Shortly before 5 a.m., an Ohio farmer looked to the skies and cursed the unseasonable September storm. Outlined by flashes of lighting, he saw a huge form suspended over his fields, then watched, horrified, as it began to break up.

None of the 42 men aboard the giant airship expected the sudden change in weather. Just after midnight, visibility narrowed, lightning flashed, and strong winds struck head on. By 4:20, the Shenandoah, an Indian word for “Daughter of the Skies,” was 30 miles off course. Squall force winds grabbed and twisted the ship. The control cabin ripped from the keel and plummeted 3,000 feet, killing the commander and 13 officers in the crash. The 680-foot hull snapped and fell to earth in three pieces, but the remaining crew made it out alive.

Subsequent Navy hearings revolved around Commander Lansdowne, who had contended that too much valuable helium was being wasted in the airship’s 18 automatic gas valves—the system by which the ship maneuvered. Ten of the valves were removed, and the remaining eight were converted to manual operation. Thanks to souvenir hunters who took everything on the ground, investigators had to rely on theory alone to prove that the valves could release sufficient gas to accommodate the effects of the storm.

The experts' testimony became the decision of the court: aerodynamic forces had brought the ZR-1 down; the gasbags had not burst from pressure; the ship had not been mishandled; there had been no explosion. In fact, the 28 survivors owed their lives to gasbags filled with inert helium rather than hydrogen. But the Shenandoah had proved weak and wanting and rigid airships were doomed to extinction.