Akron-Canton Airport Survives Turbulence

February 15, 2004

Airport Survives Turbulence
Akron Beacon Journal, OH

A couple of years ago, the marketing wizards at
Akron-Canton Regional Airport decided to drop the word
``Regional'' from their advertising and promotional
material.

Two reasons:

• Shorter is better.

• ``Regional'' sounds a bit provincial.

The change went virtually unnoticed. And why shouldn't
it?

Well, given the history of the local airport, even a
change that trivial could be expected to trigger a
vicious dogfight between Akron and Canton.

Today, both cities are thrilled with the runaway
success of Akron-Canton Airport, which greeted a
record 1.2 million travelers last year.

But if you were around half a century ago, you'd find
it hard to believe the two cities would ever agree on
anything. The vibes were so bad during the airport's
formative years that one of Akron's most prominent
people actually threatened to kill the most prominent
man in Canton.

The creation of the airport is a largely forgotten
tale woven around a world war, a powerful
industrialist, railroad tycoons and two feuding
cities. In the end, its birth required the
intercession of a U.S. president.

Dial back to the late 1940s and you'll find that the
population of Akron was a whopping 274,605 -- more
than twice Canton's 116,912. When the commercial
airlines elected to move nine miles nearer to the
smaller city, the big loser was Akron Municipal
Airport -- now called Akron Fulton International after
its late, hard-charging manager, B.E. ``Shorty''
Fulton.

Adding insult to Akron's injury, the new facility was
initially christened ``Canton-Akron Memorial Airport''
and assigned an aviation code of CAK.

At the dawn of the 1940s, Akron Muni -- code name AX
-- had been home to four major airlines: American,
Eastern, United and Pennsylvania Central (later known
as Capital). Everyone associated with the place
thought they had a great thing going.

Impact of WWII

Then came the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Less
than two weeks after the ``Day of Infamy,'' Akron was
talking about creating a ``flight strip'' alongside
state Route 18 west of town, part of a federal scheme
to build small runways all over the nation. The
military brass figured dispersing planes was a more
practical way to protect them than building
underground hangars.

But once U.S. soil seemed relatively safe, the focus
changed. Within a year, the military began to push
instead for big inland airports to serve as military
bases.

The feds offered $2 million to build one in Northeast
Ohio if somebody paid for the land. Assuming the good
guys won the war (not a sure thing in the dark days
after Pearl), the airport would then be turned over to
the public.

In the beginning, ironically, Akron and Canton had
each other's backs. In early 1943, the two cities were
lobbying the Ohio legislature to allow Summit and
Stark counties to jointly finance and manage a new
airport -- an unprecedented idea that needed special
approval.

But the powerful railroad lobby didn't want a new
airport so far from the major rail lines, and it
succeeded in locking up the legislature for months on
end.

To raise the $300,000 needed to buy the land, the head
of Canton's Chamber of Commerce went so far as to
suggest a public subscription drive. If all of the
600,000 people in Summit and Stark coughed up a
50-cent donation, he figured, we'd be covered.

Eventually, local industry stepped forward with most
of the funding, alleviating the need for door-to-door
begging or special state approval. But the coast still
wasn't clear.

FDR resolves dispute

Early in 1944 -- after the land for CAK already had
been bought and the trees cleared -- a lawsuit filed
by a Canton lawyer tied things up yet again.

Even worse: By the spring of 1944, with the war going
our way, the feds were having second thoughts about
whether the airport was a military necessity. CAK was
one of 28 airports where construction was halted
pending individual reviews.

In the end, no less a power broker than President
Franklin Roosevelt weighed in and gave CAK the
go-ahead.

All this brawling meant that an airport created
specifically to address the crisis of World War II
wouldn't even open until 13 months after the war
ended.

The dedication ceremony on Oct. 14, 1946, a Sunday,
drew 35,000 people. They watched a series of aerial
demonstrations, including 25 Navy warplanes doing
stunts and flying so low that spectators were ducking.

``Atomic power and the development of long-range
bombers have made even this Midwest airport as
vulnerable as a seacoast airfield,'' said Maj. Gen.
Curtis LeMay, who arrived at the dedication in a World
War II bomber. ``Next time, we would be the first
nation, instead of the last, to be attacked, and the
industrial sections would come first.''

What he didn't point out was that Akron and Canton
were now locked in an air war of their own.

Airlines bolt

The hostilities officially began on Feb. 20, 1946 --
the day the four major airlines notified the city of
Akron that they wanted to leave Akron Municipal
Airport for the new, greener pasture to the south.

This was not a total shock. As early as 1944, several
airlines had indicated they were going to bail out on
Akron's $4.5 million city airport. But Akron thought
it could outflank the opposition because of its size
and political clout. In mid-1945, the city's service
director confidently predicted that the airlines would
stay put.

The ensuing announcement to the contrary triggered
instant action. The very next day, an Akron City
Council committee voted to go ahead with $1 million in
improvements previously proposed for the municipal
airfield. And Mayor Charles Slusser ripped into the
airlines, claiming they had ``betrayed'' the people of
Akron.

The 1,100-acre field in Green Township, in the extreme
southeast corner of Summit County, was 15 miles from
downtown Akron -- about nine miles farther than
Akron's airport -- in the days before an interstate
linked Akron and Canton. Akron's business leaders hit
the roof, and your favorite newspaper felt their pain.

``Akron Airport is what the name implies. So is the
Canton-Akron Airport,'' bemoaned a Beacon Journal
editorial. ``Even the approach to the airport and the
proposed administration building will be on the side
that gives Canton a maximum and Akron a minimum of
convenience.''

Akronites pointed out that the new airport was about
half as far from downtown Canton (eight miles) as from
downtown Akron (15 miles).

What's in a name?

Informally, the project had been referred to as the
Summit-Stark county airport. It's first official name,
Canton-Akron Memorial Airport, was unveiled on April
27, 1943. The ``memorial'' part was said to honor
veterans of the two world wars.

But in April 1946, politics dictated a name change.
Massillon residents began to complain because the
second-biggest city in Stark County wasn't mentioned.
What's more, its residents were prepared to kick in
$25,000 in private donations if the town got onto the
masthead.

Meanwhile, Summit County's three commissioners were
eager to move the ``Akron'' in front of the
``Canton.'' So they came up with
``Akron-Canton-Massillon Airport.''

That worked for one of the Stark commissioners, who
lived in Massillon. It also worked for another Stark
commissioner who was up for re-election and didn't
want to alienate Massillon voters. The only dissenter
in a 5-1 tally was a Stark commissioner who lived in
Canton.

Henry H. Timken Jr.

The name change angered Henry H. Timken Jr., who not
only ran the biggest roller-bearing plant in the
world, but also was an aviation fanatic. The son of
one of Timken's three founders, he became a pilot in
1927 -- the same year that Charles Lindbergh crossed
the Atlantic -- and headed the CAK trustees from Day
One.

His wife, Louise, also a pilot, years later would head
a committee of the Federal Aviation Administration.

Given the Timkens' love of aeronautics, Henry Jr. made
the airport his pet project. To bypass the state
legislature, he led a drive to raise $100,000 in
private money from the Stark business community to
help pay Stark's share of the land costs. Fully half
of that came from his company.

But when the county commissioners began to push the
``Canton'' behind the ``Akron'' in the airport's name,
he didn't get to vote. And he was livid.

Timken would lose another fight in 1965, when everyone
else wanted to pour $1.4 million into a new terminal
to replace the ``temporary'' one erected in 1948 -- a
metal shack with a lean-to on one side. The Beacon
Journal called the old terminal something that ``a
Podunk would be ashamed of.''

But Timken feared the project was so expensive that
the airport would have to ask for financial help from
the federal government -- a prospect Henry Timken Jr.
absolutely detested. To protest the move, he
temporarily quit his trustee position.

One call reroutes I-77

Those were among the few battles Timken ever lost. He
was such a political powerhouse that he could pick up
the telephone, place a call to the governor and change
the route of an interstate highway. Which is exactly
what happened in 1963.

Plans for Interstate 77 south of Akron originally
called for it to run west of the airport, and a fair
distance away. Timken rang up rookie Gov. Jim Rhodes
and suggested to his fellow Republican that the
airport would be far better served if I-77 were to run
immediately east of it. Consider it done, said Rhodes.

Although the 100 acres immediately south of the
airport is now home to Timken's research facility --
and the man who chose the airport site back in the
'40s, Canton lawyer Frederic S. Wilkins, was a close
friend of Timken's -- the choice did not involve any
hanky-panky. The Timken Co. didn't buy the property
until 1964.

But clearly, Timken and Wilkins were primarily
responsible for CAK. Timken had the clout, Wilkins had
the diligence. They were pals who met when they both
owned planes at the old McKinley airfield in Canton.

The choice of land was ideal: highest point around,
flat, with plenty of room for growth. CAK's current
director, Fred Krum, says he would pick the same site
if given a choice today. ``Elevation is the key,'' he
says.

Even with this dream locale, the wheels of progress
hit a few chuckholes. An eviction notice had to be
sent to John Boettler, an old farmer who owned 79
acres on the site. After finalizing his sale, he
changed his mind. At one point, he threatened to shoot
county engineers who were surveying for a new road.

Akron Municipal's flaws

Putting Akron's name ahead of Canton's didn't do much
to smooth Akron's ruffled feathers. In June '46, Akron
filed a complaint with the federal government to try
to halt the airlines' exodus.

``Too few of us realize what is at stake,'' Shorty
Fulton said at the time. ``When you consider the
additional distance and travel time to their new port,
this becomes a multimillion-dollar slap in the face.''

It's not hard to understand why the airlines wanted to
smack Akron's face. Muni was hemmed in by the Airdock
and the Rubber Bowl, and its natural topography put it
at the bottom of a bowl -- a shape that encouraged the
smoke from nearby factories to linger over the
runways. Pilots had been complaining about the
conditions for more than a decade.

But Shorty Fulton took it personally. In 1948, with
the airlines on the brink of moving, Fulton had a
heated discussion with Henry Timken in the Timken Co.
hangar at the new airport. Fulton threatened to kill
him. Although Timken never believed his life was in
danger, the comment certainly got his attention.

The federal Civil Aeronautics Board had the authority
to halt the switch. The fact that the feds had never
done such a thing didn't deter Akron. In January 1947,
the city sent a delegate to Washington with a petition
signed by 5,000 people who wanted to keep the airlines
in town.

Commute by 'copter

For Akron air travelers, the trip to CAK -- in those
days, down Canton Road -- seemed to be viewed as
nearly insurmountable. How could an Akron customer
possibly traverse it?

A Beacon Journal story in March 1948 declared that a
solution was at hand: City Yellow Cab Co. had applied
to use helicopters to cut the commute in half.

``The windmill-like machine will deposit (passengers)
in a brief few moments' time at a landing spot near
the site of the proposed new Union Depot'' at what is
now the University of Akron campus, said the
newspaper.

``Other passengers who want to reach their homes in
New Philadelphia or Dover or points south of Akron
will be flown in helicopters to landing fields near
their destinations.''

Alas, it was not to be. The vast majority of travelers
were stuck on the ground, in traditional taxis and
their own vehicles. And most of them whined all the
way down and all the way back.

Even after the airlines actually moved away -- United
and American in July '48, Eastern and Capital that
September -- Akron didn't give up. In January '49, the
aeronautics board gave the city 30 days to try to
prove why the move was not in the public interest.

Airlines prevail

That struck a nerve with the airlines. A United
spokesman said Akron's case would set a national
precedent -- and his company wouldn't spend a dime at
CAK until the situation was resolved.

Obviously, the airlines prevailed. And Akron had run
out of bullets.

The final insult came in early 1949, when Shorty
Fulton lost a battle to keep his special, 20-year-old
AX designation. The feds made him change it to AKR,
the tag it has today.

Akron residents continued to complain without letup
until the winter of 1951-52. Then, in a two-month
period, their tune changed completely.

In those two months, three airliners crashed into
residential areas near the airport in Newark, N.J. A
crash in mid-December killed 52 people. A crash in
late January killed 29 more, six of them on the
ground. And a crash in early February took 33 more.

Along about that time, Akron residents began to think
that having an airport way out in the country might
not be such a bad idea after all.


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