landing stations was sounded shortly after 7:00 PM, Spehl went forward to the mooring shelf at the tip of the ship's bow. Here, he would man the telephone extension to the control car and relay orders to the other three men (helmsman Alfred Bernhardt, elevatorman Kurt Bauer, and senior elevatorman Ernst Huchel) who were tasked with dropping the landing ropes and winching down the thick steel mooring cable.

Shortly after the four men arrived at their landing station, elevatorman trainee Ludwig Felber was sent forward on orders from the watch officer, and he replaced Bauer, who climbed down from the mooring shelf and found a spot about a hundred feet aft along the lower keel where he watched the landing through a hatch. About five minutes later, several more crewmen were sent forward to help trim the ship for landing, and several took positions alongside the stairs leading to the mooring shelf, just below Spehl and the others.

Erich Spehl's approximate location at the time of the fire.
(Hindenburg structural diagram courtesy of David Fowler)

A few minutes later, the Hindenburg caught fire and almost immediately began to tilt steeply aft. Fire came shooting forward through the gas cells and along the axial catwalk, which ended just behind the mooring shelf. Spehl and the others were right in the path of this huge pillar of flame and were immediately engulfed by the fire. Most of the other men nearby leaped through the burning outer cover and fell to their immediate deaths. Spehl, along with Felber and Bernhardt, somehow managed to hold on and survive the initial crash, and the three men were pulled from the wreck by rescuers.

Erich Spehl, still alive but horribly burned, was taken to the air station's infirmary. As he lay in one of the beds, he managed to communicate to one of the attendants that he wished to send a telegram to his girlfriend back in Frankfurt. The attendant searched through the infirmary for somebody who spoke both German and English, so that the telegram could be written down and sent as soon as possible. Passenger Joseph Spah, slightly injured, returned with the attendant to Spehl's bedside, and copied down the address. Spehl then managed to dictate a two-word message: "Ich lebe." ("I live.") However, as Spah turned to go and send the message, Erich Spehl passed away.

His body was taken back to Germany and buried in Göschweiler.

Erich Spehl's grave in Göschweiler

Approximately 25 years after the Hindenburg disaster, a theory that the Hindenburg had been sabotaged was published in A.A. Hoehling's book "Who Destroyed The Hindenburg?", and Erich Spehl was named as the alleged saboteur. Ten years later, author Michael Mooney, writing a tie-in book for a planned Hollywood feature film about the Hindenburg disaster, repeated and expanded upon Hoehling's sabotage theory. In short, it was alleged that Erich Spehl had planted a time bomb next to one of the gas cells in the aft section of the ship, intending that it detonate after landing (and in front of American reporters) in order to gain international exposure for the German anti-Nazi resistance movement of which, it was further claimed, Spehl and his girlfriend were a part.

The accusation that Erich Spehl was a saboteur who destroyed the Hindenburg was and remains absolutely baseless and without merit. Hoehling based his theory on the thinnest of circumstantial evidence, half-truths, and cherry-picked fragments of eyewitness testimony, all designed to support a sabotage theory that, it was hoped, would sell books. Key figures interviewed by Hoehling subsequently disputed Hoehling's conclusions as well as his interpretation of some of their own statements. Hoehling himself was, in his own book, only able to offer Spehl as a potential saboteur, so shaky was the ground on which his theory had been constructed.

Mooney, despite presenting his book as a work of non-fiction, merely took Hoehling's work and added layer upon layer of fictionalization, effectively turning Erich Spehl into a character from a pulp novel. While Mooney implied that he had done extensive interviews in Germany, it turned out that he had spoken only briefly (and through a translator who spoke very little German) with a single relative of Erich Spehl - a sister-in-law who had married Spehl's older brother some time after the Hindenburg disaster. From this, Mooney concocted a fanciful back story for Spehl that seems to have existed primarily in Mooney's own imagination, and which was once again designed to sell books (and also, given Mooney's movie deal, to sell movie tickets.)

Unfortunately, these two books and the movie were enough to link Erich Spehl's name with the concept of a sabotage plot in a number of subsequent publications and documentaries - though few (if any) serious students of airship history have ever granted the theory the least bit of legitimacy. Research into the process by which the Erich Spehl sabotage story was originally constructed has shown that the theory was, to put it mildly, essentially an act of libel.

Special thanks to Herr Manfred Sauter of the Freundeskreis zur Förderung des Zeppelin Museums e.V., whose memorial article on the Hindenburg crew members who lost their lives at Lakehurst (Zeppelin Brief, No. 59, June 2011) provided additional details on Spehl's career, and to Dr. Cheryl Ganz for providing me with a copy of the article.

Passengers aboard LZ 129 Hindenburg - May 3-6, 1937

The following is a list of the 36 passengers aboard the Hindenburg on its last flight, with links to the biographic articles for each.

Those who died as a result of the crash are listed in italics.



Leonhard Adelt
Berlin, Germany
Journalist







Gertrud Adelt
Berlin, Germany
Journalist






Ernst Rudolf Anders
Dresden, Germany
Co-owner - Teekanne Co.







Ferdinand Lammot "Peter" Belin
Washington, D.C
Student








Birger Brinck
Stockholm, Sweden
Journalist







Karl Otto Clemens
Bonn, Germany
Photographer







Hermann Doehner
Mexico City, Mexico
General Manager - Beick, Felix y Compania







Matilde Doehner
Mexico City, Mexico








Irene Doehner
Mexico City, Mexico








Walter Doehner
Mexico City, Mexico








Werner Doehner
Mexico City, Mexico








Burtis J. Dolan
Chicago, IL
Vice President - Lelong Importing Co.








Edward Douglas
Newark, NJ
Director of European Operations - McCann/Erickson Corp.







Colonel Fritz Erdmann
Halle an der Saale, Germany
German Luftwaffe






Otto Ernst
Hamburg, Germany
Seed trader






Elsa Ernst
Hamburg, Germany







Moritz Feibusch
San Francisco, CA
Food broker







George Grant
London, England
Assistant manager - Wm. H. Müller & Co.






Lieutenant Claus Hinkelbein
Schwäbisch Hall, Germany
German Luftwaffe








George Hirschfeld
Bremen, Germany
Cotton broker








Marie Kleemann
Bad Homburg, Germany







Erich Knöcher
Zeulenroda, Germany
Wire manufacturer







William Leuchtenberg
Larchmont, NY
President - Alpha-Lux Co.







Philip Mangone
New York, NY
Clothing designer







Margaret Mather
Rome, Italy
Heiress







Nelson Morris
Homewood, IL
Executive - Armour and Co.







Herbert O'Laughlin
Elgin, IL
President - Consumers Coal and Coke Co. of Elgin, IL







Clifford Osbun
Park Ridge, IL
Sales Manager - Oliver Farm Equipment Co.







John Pannes
Plandome, NY
New York manager - Hamburg-America Line








Emma Pannes
Plandome, NY







Otto Reichhold
Vienna, Austria
Manager - Beck, Koller & Co.







Joseph Spah
Douglaston, Long Island, NY
Vaudeville acrobat/comedian







Emil Stöckle
Frankfurt, Germany
Mail Inspector - Deutsche Zeppelin Reederei







Hans Vinholt
Copenhagen, Denmark
Retired businessman






Rolf von Heidenstam
Stockholm, Sweden
Executive, AGA Group







Major Hans-Hugo Witt
Barth-in-Pommern, Germany
German Luftwaffe,