The thermometer at Washington National was already pushing 90 degrees when the president's limousine crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge and turned onto the Mount Vernon Parkway. Harry Truman sat in the back scanning the morning papers. The Washington Post had a story about David Greenglass, the former army sergeant charged with espionage for his part in the Fuchs spy ring. The New York Times had a story about the Hollywood Ten refusing to cooperate with the House Un-American Activities Committee. A federal judge had just denied their pleas for acquittal. The stories were all part of the ongoing saga of betrayal and infiltration that the president faced every day: Communist regimes were springing up around the globe while at home anti-Communist paranoia was reaching fever pitch. "Better Dead than Red" was the slogan of the moment. It was June 1950 and times were tense. The American way of life seemed in jeopardy.

While the president's plane taxied to the runway, all other flights in and out of National were put on hold. It was a DC-6, painted red, white and blue, decorated with eagle feathers on its tail and officially called the Independence after Truman's home town in Missouri. Among the press corps, the plane was known as the "Flying White House," the prototype for Air Force One. Like FDR, Truman was accustomed to flying. As a Senator, he had flown frequently back and forth to Washington from Kansas City.

The DC-6 turned at the far end of National's longest runway, revved its four engines, and set off on its short flight north to Baltimore where Truman was scheduled to dedicate a new airport. The president looked up from his reading and glanced out the window. He could see a battalion of dark clouds building up on the western horizon. He had been briefed about a system of violent thunder storms reeking havoc across the country and an air accident that had happened near Milwaukee that morning. The details weren't available yet, but he worried that there would be many more such accidents. The skies were getting much too crowded. New controls and federal standards were long overdue.

The plane landed at Baltimore's Friendship Airport at 11 AM. The U.S. Marine Corps Band struck up "Hail to the Chief" as the Independence taxied towards the reviewing stand. There were welcoming speeches by the Mayor of Baltimore, Thomas D'Alesandro, and the Governor of Maryland, William Preston Lane. The humidity was oppressive and the crowds moved listlessly in and out of the new terminal, which was draped with red, white and blue bunting. "Good Night Irene," one of the most popular songs of the period, played over the loudspeaker system.

The dedication ceremony was the high point of an entire week of special events. There were concerts, exhibitions, and special flights for handicapped children. Aviation movies played continuously in the terminal hall. Pretty models glided across the tarmac wearing "Fashions for Flight" and Mayor D'Alesandro presented a collection of TV sets to the director of a children's hospital. In his welcoming speech, the mayor explained how the new airport was a miracle of engineering, planning and cooperation between federal, state and municipal governments. It was the perfect site for an international airport--only ten miles south of Baltimore and thirty miles north of Washington D.C. A new super-highway was almost complete which would cut the driving time to only 15 minutes from Baltimore and 35 minutes from Washington.

The site, said D'Alesandro, had also been chosen because it had the least amount of fog on the east coast. The white cuboid terminal was designed by James R. Edmunds at a cost of $3,724,000 and had over an acre of interior floor space. The architecture was austere and had something of the clunky demeanor of a battle ship--fitting its role as the first airport of the Cold War. A long, narrow boarding dock projected from the center of the building and a nine-story control tower--the highest in the country--rose above it. The interior of Friendship's terminal was a showcase of American enterprise, packed with the kind of concessions that were becoming standard at all airports. There was a fancy restaurant, a cocktail lounge, conference rooms, and game rooms with pin ball machines and slot machines. There was also a children's nursery, a barber and beauty shop, a bank, and a book store.

The archbishop of Baltimore gave the blessing and prayed for peace. The president kept his own speech short--exactly eight minutes--but his message was timely. His theme was peace. No one wanted to go to war with the Russians or the Chinese. Americans were sick of war. "We would not build so elaborate a facility for our air commerce," said Truman, "if we did not have faith in a peaceful future." The dedication brochure was illustrated with a white dove and reinforced this sentiment. Even the name of the new airport had been chosen in the spirit of peace.

As soon as the speeches were finished, the president's plane continued on to Missouri. The pilot skirted the worst of the thunderstorms and made a safe landing at Kansas City, but later in the day Truman learned the full story of the accident that happened near Milwaukee that morning. It was much worse than at first reported. All fifty-eight passengers and crew were killed when a Northwest Airlines plane crashed into Lake Michigan. It was the worst air disaster in American history and Truman went to bed haunted by the image of charred bodies washing ashore. He was just starting to fall asleep when the phone rang. There was more bad news. This time it was the Secretary of State, Dean Acheson. He informed the president that the North Korean army had just crossed the 38th parallel and invaded South Korea.

Prologue | Prototypes | Jet-Doric | Astroway | Epilogue