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They weren’t flying saucers... but, they hit Chula Vista with a ROHR!

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Longtimers will remember Rohr Aircraft, and, perhaps, its founder, Fred “Pappy” Rohr, whose company played a major role in U.S. military aviation in WWII. But, before that happened, Rohr, as a young man in the mid-’twenties, was earning his keep as a metalworker at T. Claude Ryan’s plant on Harbor Drive.

His talent was with sheet metal, either steel or aluminum, or anything in between, and, in 1927, in the mad, 60-day rush to build Charles Lindbergh’s “Spirit of St. Louis,” Rohr was the fellow who fabricated the large extra fuel tank, which made Lindy’s voyage possible, but also blocked his forward view from the cockpit. A periscope was some help, but Lindbergh frequently had to turn the plane a bit to check conditions, and stay on course. Out in front, leading, was the propeller “spinner,” an aluminum cone, which streamlined the prop hub, and that also was a Rohr creation.

At some point in that period, Fred Rohr began doing metalwork in the one-car garage at his home near downtown San Diego. For a while, he may have worked both at Ryan’s and at his own shop, but in August of l940, Rohr resigned from Ryan, relocating to a 1,500-square-foot building described as being at “Fourth and I Streets” in San Diego; however, there is no “I” Street in the city. A search of a Thomas Bros. shows a Fourth and I intersection quite near San Diego’s border, in National City, and San Diego Air & Space Museum records show that he had located in the “wholesale district.” Whatever the case, Fred Rohr was on his own, and after two months his operation had outgrown the building. He purchased 20 acres on San Diego Bay, in Chula Vista, in early ’41, at the “Foot of H St.,” which became Rohr’s address for decades. With additional land, it became the dominant presence in the area, home to thousands of jobs, careers, and lifetimes.

As the aviation industry moved forward, it became common for an aircraft radial engine to have a mounting frame which permitted removing the entire powerplant, including electrical, exhaust, fuel, and oiling systems. Fast forward, now, to the Rohr company fully involved in war production of engine packages for not only Convair’s B-24s, but also Boeing’s B-17s, each of which required four units, and those worthy bombers were built by the thousands, through most of the war. The lights stayed on late at Rohr during those perilous years, and at war’s end the work on engine packages diminished, but it did not stop; the peacetime recovery and new airliners were on the way, along with new aircraft for three branches of the military.

Chula Vista, once a rural town, would see continuous growth as it entered the ‘fifties, eventually incorporating, and electing a city council. While the Rohr payroll was undoubtedly the largest in town, Fred Rohr also believed that his employees should take part in civic affairs, encouraging them to work in local activities, committees and even to run for local offices. Indeed, Rohr’s personnel manager was elected mayor in that period, and there was generally a good feeling about the big outfit on the bay. But there were also grumblings: a few said that while Rohr was getting millions in federal and commercial contracts, not enough of that money was getting into Chula Vista. In fact, it became verbal at city council meetings, and the owner of a small machine shop, who once had a development contract with Rohr, said that the company, “didn’t spend that much in this town.” When that statement appeared in the Star-News, it stung Pappy Rohr deeply, but he didn’t fire back. He just watched as the malcontent engineered a recall campaign, which, through local apathy, led to the replacement of three councilmen who were Rohr employees. Then, Rohr took action, asking all employees who were serving in any capacity for Chula Vista to resign their positions. This was, finally, an alert to the masses, and many people became upset with the minority, which had caused all the trouble.

But, Fred Rohr had his own idea about how to enlighten the locals. In the dank basement of the U.S. Mint in San Francisco, there lay thousands of canvas bags of silver dollars. Could Rohr Aircraft purchase some? Yes, they could, said the mint folk. Now, in those days, Rohr’s payroll department issued checks that covered a two-week prior pay period. This would be ideal for Pappy’s plan. As a boxcar was being loaded with silver ($360,000 worth, weighing 12 tons) up north, and guards retained to make the trip south with the precious cargo, the payroll department set up shop in a building near the Rohr siding. Specially marked ROHR canvas bags were ordered, large enough to hold an individual’s week’s pay; and after the treasure arrived, workers labored to fill and tag each bag for delivery to the employee in his or her department. When the fateful Friday, 12 December, 1954, arrived, all was in readiness. Starting early, the payroll people hauled the loot on small tool wagons towed by shop engines, to each department for distribution. It would not be unusual for a week’s pay to be $100 or more, so the Rohr employees were lugging some weighty bucks out to their cars or to the bus stations, nearby. And, Pappy sat back and waited.

By six that evening, store clerks in not only Chula Vista, but also many other communities, were filling up, at first, wastebaskets, and then trash cans, with an astounding avalanche of silver. Non-Rohr customers received their change in the cartwheels, and men’s pockets and women’s purses were sagging with the weight. Supermarkets and department stores were the hardest hit, but no business escaped the onslaught of bullion.

My dad, a doctor in La Mesa, was accustomed to some patients paying cash after treatment, rather than being billed, so, that night, he also arrived at home with some coin of the realm. His Rohr patient explained the phenomenon, and he thought it not only ingenious, but hilarious, as well. My brother and I each received some samples from Dad, and the next day, even banks in La Mesa were bagging the coins, reportedly bound for Las Vegas. It took weeks for them to get out of San Diego County, and the story no doubt made national news.

Fred Rohr had made his point. He hadn’t lost his temper, and Chula Vista knew what the company meant to the town. Life went back to normal, and many of us were given a tale to tell again and again about the night the cash registers overflowed. Those silver pieces weren’t flying saucers, folks, but they sure made a memorable landing.

Special thanks to Eileen Hollenbeck, widow of longtime Rohr tool designer Reed Hollenbeck; Frank Roseman, Chula Vista author and former Rohr employee, for leads; Alan Renga of the San Diego Aerospace Museum Library for his documentation of some of my material; and to Ada Dean, of the Chula Vista Heritage Museum, for valuable historical facts, as well.

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