Script

There have been tales throughout history of daring individuals who defied convention in pursuit of adventure, fortune, or simply the thrill of the unknown. As the 20th century dawned and humanity took to the skies, a new frontier emerged—one where the risks were amplified by altitude and the vastness of the skies. It was in this era of pioneering aviation that one young man's audacious act would etch his name into the annals of history, not as a celebrated designer or pilot, but as the world's first airship stowaway.

This account unfolds against the backdrop of the Roaring Twenties, a time when technological marvels like the airship promised to shrink the world, bridging continents with graceful giants of the sky. It involves a colossal Zeppelin, a transatlantic voyage fraught with storms and uncertainty, and a curly-haired youth whose impulsive decision transformed him into an international sensation. Clarence Terhune, a 19-year-old from humble origins, whose escapade aboard the Graf Zeppelin in 1928 highlights the era's blend of optimism and recklessness.  Perhaps I love the story most because it was accomplished with a sense of bravado that we would all do well to incorporate into our lives.

I’m MF Thomas and this is My Dark Path through the fringes of history and the unexplained.

To grasp the magnitude of Terhune's feat, one must first understand the Graf Zeppelin itself—a behemoth of engineering that embodied the ambitions of post-World War I Germany. Designated LZ 127 and named in honor of Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin, the pioneer of rigid airships, this silver leviathan stretched an astonishing 776 feet in length, surpassing the span of two modern Boeing 747s end to end, and towered 100 feet high, equivalent to a nine-story building. Its massive envelope, filled with over 3.7 million cubic feet of hydrogen gas contained within 17 enormous cells, provided the buoyancy for flight, while five Maybach engines, each producing 530 horsepower, propelled it at speeds up to 80 miles per hour. Constructed by the Zeppelin Company in Friedrichshafen under the direction of Dr. Hugo Eckener, who had succeeded the Count after his death in 1917, the Graf was not merely a mode of transport but a symbol of resurgence for a nation humbled by the Treaty of Versailles, which had initially banned such constructions.  I visited the Von Zeppelin library and archives this last year to research this story and others.  I came away amazed by the audacity of Von Zeppelin’s vision and power of his execution.

The airship's gondola, a 98-foot-long passenger cabin suspended beneath the hull, offered luxuries unheard of in earlier Zeppelins. Gone were the spartan accommodations of wartime models; in their place were an elegant lounge with panoramic windows, a dining room serving gourmet meals on fine china, and ten private cabins accommodating 20 to 24 passengers in relative comfort. Travelers enjoyed promenades along slanted viewing galleries, gramophone music wafting through the air, and even electric stoves in the galley for preparing hot meals. Yet, this opulence came with caveats: the unheated interior required passengers to bundle in coats and blankets against the chill of high altitudes, and the constant hum of engines provided a ceaseless soundtrack. Over its operational life from 1928 to 1937, the Graf would complete 590 flights, including 144 ocean crossings, logging over a million miles and carrying thousands of passengers, along with 8.8 million pieces of mail.

The Graf's maiden transatlantic voyage in October 1928 marked a milestone, departing Friedrichshafen on October 11 and arriving at Lakehurst Naval Air Station in New Jersey after a grueling 111-hour journey plagued by storms that damaged the port fin. Commanded by Eckener, a psychologist-turned-journalist-turned-airship tycoon and pilot, the flight carried 20 passengers—including notable figures like Lady Grace Drummond-Hay, the first woman to cross the Atlantic by air—and a crew of 40. Their arrival on October 15 was met with ticker-tape parades in New York, where crowds hailed the Zeppelin as a harbinger of a new era in travel. For two weeks, the airship underwent repairs and inspections at Lakehurst, its presence drawing throngs of sightseers and dignitaries eager to glimpse this floating marvel.

It was during this period of anticipation for the return flight that Clarence Terhune, a young man from St. Louis, Missouri, conceived his bold plan. Born around 1909 into a working-class family, Terhune's early life was shaped by the vibrant yet challenging environment of his hometown. St. Louis, host to the 1904 World's Fair, buzzed with innovation and opportunity, but for a boy like Clarence, the allure lay in exploration beyond the city's limits.

By his mid-teens, around 1923, Terhune had already embarked on a series of daring escapades. Inspired by tales of adventurers like Jack London, whose stories of Alaskan wilderness and seafaring ignited his imagination, he began hopping freight trains across the Midwest, blending with hobos and migrants who were also traveling the rails. These journeys honed his skills in evasion, teaching him to survive under very challenging conditions. Not content with mere travel, Terhune developed a penchant for gate-crashing major events, slipping into sporting arenas to witness history firsthand. He infiltrated the boxing matches between Gene Tunney and Jack Dempsey in Philadelphia in 1926 and Chicago in 1927, evading guards and ticket-takers with cunning precision. "I just want to see the world," he would later say, a simple creed that drove his actions.

As the 1920s progressed, Terhune's ambitions expanded to the seas. In September 1927, he stowed away on the S.S. Alameda bound for Nome, Alaska, enduring the cold Pacific swells hidden in cargo holds. Arriving in the rugged frontier, he immersed himself in the lingering echoes of the gold rush, surviving on wits and odd jobs. Later that year, he boarded the S.S. Malolo on its maiden voyage from San Francisco to Honolulu, Hawaii, reveling in the tropical paradise of swaying palms and volcanic landscapes. These maritime forays refined his survival instincts, from rationing food to blending with crews, preparing him for greater challenges.

Then in 1928 tragedy struck – not as result of his adventures but when his father, Charles, killed his mother before taking his own life—a devastating event that occurred while Clarence was at sea on one of his earlier voyages. His sister Edna and her husband took on responsibility for the still young man, but Terhune clashed with their expectations of stability.

Soon after the death of his parents, Terhune relocated to Rye, New York, working as a golf caddy at a prestigious Westchester County club. Lugging bags for the wealthy elite, he eavesdropped on tales of exotic travels, fueling his restlessness. Saving about $50—roughly $900 in today's terms—he confided in his brother-in-law and laid a wager of $25 that he could outdo his previous feats by stowing away on an aircraft.

Aviation, epitomized by Charles Lindbergh's 1927 solo transatlantic flight, represented the ultimate frontier. When news of the Graf Zeppelin's arrival in Lakehurst flooded the headlines, Terhune saw his opportunity. Hitchhiking the 120 miles from Rye, he arrived at the naval air station, his friends at the club assuming he was heading west to California.

The night of October 29, 1928, found Lakehurst abuzz in preparation for the Graf Zeppelin’s return to Germany. Under floodlights, a crowd of spectators, journalists, and dignitaries gathered in the chill autumn air, their breath forming misty clouds as they awaited the Zeppelin's departure. The massive hangar doors opened, revealing the silver giant, its envelope gleaming.

Unseen amid the chaos, Terhune lurked in the shadows of the hangar. Exploiting the distraction, he slipped aboard—perhaps through an underside port or a momentarily unguarded gondola hatch.  Navigating the airship's internal corridors between the massive gas cells, he made his way to the mail room, concealing himself among sacks bulging with letters and postcards.

Then, the ground crew towed the airship into position as engines hummed to life, their resonant thrum echoing across the field. At 1:24 a.m., mooring lines dropped, and the Graf Zeppelin ascended gracefully, cheers rising from below as it turned eastward over the dark Atlantic.

As the Zeppelin lifted off, Terhune's heart raced with a mix of exhilaration and trepidation, the ground falling away below as the adventure began.

For the initial hours, Terhune remained hidden, his body cramped in the dim, chilly compartment. The airship encountered fierce gales as it flew back towards Germany, veering 200 miles off course toward Newfoundland, its frame groaning under the strain. Winds howled outside, the ocean churned menacingly below, and Terhune endured hunger and cold, shivering silently amid the mail.

Passenger Lady Grace Drummond-Hay's accounts of the trip painted a vivid picture of the discomfort that the passengers felt: "Merciless cold driving through the canvas walls... leather coats, woollies and furs will be our evening dress." For Terhune, without even those luxuries, the ordeal was far more grueling.

But for Terhune, his distress would not last the whole trip.  Discovery came around October 30 or 31, a day into the voyage. Accounts vary, but it is believed that radioman Ernst Fischer or steward Max Pruss entered the mail room to inspect cargo and spotted the curly-haired youth peeking from his hiding spot. Hauled before Captain Eckener, Terhune faced the stern commander, known for his disciplined leadership forged through wartime training and relentless advocacy for airships.  Terhune didn’t know this, but Eckener’s crew knew of his strick temperament.

Yet, Eckener, mindful of the voyage's publicity value—with dignitaries and journalists aboard—responded with measured amusement rather than fury. As a former journalist himself, he recognized the potential for scandal: what security lapses occurred to allow this young man to sneak aboard the Graf Zeppelin.  But Eckener also saw the upside of treating this young man with both firmness and kindness.  And so, he imposed a practical punishment: Terhune would work to earn his keep.

Escorted to the galley—a compact kitchen equipped with electric stoves and serving areas—Terhune was assigned menial tasks under the chef's supervision. Peeling potatoes for the crew's meals, washing dishes from the luxurious dining service, scrubbing pots, and fetching supplies, he toiled in the steamy confines, his hands raw from labor. The flight stretched to 111 hours due to storms, testing the Zeppelin's limits off Portugal's coast. Terhune caught glimpses of the drama: engines straining, passengers bundled against the cold, the vast ocean churning below. Interactions with the crew were sparse, their views a mix of curiosity and sympathy for the young intruder.

As the airship neared Europe, radio transmissions leaked news of the stowaway, igniting international buzz. Newspapers speculated on his fate, dubbing him a "curly-headed adventurer." Eckener radioed ahead, framing the incident as a youthful prank to mitigate any negative publicity.

Shortly before dawn on November 1, the Graf Zeppelin descended to Friedrichshafen amid cheering crowds and waving flags. Terhune, emerging from his galley duties, was immediately detained by German police for entering without a passport. Fines for this act ranged from 20 to 10,000 marks—an insurmountable sum for a caddy. Yet, Germany embraced him as a folk hero, charmed by his audacity, celebrating his spirit even as they celebrated the accomplishments of the Graf Zeppelin and its crew.

Telegrams poured in from across the country: job offers from department stores, invitations to tame lions at zoos, pleas from schools for him to study commerce. Schoolchildren brought flowers, and 14 girls sent marriage proposals. Zeppelin’s daughter, Countess Helene von Brandenburg-Zeppelin invited him to her castle.

The Weimar Republic's authorities, perhaps influenced by American Consul John Kehl from Stuttgart, opted for leniency, imposing a nominal $5 fine that could be waived if Terhune proved penniless. With a substitute passport granting free movement, he basked in adulation, signing autographs and bowing from windows to fans, police standing by approvingly.  Kehl, though stood by, ensuring the young American stayed on script.

After a week of celebrity, thoughts turned homeward. Escorted by Kehl, Terhune boarded a train for France on November 6. In Paris, reporters hounded him; he denied rumors that his stunt was orchestrated by the Zeppelin company to further hype up the transatlantic trip.  Terhune did express disappointment that he was afforded little time to see Paris. On November 7, he and six other Zeppelin passengers sailed first-class on the SS Île-de-France, a luxurious contrast to his stowaway berth.

Arriving in New York on November 15, Terhune and the other passengers were feted at City Hall by Mayor James Walker.  Walker, who was fighting for political survival amid multiple scandals,  quipped that he might soon want to adopt Terhune’s methods of escape. The New York Times noted Terhune's hatless, coatless appearance among the wealth exuded by the paying passengers.  And from that moment, Terhune slipped from world-wide fandom back into anonymity.

Post-fame, the records are sparse.  Terhune likely returned to Missouri.  If he continued to gate crash events and stowaway on ships and trains, we have no record.  The media spotlight moved to other subjects.  Reports suggest he died in 1987 at age 79 in St. Louis.

Yet his legacy as the first aerial stowaway endures, symbolizing the era's optimism. In an age of aviation's dawn, his journey proved even the humblest could soar.  And, as we contemplate his story, when we seek adventure, do we court glory or peril?

I’m MF Thomas and thank you for joining me in this episode of My Dark Path and exploring the dark corners of the world with me.  Until next time my friends, good night.