Outcast into Hero

As an airline operator, burly, whip-smart Philip Gustav Johnson was branded an airmail profiteer, publicly disgraced, finally booted out of U.S. aviation by the witch-hunting First New Deal (TIME, April 30, 1934). Last week the same "P.G." Johnson was a top-flight U.S. production hero and Seattle's No. 1 citizen. Reason: Under Secretary of War Patterson had just handed Johnson and his booming Boeing Aircraft Co. the Army-Navy Production Award--newest U.S. prize for war-production excellence. Said Patterson: "This is your nation's tribute to the patriotism and production effort of your plant. . . ."

For this triumphant comeback P.G. can thank his amazing aviation know-how, his endless vitality, his ability to inspire trust --to say nothing of the fact that none of the airmail charges was ever proved. P.G. started in aviation in 1917, when he landed a job in the old Boeing factory. Zest, bright ideas and an all-round knowledge of machines made him president in 1926. To get a bigger market for his airplanes, Johnson set up United Aircraft & Transport in 1928, soon whipped it into the biggest U.S. aviation combine. Then came the infamous airmail investigation which cost him his job, his factories and part of his reputation. But it left him with a million-plus fortune and a flock of pals who thought him one of the best aircraftmen in the U.S.

These two assets started to pay off in 1937, when the Canadian Government hand-picked Johnson to organize and operate Trans-Canada Air Lines. He did a real job: by 1939 Trans-Canada's Lock-heeds whizzed all over the Dominion, kept a fabulous 98.1% of all schedules. Then came the call P.G. had waited five years to hear--the U.S. wanted him back. The company: Boeing. The situation: terrible. Waterlogged with the first gush of World War II aircraft orders. Boeing had a rheumatic production line, a small scatter-trained working force, a two-year deficit of $3,800,000 (caused mostly by huge development and experimental costs).

Johnson waded in. He squashed the bug in production, set up new training schools, speeded development work (especially on the famous Boeing Flying Fortress), hotfooted after new business. When in May 1941 President Roosevelt announced the super-duper heavy-bomber program, Phil Johnson was right on the ball, gave Air Chief "Hap" Arnold a four-point program which is still the framework of the $3 billion-plus U.S. bomber program. Soon he had snagged a whacking slice of the whole schedule for his own bombers.

Now Boeing is one of the three biggest U.S. heavy-bomber makers (the others: Martin and Consolidated), has sidelines in training planes, multi-place gliders and huge Navy flying boats to boot. Its order backlog is near $1 billion (v. only $23,000,000 in 1939); its 40,000 workers hatch warbirds three or four times as fast as a year ago. And, despite near-confiscatory taxes, its profits after taxes this year may top the whopping $6,113,000 earned last year.

Of all these things Johnson is proud--and justly so. When the United Nations win the war, the aircraft now rolling out of his busy factories will get credit aplenty. However proud he is, he keeps it to himself. This week, in spite of a rib broken in a fall from a horse, he shuttled between the Boeing offices and his swanky $250,000 home 15 miles outside Seattle. For the production record Robert Patterson praised so highly Johnson gave most of the credit to his workers. Said he: "They like to see things rolling."

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