Air University Review, September-October 1983

Technology and Modern Leadership:
Charles Lindbergh, A Case Study

The current controversy over technical specialization as a detriment to military leadership has crystallized a basic split between so-called warriors and technocrats. Perhaps the time has come to place this controversy in its twentieth-century context: to identify it as a microcosm of the larger schism between science and human values in the national arena. A broad review of the issues and a brief study of one historical figure who bridged this apparent gap—Charles A. Lindbergh—may offer a model for military professionals on opposite sides of the question to resolve their differences. In any event, dualistic distinctions must be reconciled before contemporary "great warriors" can integrate essential technical knowledge with ethical values that support war-fighting capability.

People who lament the influence of technology on military leadership usually think in "either-or" terms. For instance, Project Warrior highlights war-fighting characteristics based on values such as courage and loyalty but downplays management and technical specialization. Lieutenant Colonel Donald Baucom has expressed concern about the displacement of "warriors and warrior-leaders" by "legions of managers, engineers, technicians, and bureaucrats".¹ Another example may be the use of Samuel Huntington’s The Soldier and the State as a text at Air Force professional military education schools, since Huntington stresses the management of violence in the military profession and denigrates technical specialties as "auxiliary vocations."² A third indication of dualistic thinking is the argument about simplicity versus complexity in Air Force weapons, which was a "hot item" in 1981 and 1982. Although "gold-plating" of systems, or designing to wishes rather than needs, is a problem in the acquisition cycle, no amount of nostalgia for a pretechnical world will overcome a real, existing threat. As General Robert T. Marsh, Commander of Air Force Systems Command, points out, reasonable complexity is justified if it pays off in mission effectiveness. Yet if these sophisticated systems do not result in high performance and improved capability, advocates of complexity share the naiveté of people who say "simple is better."³ Once again, however, extreme points of view seem to dominate this discussion. Generally, the typical identification of leadership as an art and people as its medium suggests that leadership is at odds with technology, which consists of "things" to be managed (i.e., force to be controlled). Although this reaction to bureaucratic and technical complexity is understandable, it will be a liability in the high-technology environment of the future.

The antitechnology ideas of current movements toward simplicity and war-fighting skills reflect a classic bifurcation between science and human values, first identified in America by Henry Adams. In The Education of Henry Adams, he suggested that the unifying moral force of medieval Christianity had given way to a multiplistic force characterized by the dynamo, or flywheel-driven generator, displayed at the Chicago Exposition of 1893. This electromechanical device, quietly and perpetually humming, seemed to generate a force totally independent of human qualities. Adams recognized that these inner and outer forces theoretically should be traceable to a common center, but he also knew that they have always been differentiated and opposed in human experience. He predicted that modern industrial society would worship at the dynamo rather than the statue of the Virgin and would thus establish the supremacy of mechanistic principles over the intuitive unity of religion and moral values.⁴ Subsequent industrialization and urbanization in America appeared to validate this prediction. As technology has led to pollution, destructive weapons, and massive invasions of human privacy, however, it has become increasingly difficult for some people to worship science. According to Robert Pirsig, well-known lecturer and author of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, people see the force that gives rise to technology as something undefined but inhuman, mechanical, lifeless—something that makes them "mass people" and dehumanized strangers in their own land.⁵ This dilemma has resulted in a population largely divided between those who reject or fear technology as an immoral force and those who immerse themselves in technology without concern for its ultimate impact.

Since a major task of this century has been to reconcile technology and human values, genuine contemporary great warriors must continue this reconciliation rather than reject or attempt to escape it. As Jacob Bronowski has observed, "We live in a world which is penetrated through and through by science and which is both whole and real. We cannot turn it into a game simply by taking sides."⁶ Bronowski has shown the similarities between science and other humanistic pursuits and called for bridging of the gaps in such attitudes.

Robert Pirsig believes that hatred or fear of technology is self-defeating and suggests that the "Godhead" resides just as comfortably in the circuits of a digital computer as in the petals of a flower or the soul of mankind. On a more secular level, Pirsig suggests that a sense of quality exists at the top of the world hierarchy and stimulates people, through their environment, to create every part of the world in which they live. Thus, any splitting of the mind precludes a unified approach to life.⁷

Morris Janowitz, in The Professional Soldier, asserts that the military must also learn to integrate these views. He calls for a balance among the three roles of heroic leader, military manager, and military technologist but does not offer examples.⁸ Therefore, rather than concentrate on leaders with narrow warrior mentalities, this discussion recognizes one historical leader who consistently integrated technical expertise and values.

From early boyhood, Charles A. Lindbergh showed the ability to integrate technology, nature, and ethical values. As a child, he felt equally the allure of nature and science. He loved the woods near his hometown of Little Falls, Minnesota, enjoyed animals of all kinds, and regularly slept on a screened porch to be closer to the birds and trees that surrounded his home. At the same time, he felt the influence of technology directly because he lived a short distance from a large dam and sawmill. And since his mother was a high school chemistry teacher, he had access to her knowledge and library of scientific books. He also visited his maternal grandfather’s dental laboratory in Detroit, Michigan, where he became enthralled with chemical experiments. His grandfather was a leader in dental technology and a willing mentor for Charles, who carried his interest in science into his life and work on the farm. As a child of 10, he constructed an ingenious slide, cart, and pulley system that enabled him to move large blocks of ice from the frozen river into his home.⁹ At 11, Lindbergh learned to drive and maintain the family car. While a teenager, he installed an open well in the basement of his home, including all plumbing and equipment for a gasoline engine, pump, and pressure tank, and he experimented with concrete construction, such as a concrete duck pond that has now survived more than 60 Minnesota winters. This early experience as a technician and "Yankee tinkerer" exemplifies Lindbergh’s belief that technology is closely related to rather than opposed to nature. Throughout his life, he used the terms science and technology almost interchangeably, consistent with Francis Bacon’s view that science exists for the good of humanity and in the manifestation of works.

Lindbergh’s epochal flight to Paris in 1927 further illustrates his integration of technology, values, and vision. His courage in undertaking the solo flight is well documented. After taking off in the rain and mud at Roosevelt Field (while Richard Byrd and Clarence Chamberlin sat on the ground), Lindbergh braved fog, fatigue, and other difficulties to land at Bourget Field 33½ hours later. The feat itself would not have occurred, however, if Lindbergh had not first recognized the value of such a flight to the development of public confidence in, and support for, air travel and then pushed the boundaries of aeronautical technology to achieve this success. He was involved in nearly every phase of engineering design for the Spirit of St. Louis. He selected a single-engine monoplane, for example, because it was simpler, more efficient in design and weight, and capable of high performance. He also selected the Wright J5C Whirlwind radial engine since it promised high power, efficient fuel consumption, and proven reliability. To reduce airframe drag, Lindbergh placed the fuel tank at the front of the plane. Although this arrangement obstructed forward vision, he overcame the problem with a unique retractable periscope. Several of the navigational aids were chosen and modified according to Lindbergh’s specifications, to the point that the Spirit of St. Louis had the best long-range instrumentation display of its time.¹⁰ The aircraft as a whole was a major achievement in technical design. Specialized planning was as important to the success of Lindbergh’s flight as were the daring, skill, and vision of the man himself.

Lindbergh’s pre-World War II projects in rocket propulsion, surgical medicine, and commercial aviation exemplify a similar combination of vision and technical exactitude. As early as 1929, for example, he investigated jet propulsion as a potential booster if an airplane lost power during a flight. He queried Du Pont Company engineers to determine how the rocket engine would work. This interest led him to obtain Guggenheim sponsorship for Robert Goddard, an early pioneer in rocket propulsion, and to continue backing Goddard through numerous failures until rocketry became a reality.

In an entirely different field, Lindbergh learned that surgery on the heart and other major organs was impossible in 1930 because no artificial pump was available to circulate blood through these organs and thus keep them alive and free of infection. Again, Lindbergh had both the vision to see the value of such an apparatus and the mechanical understanding to work on a solution. His investigations led to a series of important discoveries, including a method of washing blood corpuscles for experiments on living tissues, a quick way of separating serum from whole blood by means of a centrifuge, and the glass perfusion pump needed by the medical world.¹¹

Between 1927 and 1937, Lindbergh continued his primary interest in commercial aviation. With his wife, Anne, he mapped continental and transatlantic air routes from the United States to the Caribbean, South America, Asia, Europe, and Africa. On each of these established routes, for safety reasons, he insisted that twin-engine aircraft capable of single-engine takeoffs under full loads be used. He also demanded careful mapping, meteorological studies, advanced radio networks, airport lighting, and extensive training programs for ground crews and pilots on the routes accepted for commercial service.¹² Although the Lindberghs matched adventurous and courageous pioneering with careful technical planning on these routes, the latter assures their existence today. In all areas, Charles Lindbergh combined a concern for his fellow human beings with vision and technological expertise to stay on the leading edge of change.

The consistency of Lindbergh’s world view extended through the difficult years of World War II. His prewar opinion that the United States should stay out of the European conflict, for instance, was based on his belief that a general war would destroy the common heritage of Western civilization and thus lead to Soviet dominance. Contrary to accusations by opponents of the America First Committee, he was neither a Nazi sympathizer nor a pacifist. His admiration for the accomplishments of the German people was consistently balanced by his disdain for Hitler’s maniacal pronouncements and anti-Semitic policies. He found it especially ironic that people called him a pacifist, however, for he disagreed with no philosophy more than pacifism. In fact, he was convinced that the complacency of France and Britain regarding their defense technologies encouraged Hitler’s adventurism and willingness to risk war. This pragmatic view emerged in turn from his thorough knowledge of aviation technology throughout Europe. Since he was the only person with a wide range of expertise available to the Office of the Military Attaché in Berlin, he was called on several times between 1936 and 1939 to provide intelligence on German aircraft developments. He personally flew every type of plane available to Germany at the outset of the war, including the advanced Me-109 single-wing fighter, and he toured many German factories, airfields, and research institutions.¹³ His testing of numerous other European and American planes, as well as his theoretical knowledge of aviation, led him to believe that "aviation constituted a new and possibly decisive element in preventing or fighting a war." His technical knowledge also convinced him that the countries engaged in such a war would be devastated by that same power, especially since the German Luftwaffe had achieved absolute technical dominance and the potential for a massive production rate by 1938.¹⁴ Thus, he repeatedly called for research and development in the American aviation industry to prepare the United States for adequate defense against armed conflict, but he spoke out just as persistently against unnecessary involvement. Unfortunately, subsequent world events confirmed his prophetic views, and the United States entered the war relatively unprepared.

Despite Lindbergh’s stance against American involvement in World War II, he wasted no time in volunteering his services once war was inevitable. Barred from actual military service by White House instructions to the War Department (he refused to recant his prewar views), he put his expertise to work in the civilian aviation industry. Initially a technical consultant for Henry Ford’s project at Willow Run, Lindbergh worked on a variety of production problems with the B-24 Liberator bomber. He became especially concerned that the armor plating on the B-24 was insufficient to protect its crew and took charge of a special project to improve it. In Lindbergh’s opinion, previous inattention to such a vital detail stemmed from the chief production engineer’s "love of the machine," which had "somewhat crowded out his love of the man who must run it."¹⁵ He insisted on careful coordination with the Army to provide information on vulnerable points for enemy bullets, their penetrating power, weight that could be devoted to armor, and other similar data, and then recommended meticulous planning to avoid future problems of the same kind. His experience at Willow Run is still another example of his balancing of the human and technical aspects of design.

Lindbergh exercised equal care on other projects, including ignition of an experimental P-47 engine at high altitudes, studies of cylinder head problems in a radial aircraft engine designed by Pratt and Whitney, experiments on human physiological behavior during simulated high-altitude flight (with the Mayo Foundation’s Aeromedical Laboratory), and studies of turbojet aircraft design with engineers of the Vought Company.¹⁶ Although he played down the dangers inherent in his flying duties, many of these tasks required more than simple office work. He almost lost his life during one high-altitude flight in a P-47 and several times suffered oxygen deprivation in the experiments with the Mayo Foundation. Regarding accidents and death in aviation, he had this to say:

If one took no chances, one would not fly at all. Safety lies in the judgment of the chances one takes. That judgment, in turn, must rest on one’s outlook on life. Any coward can sit in his home and criticize a pilot for flying into a mountain in a fog. But I would rather, by far, die on a mountainside than in bed. Why should we look for errors when a brave man dies? Unless we can learn from his experience, there is no need to look for weakness. Rather, we should admire the courage and spirit in his life. What kind of man would live where there is no daring? And is life so dear that we should blame men for dying in adventure? Is there a better way to die?¹⁷

Lindbergh’s own actions were truly courageous, but he was willing to endure discomfort and the threat of death because he recognized the implications of technological research for America’s war readiness.

The same combination of technical skill and courage was evident during Lindbergh’s stint in the South Pacific in 1944. As a civilian technical representative for United Aircraft Corporation, he studied combat conditions in relation to the design of new fighter aircraft. At Roi Island, he was the first pilot to take a Navy F4U Corsair fighter carrying 3000 pounds of bombs off the airstrip. Not satisfied with this achievement, he designed a special bomb rack with the help of a Marine lieutenant and then took off in a crosswind with a 4000-pound load.¹⁸ These innovations led to increased firepower capabilities throughout the Pacific. In New Guinea, he refined long-range cruise control techniques that enabled American P-38 fighters to increase their combat radius from 570 to 750 miles. Although official orders restricted him to observer and test pilot status, he in fact flew combat missions in both Corsairs and P-38s, including bomber escort, dive-bombing of Japanese positions, destruction of barges, and scouting duties. Forty-two years old at the time, Lindbergh confounded the skeptical young P-38 pilots of the 475th Fighter Group by flying extra hours and appearing indefatigable under all conditions. During one of his bomber escort missions, he found himself on a collision course with a Sonia-type Japanese fighter, which was apparently bent on crashing into him at more than 500 miles per hour. He kept his cannon and machine guns going until he scored a hit and, then, literally had to hurdle the Japanese plane at the last second before it pitched into the sea.¹⁹ His destruction of the enemy aircraft was confirmed, proving once again that the technician and the warrior were aspects of the same man.

Lindbergh’s balanced views of technology, progress, and human values continued on into his postwar activities. After the Nazi surrender, he joined a Navy technological mission in Germany to study the enemy’s progress in developing jet aircraft, rockets, and missiles. Despite his awareness that scientific materialism had run amuck in Germany, Lindbergh advocated broad American postwar programs in aerospace research because his experiences in the South Pacific had taught him that "without a highly developed science modern man lacks the power to survive."²⁰ Thus, he played an active role in the evolution of bombers, munitions, and missiles for the Strategic Air Command and in studies of air-to-air weapon systems for the Army under Project Chore. He again relied on his technical knowledge of flight and navigation to help map efficient methods of operation for the Berlin airlift, participated with the Air Force Scientific Advisory Board in studies of nuclear weapons and ballistic missiles, and served as a member of the advisory board panel on ballistic missile defense. At the same time, he continued as a consultant with Pan American Airlines and advised the company to acquire America’s first jet transport, the Boeing 707. He also maintained his interest in aviation medicine, especially as it applied to manned space flight—the ultimate test of human physiology at high altitudes.²¹ In 1966, Lindbergh and several colleagues published, in Cryobiology, the results of their work on freezing whole organs from large animals for transplantation. Lindbergh’s contribution was an enlarged and improved version of his perfusion pump, now constructed from new plastic materials developed by the Corning Glass company for extremely cold temperatures. Each Of these activities was an extension of Lindbergh the technologist.

Technology did not overwhelm Lindbergh to the detriment of human values, however. Indeed, his earlier view remained consistent and unified. He realized that the Germans had worshipped science above the quality of life but had not gained the power to survive. He believed that survival, in the last analysis, "was fully as dependent on the quality of life as on the power of arms—dependent on a perpetual balance of spiritual and material forces."²² Consequently, he demanded a responsible approach to technological development. For example, when the supersonic transport proved deleterious to the environment, he lobbied vigorously against its employment and succeeded in having it deleted from Pan American’s acquisition list. Lindbergh’s increasing devotion to projects for the conservation of resources, agencies for the protection of endangered species, and the study of primitive societies, such as the gentle Tasaday of the Philippines, reflects a deep regard for the essential qualities of life.

Although Lindbergh remained enthralled by technical achievements epitomized in the launching of Apollo 8 in 1968, he dismissed a desire to reenter the field of astronautics because "decades spent in contact with science and its vehicles" had directed his "mind and senses to an area beyond their reach." He believed that the adventure of the future lay in voyages that "can be attained by the application of our scientific knowledge not to life’s mechanical vehicles but to the essence of life itself."²³ He also supported the work of the Congressional Subcommittee on Science, Research, and Development (1970) because it took a "new approach to scientific research and development through consideration of its effect on the future welfare of mankind."²⁴ These statements signify not a rejection of technology but rather a tempering and balancing of its effects on modern life.

How, Then, does one apply this thumbnail sketch of Charles Lindbergh’s character to the issue of military leadership? Surely, he is one example of the warrior-technician who should be the mainstay of a future United States Air Force. His awareness of both the limits and the potential of technology is an essential element of military command, for leaders must thoroughly understand both to succeed in modern warfare. Technology never resolves human dilemmas of employment or application, nor does it relieve leaders of the ultimate responsibility for determining how to use it most effectively. Technical knowledge may well be limitless, but it is most certainly meaningless if unguided. At the same time, history is replete with the failures of commanders who rejected the importance of technical superiority, without which America’s success on two fronts during World War II would have been impossible. Future leaders will need technical expertise and wisdom based on a broader view of history and society to succeed in an increasingly complex environment. They must not sacrifice technical knowledge on a pilgrimmage to warriorship. Perhaps the continued study of such leaders as Charles Lindbergh will help military professionals change current "either-or" mentalities in favor of an integrated vision vital to the nation’s future.

Department of English
USAF Academy, Colorado

Notes

1. Lieutenant Colonel Donald R. Baucom, USAF, "Technological War: Reality and the American Myth," Air University Review, September-October 1981, p. 65.

2. Samuel P. Huntington, The Soldier and the State (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1957), p. 12.

3. General Robert T. Marsh, USAF, Speech to the Association for Unmanned Vehicles, Summer 1981,as quoted in Deborah G. Meyer, "The Simplicity versus Complexity Issue," Armed Forces Journal International, January 1982, p. 46.

4. Henry Adams, The Education of Henry Adams (Boston, Massachusetts, 1975), pp. 379-90 and 482-88.

5. Robert Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance (New York, 1974), pp. 24-5.

6. Jacob Bronowski, Science and Human Values (New York, 1956), p. 12.

7. Pirsig, p. 26.

8. Morris Janowitz, The Professional Soldier (Glencoe, Illinois, 1960), pp. 21 and 35-6.

9. This feat and succeeding examples are recounted in Charles A. Lindbergh, Boyhood on the Upper Mississippi (Saint Paul: Minnesota Historical Society, 1972), pp. 18-20, 26-30, 32, and 43.

10. Richard P. Hallion, "Charles A. Lindbergh and Aviation Technology," in Charles A. Lindbergh: An American Life, edited by Tom D. Crouch (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1977), p. 40.

11. Walter S. Ross, The Last Hero: Charles A. Lindbergh, revised edition (New York, 1976), pp. 231-33.

12. Juan T. Trippe, "Charles A. Lindbergh and World Travel," The Wings Club 1977 "Sight" Lecture, New York City, 20 May 1977.

13. Charles A. Lindbergh, The Wartime Journals of Charles A. Lindbergh (New York, 1970), pp. 95-178 passim. For other testimony see Colonel Truman Smith, USA (Ret), "Air Intelligence Activities . . . with Special Reference to the Services of Col. Charles A. Lindbergh, Air Corps (Res.)," unpublished typescript, Yale University, 1956, pp. 135-39 and Ross, pp. 306-20.

14. Lindbergh, Journals, pp. xiii and 82-83.

15. Ibid., p. 637.

16. Ibid., pp. 627-731 passim.

17. Ibid., p. 60.

18. Richard Davis, "Aviation: Lindbergh Still Solos in Anonymity," Newsweek, December 5, 1949, p. 24.

19. Lindbergh, Journals, pp. 787-924 passim.

20. Lindbergh, Of Flight and Life (New York, 1948), p. 14.

21. Hallion, pp. 46-47.

22. Lindbergh, Of Flight and Life, p. 18.

23. Lindbergh, "A Letter from Lindbergh," Life, July 4, 1969, pp. 60B and 61.

24. Lindbergh, unpublished letter, as quoted in Judith Schiff, "Values of Flight and Life: The Postwar Activities," in Crouch, p.75.

Major Perry D. Luckett (B.A., M.A., Florida State University; Ph.D., University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill) is Tenure Associate Professor of English at the USAF Academy. He has served as director, AFA Executive Writing Program, and as communication-electronics chief of maintenance. He has published numerous articles in North Dakota Quarterly, The Explicator, and the Journal of American Culture. Major Luckett is a Distinguished Graduate of Air Command and Staff College.

The conclusions and opinions expressed in this document are those of the author cultivated in the freedom of expression, academic environment of Air University. They do not reflect the official position of the U.S. Government, Department of Defense, the United States Air Force or the Air University.

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