Was Connecticut the ‘First in Flight’?

On late Tuesday night, Aug. 13, 1901, Gustave Whitehead — a Bavarian engineer — and several partners, longing to avoid attention, wheeled out a “flying machine” from their shed on Pine Street in Fairfield, Conn., to find a “suitable spot” for a test flight. 

The next day, in the early morning hours before sunrise, he tested the machine’s engines “again and every joint and rod in the structure was carefully gone over and critically inspected,” according to an uncredited writer at the Bridgeport Sunday Herald (Aug. 18, 1901). The eyewitness — who may have been the paper’s future editor, Richard Howell — recalls the “nervous tension was growing at every clock tick,” especially from Whitehead, who “whispered at times” as if to not wake those nearby. Even a curious milkman’s horse was startled when the machine’s “big white wings flapped.” 

But then the sun crept over the horizon. The time had come. Years of engineering had led to this moment. As Whitehead took command of his aircraft, he “opened the throttle” and told his assistants to let go the ropes tying it down. They obliged and “the machine darted up through the air like a bird released from a cage.” 

Witnesses were amazed as they watched Whitehead fly 50 feet above the ground, steering clear of “a clump of chestnut sprouts,” soar “through the air for fully half a mile” and then land “so lightly that Whitehead was not jarred in the least.” None of those present could contain their jubilation after the marvelous flight. Upon reflection, the engineer told the Bridgeport Sunday Herald:  

“I never felt such a strange sensation as when the machine first left the ground and started on her flight. I heard nothing but the rumbling of the engine and the flapping of the big wings. I don’t think I saw anything during the first two minutes of the flight, for I was so excited with the sensations I experienced. …I never felt such a spirit of freedom as I did during the ten minutes that I was soaring up above my fellow beings in a thing that my own brain had evolved. It was a sweet experience. It made me feel that I was far ahead of my brothers for I could fly like a bird, and they must still walk.”    

Yet did it happen? Whitehead’s tale has sparked much debate for more than a century with many historians questioning its veracity. (The inventor would claim to make four flights in 1901.) Yet, what is noteworthy is that his alleged first flight occurred two years prior to the credited “first successful flights” by the Wright brothers in Kitty Hawk, N.C., on Dec. 17, 1903. Their plane, now on display at the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C., flew 12 seconds and 120 feet. Whitehead’s machine, meanwhile, is lost to time; his documentation was lackluster in detail; and no photographic evidence has emerged, unlike any of the Wrights’ feats.  

But was the Connecticut native truly “first in flight” as the General Assembly formally declared in a 2014 resolution? This is the story of Gustave Whitehead and his purported flying machines.  

Would-Be Aeronaut 

A carpenter’s son, Whitehead — or ‘Gustav Albin Weisskopf’ — was born in Leutershausen, then in the Kingdom of Bavaria, on New Year’s Day, 1874. As a young boy, he was “keenly interested in flight; performed lift-measurement experiments on birds; built models; and jumped off roofs with self-built wings,” according to Gustave Whitehead-Pioneer Aviator, a biography website. Due to his fascination with flying, his classmates may have even called him ‘The Flyer,’ as noted by Megan Adam, a relative of Whitehead’s.  

By the age of 13, however, Whitehead was orphaned and sent to live with relatives, including his grandparents in Ansbach. Before leaving home the following year, the young teen apprenticed with a machinist in Augsburg where he “acquired some knowledge of mechanics and engineering” and the “idea of a flying machine in my mind,” as he told the New York Evening Telegram (Nov. 19, 1901).  

Initially intending to emigrate to the United States, Whitehead instead met a German family heading to Brazil while en route to his ship, and decided to accompany them and work for their plantation. Afterwards, he switched careers, becoming a sailor where he traveled to “a good deal of foreign countries and peoples,” settling down in Boston, Ma., in 1895, since it “offer[ed] the best base for his aerial enterprises,” according to the New York Herald (June 16, 1901).

He joined the Boston Aeronautical Society led by Harvard University professor and astronomer William H. Pickering, since he “claimed to know [Otto] Lilienthal and even to have worked with him,” the German Patent and Trademark Office’s biography states. Lilienthal was the “most significant pre-Wright brothers [sic] aeronautical experimenter,” who “built and flew a series of highly successful full-size gliders,” as noted by the National Air and Space Museum. However, the historical record proving Whitehead did collaborate with the German engineer “cannot be clearly proven” — which is undoubtedly a theme in examining his life.  

What is certain is that Whitehead, between 1895-1899, developed and built his own gliders inspired by Lilienthal’s schematics, which reporters covered within those years. In Pittsburgh, however, the Bavarian engineer made a supposed breakthrough: his steam engine-powered glider flew — albeit for a limited time, as it crashed into an apartment building. Or so he claimed. As the German Patent and Trademark Office suggests, “There are individual witness statements for this and other Weißkopf flights, but [there is] no further evidence” of a successful test in 1899. Even the Pittsburgh Chronicle Telegraph (Nov. 23, 1901), several months after the flight on Aug. 14, calls Whitehead a “Would-Be Aeronaut.” In a Huffington Post article about the supposed 1899 flight written by Carroll Gray, an aviation historian, he concludes that it “seems self-evident that had he flown in Pittsburgh in 1899 or in Bridgeport in August 1901, as has been claimed, that headline [by the Pittsburgh Chronicle Telegraph] would have said so.”   

In the aftermath, Whitehead was “allegedly chased out of Pittsburgh by the police on account of his ‘dangerous’ experiments,” eventually finding a home in Bridgeport where he continued his endeavors.  

The Novel Flying Machine 

On June 8, 1901, two months before his purported famous flight, the Scientific American — one of the premier science magazines in the country — published an article about Whitehead’s “novel flying machine,” which had “just been completed” and was “now ready for the preliminary trials.” The magazine noted that “no free flights” had been attempted at the time, yet it described in detail the machine that would allegedly take to the sky: 

“The machine is built after the model of a bird or bat. The body is 16 feet long and measures 21/2 feet at its greatest width and is 3 feet deep. It is well stayed with wooden ribs and braced with steel wires and covered with canvas which is tightly stretched over the frame. Four wheels, each one foot in diameter, support it while it stands on the ground. …The front wheels are connected to a 10 horse power engine to get up speed on the ground, and the rear wheels are mounted like casters so that they can be steered by the aeronaut.”

Overall, the flying machine — known as “Number 21” — weighed more than 80 pounds. Despite the more dubious claims in Pittsburgh, the fact Scientific American examined Whitehead’s craft indicates the press and those in the industry took him seriously enough, and did not regard him as complete crackpot (though it should be noted that there is no mention of the Pittsburgh experiment in the piece). Indeed, he was financed well enough and, in time, had 15 other machinists as employees, as reported by the Naugatuck Daily News (Nov. 18, 1901). 

Then Aug. 14, 1901, came. As Junius Harworth, a sworn eyewitness who defended Whitehead’s honor for the rest of his life, attested in the book Lost Flights of Gustave Whitehead (1937) by Stella Randolph: 

“I was presented and assisted on the occasion when Mr. Whitehead succeeded in flying his machine, propelled by a motor, to a height of two hundred feet off the ground or sea bench at Lordship Manor, Conn. The distance flown was approximately one mile and a half and lasted to the best of my knowledge for four minutes.”  

Hundreds of newspapers around the country and world — such as France, England, Spain, Austria and Australia — reported Whitehead’s motor-powered ascent, some with long pieces and others as merely blurbs. Still, coverage of man’s apparent first foray toward the heavens seems rather lackluster by today’s standards, when considering man’s ancient fascination with and dreams of flight (evident in the Greek myth of Icarus, among other art across cultures). 

Nevertheless, Whitehead heralded the supposed success as a sign to expand his operations, announcing his intentions to sell his flying machine for the “retail price of $2,000,” according to the Waterbury-Democrat (Nov. 21, 1901). He even tweaked his model, constructing “Number 22” and flying it twice. As he told the magazine American Inventor (April 1902):  

“This new machine has been tried twice, on January 17, 1902. It was intended to fly only short distances, but the machine behaved so well that at the first trial it covered nearly two miles over the water of Long Island Sound, and settled in the water without mishap to either machine or operator. It was then towed back to the starting place. On the second trial it started from the same place and sailed with myself on board across Long Island Sound. The machine kept on steadily in crossing the wind at a height of about 200 feet, when it came into my mind to try steering around in a circle. As soon as I turned the rudder and drove one propeller faster than the other the machine turned a bend and flew north with the wind at a frightful speed, but turned steadily around until I saw the starting place in the distance. I continued to turn but when near the land again, I slowed up the propellers and sank gently down on an even keel into the water, she readily floating like a boat. My men then pulled her out of the water, and as the day was at a close and the weather changing for the worse. I decided to take her home until Spring.” 

Neither model made it to market.  

Even when Whitehead promised to send the American Inventor photographs of a test, he never produced them because “the weather was bad, some little rain and a very cloudy sky, and the snapshots that were taken did not come out right.” He provided a sketch instead, which was not completely uncommon for the era; additionally, he did invite a photographer to a test, which, by all accounts, never happened.  

Despite Whitehead’s assertions, one investor, Herman Linde, a New York artist, grew frustrated, openly criticizing the engineer in the press, “challenging Whitehead to prove his assertion that he can fly even the smallest distance with his machine,” according to The Day (March 12, 1902). Meanwhile, in terms of press coverage, no major outlet confirmed a subsequent flight. Moreover, the Bridgeport Post (April 5, 1902) published a headline that read, “Whitehead Flew High…Financially, but Not Actually – That is to say, He Has Not,” as reported by Tom Crouch, curator emeritus of the National Air and Space Museum.  

Yet in a subsequent piece about Whitehead in the Scientific American from Sep. 19, 1903, the Bridgeport resident’s proponents point to a line that states he flew an “aeroplane” that “was made to skim along above the ground”; but in 2016, the magazine claimed “the context makes it clear that when Whitehead was ‘flying’ gliders or powered airplanes, the machine was pulled aloft and steered by a man running along the ground and pulling a rope, which is different from successfully flying an airplane.”   

However, there have been nearly 20 affidavits and statements testifying to Whitehead’s flights — although, in another wrinkle in this saga, these were gathered at least 30 years after his inaugural 1901 test.  

Still, none of the flights and contemporary coverage brought him wealth or acclaim like the Wright brothers. In the following years, Whitehead “intended to enter one of his machines in the aeronautical competition being planned for the Louisiana Purchase Exposition to be held in St. Louis in 1904,” which did not happen, according to the Journal of Aeronautical History. Likewise, he constructed machines for “other enthusiasts” between 1906-1909, but again, there is debate whether any of these flew. Indeed, Whitehead never claimed to fly successfully after 1902, which has led critics to believe he never did so in the first place. However, he did build motors and experimented with creating a helicopter with 60 propellers (that was unsuccessful) and other gliders.   

But Whitehead did endure financial hardship with his engine factory falling into bankruptcy; and, in 1911, he lost a lawsuit after failing to complete a motor within a particular timeframe for a customer, which “destroyed his ability to earn a living, and curtailed all further activity as an aviation pioneer,” according to “Gustave Whitehead’s Flying Machines.”  

If financial misfortunes weren’t enough, Whitehead was blinded in one eye from a work accident. On Oct. 10, 1927, at 53 years old, he died of a heart attack — leaving his family nearly penniless. As such, the Bridgeport resident, the man who many believe was “first in flight,” was buried in a pauper’s grave with no headstone.  

In total, Whitehead may have designed more than 50 different flying machines between 1896 and 1908. As to why he stopped constructing other aircraft, his proponents suggest that Whitehead would have faced costly legal ramifications from the Wrights like other aviators. There are accusations that the Wright brothers engaged in “patent trolling: the controversial modern practice of suing competitors for infringements that fall beyond the scope of one’s patent,” according to Time magazine.   

Lest he risk further financial ruination, Whitehead, purportedly, grounded himself in building another motor-powered aircraft. 

The Lost Flights? 

Even with the Wright brothers’ successful flight (and documentation proving such), investigations into Whitehead’s work, questioning if he was the first to fly a motor-powered airplane, resurged in the early 1930s, beginning with Stella Randolph.  

After losing her job at the Cleveland Child Health Association during the Great Depression, Randolph turned to freelance writing to sustain herself. Her interest in Whitehead was sparked when her editor, Harvey Phillips, gave her a “small newsprint article” about the aviator and “suggested that she see if there was a story there,” according to the University of Texas at Dallas’ Eugene McDermott Library. She ran with it, interviewing family members and Whitehead’s associates. In 1935, in the magazine Popular Aviation, she presented a biography on the Bridgeport engineer, calling him a “long suffering genius,” and “modest about proclaiming his achievements,” adding:  

“He sought perfection. When he had flown, this was not sufficient. He must do better. In fact, Gustave Whitehead was never satisfied. Ever since, at an early age, he had constructed his first pair of wings and attempted a secret flight with them, he had been dissatisfied with his own inventions.” 

By 1937, Randolph published the book The Lost Flights of Gustave Whitehead, arguing that the reasons why Whitehead’s tests “were lost from the pages of aviation history” boiled down to two reasons: “They were premature — the public was not willing to believe such nonsense as a man flying — and Whitehead was dissatisfied with his own success.” 

She was not Whitehead’s only supporter at the time. The same year, the Harvard Crimson shared that John B. Crane, an economist at the university, proposed that “a congressional investigation be made into the authenticity of the claim that Wright was the first man to fly an airplane” after completing his own “extensive research” that confirmed Whitehead’s successful tests.   

By 1945, the story reached such widespread attention, appearing in Reader’s Digest, that Orville Wright issued a rebuttal, “The Mythical Whitehead Flight,” in the U.S. Air Services Magazine. Still, Randolph pursued the story, publishing another book in 1966 titled, Before the Wrights Flew: The Story of Gustave Whitehead. 

Another wave advocating for Whitehead’s legitimacy sprung when Andy Kosch, a Connecticut high school teacher, “built a replica and successfully flew it at Sikorsky Memorial Airport in Stratford in 1986,” according to the New York Times. Shortly after, a “60 Minutes” segment aired with the title, “Wright Is Wrong?”  

But nothing ignited the discourse more than a 2013 article written by Paul Jackson, “Justice delayed is justice denied,” in Jane’s All the World’s Aircraft, an aviation publication founded in 1909 considered an authority in the industry, that stated, “The Wrights were right; but Whitehead was ahead” — i.e., that Whitehead did fly first and should be recognized for his achievements. Jackson agreed with John Brown, an Australian aviation historian, who has defended the Bridgeport resident’s honor on the website “Gustave Whitehead – Pioneer Aviator.” 

In the years since, Jane’s All the World’s Aircraft has “backpedaled considerably, now saying that the article was purely one writer’s opinion, not holy writ,” as stated by the Hartford Courant; moreover, Scientific American, the National Air and Space Museum, the Journal of Aeronautical History and even historian David McCullough, who wrote John Adams, 1776 and The Wright Brothers, laid out evidence debunking Whitehead as the “first in flight.” As Crouch questions in “The Flight Claims of Gustave Whitehead”: 

“Why was Whitehead no longer flying Numbers 21, 22, or a more developed version of the configuration in which he claimed to have enjoyed such success?   Why did Whitehead abandon a configuration that he claimed had enabled him to make flights of up to seven miles, in favor of returning to a design that was now eight years old and obsolete?   Why did Whitehead not call the attention of the readers of the Scientific American to his claim to have flown a very different powered machine over considerable distances less than two years before?”   

He also questions the validity of the witnesses’ testimonies, arguing that “members of Whitehead’s own family reported that they had never seen him fly,” and “Many of the individuals who were most closely associated with Whitehead, or who, like Herman Linde, were funding his efforts, doubted that he had flown.” 

Yet Whitehead’s supporters believe institutions like the Smithsonian, which has the Wrights’ plane on display, are biased. In 1948, Orville Wright sold the famous plane for $1 under the condition that, “The Smithsonian shall [not state] any aircraft … earlier than the Wright aeroplane of 1903 … was capable of carrying a man under its own power in controlled flight,” according to a contract signed between the aviator and the museum.  

Politically, the claim has triggered reactions from other states. North Carolina passed a resolution repudiating Whitehead’s alleged flights in the 1980s; Ohio, where the Wright brothers were residents, did the same in 2015. Meanwhile, during the renewed interest in Whitehead, the 2014 Connecticut General Assembly adopted House Resolution No. 87 recognizing the Constitution State as “the location of the first manned, controlled flight of a powered, heavier-than-air aircraft.”   

So, after nearly a century of investigation, debunking and experimentation, did Whitehead fly in a motor-powered plane before the Wright brothers? His now marked grave clearly makes the case, stating he was “First in Flight.” 

However, it’s unlikely that Connecticut is home to a great leap in aviation. Right now, the “first in flight” title belongs to the Wright brothers — and will, more than likely, remain that way. But Whitehead’s tale is an interesting examination into historical investigations and even the importance of properly documenting one’s work, which the Bridgeport resident failed to do well, unlike the Wright brothers.  

Even though the historical record as it currently stands cannot name Whitehead the pioneer in flight, he can be appreciated for this: continuously striving to achieve the impossible. We need more of that innovative American spirit.    

Till next time — 

Your Yankee Doodle Dandy, 

Andy Fowler 

What neat history do you have in your town? Send it to yours truly and I may end up highlighting it in a future edition of ‘Hidden in the Oak.’ Please encourage others to follow and subscribe to our newsletters and podcast, ‘Y CT Matters.’