The People's Tycoon: Henry Ford and the American Century (Vintage) (74 page)

Finally, after months of internal debate and continuous experimentation, wrinkles were ironed out and a design for the Model A emerged. On
May 26, 1927, a telegram went out under Edsel Ford's name announcing the imminent production of an “entirely new Ford car.” Accompanying it was a statement from Henry Ford praising the Model T as a “pioneer” and promising that his new model would have “speed, style, flexibility, and control in traffic.” Moreover, on that very day, the fifteen-millionth Model T rolled off the assembly line at Highland Park and was commemorated by a ceremony featuring Henry, Edsel, and various company dignitaries. The last Model T came off the line around the beginning of June, and a few weeks later another news release described the Model A as “an accomplished fact.” Ford's new car, it seemed, would appear on the market at any moment.
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But such was not the case. The development of the Model A had created a massive new problem—the need to retool Ford factories that had been structured over the last fifteen years, down to the tiniest detail, for the single purpose of mass-producing the Model T. The protracted debate over the need for a new model, followed by a sudden decision to plunge ahead, had made planning for a production changeover nearly nonexistent. Henry Ford underestimated the problem. In a statement to the press, he reassured the public that retooling “will not necessitate a total shutdown. Only a comparatively few men will be out at a time while their departments are being tooled up for a new product. At one time it looked as if 70,000 men might be laid off temporarily, but we have now scaled that down to less than 25,000 at a time.” This assessment proved wildly optimistic, and as the scope of the problem became evident, Ford managers blanched. Lawrence Sheldrick described these months as “the most terrific pressure period that anyone ever spent in their lives.”
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In fact, all Ford production closed down for six months when the assembly lines for the Model T were terminated in June 1927. Tens of thousands of Ford workers were laid off as a massive retooling project started. The New York
Times
described it as “probably the biggest replacement of plant in the history of American industry.” Henry Ford and his managers decided that the River Rouge facility would be the primary production factory for the Model A, and thirty-four assembly plants around the United States and twelve overseas would require retooling to produce the new car. In 1927, the company owned forty-three thousand machine tools, of which thirty-two thousand were used for production of the Model T. With the changeover, about half of these needed to be rebuilt or refurbished, a quarter scrapped, and a quarter used unchanged. Ford also purchased forty-five hundred entirely new machines to make the Model A. In addition, the company built over a million square feet of new factory space, installed new systems for using power, and formulated new machine layouts. After months of
frantic work, mass production of various components began in October, and the first Model A was assembled on October 21. By early November, the new assembly line at the Rouge was sending forth a steady stream of cars. Ultimately, the cost of this retooling amounted to $250 million.
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Facing this immense project, Henry Ford turned to an activity in which he had always excelled—publicity. As he had done so many times in the past, he transformed a pressing situation into a public-relations bonanza. He adopted a two-pronged strategy. First, Ford created a great sense of anticipation about his new car by initially withholding information from the public and then releasing tantalizing tidbits a little at a time. Second, even though his associates in the company had dragged him kicking and screaming into replacing the Model T, he presented himself as a heroic, wise innovator who once again had decided to meet the needs of the American consumer.

Ford masterfully manipulated the natural suspense that grew up regarding his new car. As the old assembly lines shut down, Ford factories closed, and secret design work on the new car began, owners of those fifteen million Model T's were intrigued by its successor. Rumors ran rampant, and the publicity buzz grew louder as newspapers, magazines, and people speculated endlessly.
Time,
for instance, analyzed some fuzzy photographs snapped of the prototype on a test run in the Michigan countryside. Ford played the game for all it was worth, denying false reports but offering nothing really illuminating. The New York
World
described how the story stayed on the front pages:

Jokes circulated. St. Peter, it was claimed, had begun stopping all deceased Detroiters when they arrived at the gates of heaven and promising immediate admittance to anyone who could describe the new car. With typical insight, Ford understood that by saying nothing he gained more publicity than automobile companies who spent millions of dollars for that purpose.
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“Never was a publicity story so adroitly managed,” noted
The Nation.
“A dozen times during the last few months alleged details about the new car slipped out and were duly featured on the front pages of the newspapers. Each time denials came from Edsel Ford, from the Ford plant in Detroit, or from the great man himself. Yet the stories persisted.” Cartoons appeared, such as one that depicted two dejected circus barkers standing alone at their stalls as a huge crowd clamored around a Ford booth, with one inquiring, “How does he do it, Bill?” and the other replying, “Search me, I'm beat.” The Ford publicity bubble, according to the Kansas City
Star,
was “the most remarkable exhibition of salesmanship in the history of the country.” The Springfield, Massachusetts,
Union
described Henry Ford as “the master showman of all times.” “To create a feeling of suspense, with its thrill of expectancy, is the aim of every dramatist who knows his art,” the Chicago
Evening Post
pointed out. “Mr. Ford has achieved that aim.” With his subtle gambits, Ford galvanized the American imagination for about six months, between June and December 1927.
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Henry Ford's image assumed a prominent position in the publicity surrounding his new car. In a sense, his performance was shameless, since everybody in the company knew that their leader had resisted eliminating the Model T. Nevertheless, articles appeared praising Ford as “The Driving Force and Guiding Spirit Behind the Ford Organization” as it labored at “designing a car which should meet the requirements of the market.” He was described as “unique among men, a great thinker, a quick doer, a man of intense force but simple tastes; Lincolnian in character; a great American, the mechanical genius of the age.” News stories explained how Ford spearheaded the development of the new car, telling his engineers, “I represent the public,” as he “worked like a garage hand. He lay on his back under the cars, hitching and crawling from place to place, and when each design was completed, tried it out on the road.” The New York
Times
described Ford as “still the restless, dynamic revolutionist that he always was,” and claimed that he led the crusade to change the company's car. “No one fought to retain the old Lizzie…. Not a sentimental tear was shed over her,” ran its fanciful rendering. “The fact remains that Ford himself specified exactly what he wanted [in the new model], that he passed on every gear and valve stem in the finished product, and that his was the spirit that dominated and animated the designing staff.” Ford helped create this mirage, claiming that his engineers had been at work for several years on the new model but “it has been on my mind much longer than that.” He explained the philosophy behind the new model. “Nothing is permanent but change…. If a manufacturer or a merchant has an ambition to avoid the junk pile, then his program has to be one of driving change,” he declared.
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By early December 1927, the Ford campaign for the new car had reached its climax. The company had hired the advertising agency N. W. Ayer & Son of Philadelphia, and for five straight days after Thanksgiving, full-page ads appeared in every English-language newspaper in the United States, some two thousand in all. This created such a sensation that many papers reproduced the Ford ad copy on their front pages. On December 2, the Model A was introduced officially in New York City at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, as well as in showrooms and venues all over the country. The response was overwhelming. In Detroit, over a hundred thousand saw the car on display on its first day at the city's convention hall. Huge crowds descended on showings of the car in Denver, Kansas City, Dallas, New Orleans, and Cleveland, with mounted police summoned to control the situation. A scholar examining this outpouring of interest estimates that some ten million Americans saw the new Ford within thirty-six hours of its first display, and more than twenty-five million viewed it within a week.
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The Model A lived up to the hype surrounding it. This lightweight vehicle possessed a powerful four-cylinder, 40-horsepower engine that could reach a cruising speed of sixty-five miles per hour. So stylish that many described it as a “baby Lincoln,” it featured low, sleek body lines and a variety of color combinations. The Model A, in contrast to its utilitarian predecessor, offered a variety of comfortable touches, such as safety glass, hydraulic shock absorbers, automatic starter, windshield wipers, nickel hardware, dashlight, and theft-proof locks. And, equally important, it continued the Ford tradition of inexpensive transportation. Ranging in price from $385 for the basic Roadster to $570 for the spacious Fordor Sedan, it cost no more than the last Model T's.
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The introduction of the Model A seemed to signal the triumphant revival, perhaps even rebirth, of the Ford Motor Company. It promised to solve profound problems in this enterprise. Even with its development costs, it promised redemption by offering the American public a stylish, comfortable, dependable vehicle suited to the social conditions and cultural values of the age. Just as the new car was coming before the American public, however, another controversy enveloped the company and its leader. More than any previous episode in his storied career, it illuminated Henry Ford's deepest personal weaknesses. By the time this controversy abated, his reputation had been sullied forever.

On Sunday evening, March 27, 1927, Henry Ford was driving home alone from the engineering building in Dearborn. As he motored along Michigan Avenue not far from Fair Lane, another car suddenly sideswiped him and sent his coupe veering over an embankment, where it wedged between two trees. Ford managed to extricate himself from the wreck and stumble toward home. Scratched and stunned, he made it to the gatehouse of his estate, where the attendant immediately called Clara. She gathered her husband, put him into bed, and summoned his physician. Henry recuperated at home for two days, and then was moved to Henry Ford Hospital. Two boys were apprehended shortly thereafter. They claimed that Ford had been hogging the road and that the sideswipe had been an accident. Ford's attending physicians assured the public that his injuries were not serious, although he may have suffered a blackout, because “he did not seem to remember what happened.”
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Such was the official story released to the press by the Ford Motor Company shortly after the accident. There may have been more to this incident, however, than met the eye. When Harry Bennett, Ford's security chief at the company, inspected the crash site, “there were some things that seemed phony to me,” he later recalled. Then, when Bennett visited Ford later that day and vowed to find the culprits who had run him off the road, the victim insisted that he drop the whole matter. Bennett persisted, however, until Ford made a startling admission. “Well, Harry, I wasn't in that car when it went down into the river,” he confessed. “I don't know how it got down there. But now we've got a good chance to settle this thing. We can say we want to settle it because my life is in danger.”
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Why might Ford have concocted this episode, and what did he want to settle? In fact, he was under an enormous amount of stress on two fronts. First, having decided to jettison the Model T, he was about to authorize the
closing of all company assembly plants for an extremely expensive retooling to produce a new model. Second, he was on the verge of being called to testify in what was perhaps the most embarrassing, controversial trial in which he had ever been embroiled. After years of anti-Semitic statements and articles published under his name in his Dearborn newspaper, Ford had been sued for libel by an outraged Jewish farm organizer. The trial was going badly, and his reputation was taking a beating.

Under pressure from these difficulties, Ford had grown fearful of being toppled from his lofty public standing. Desperate to recover his equilibrium and protect his image, he may have staged the car “accident” as a stratagem to position himself as a victim and arouse public sympathy. If nothing else, the accident allowed his lawyers to keep him off the stand. But the reprieve was temporary. Ford's anti-Semitism earned him a large portion of public disgrace that, coming near the end of the 1920s, accelerated his fall from public favor. Though the result of this process—a mortifying trial and humiliating public retraction—may have materialized fairly quickly, its gestation was lengthy. Ford's malignant strain of bigotry and ignorance was years in the making.