Nashville now and then: What might have been

Remembering the Nashville namesake of Andrews Air Force Base... Also: a Nashville-born spymaster in Bolshevik Russia meets a mysterious fate, and a few familiar surnames go out on the town in early May 1894
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Email | Print By E. Thomas Wood

Top to bottom: Andrews on the cover of Time as Panama commander, 1941; with Churchill at Casablanca summit, January 1943; and named European Theater commander, February 1943

A commanding presence

Every American president since Dwight David Eisenhower has enjoyed the use of a personal airport called Andrews Air Force Base. Most of those presidents have probably had no idea why the base just outside Washington bears that name, but Eisenhower certainly knew.

Were it not for the news that CBS radio broke on May 4, 1943, another general might have had Eisenhower's job on June 6, 1944: Nashville native Frank M. Andrews.

After Churchill and Roosevelt met at Casablanca, Morocco in January 1943 to settle on a plan for defeating Nazi Germany, they issued a communiqué naming a new commander of all U.S. armed forces in the European Theater, in charge of preparing to invade the Continent. They chose Lt. Gen. Andrews at the recommendation of General George Marshall, Army chief of staff.

Marshall had earlier placed Andrews in command of all U.S. forces around the Panama Canal and in the Caribbean, then put him in charge of U.S. troops in the Middle East from a Cairo command post. "Then I finally moved him to England," Marshall recalled after the war. Of all his generals, the architect of America's war effort remembered, Andrews was "the only one I had a chance to prepare all around" to command the invasion of Europe.

Frank Maxwell Andrews, born on Lea Avenue on February 3, 1884 and raised in the streetcar suburb of Waverly Place, came from a family with deep roots in Middle Tennessee. His Maxwell kin gave their name to the famous Maxwell House hotel, named for builder John Overton Jr.’s wife Harriet, a first cousin of Frank Andrews’ maternal grandfather. His paternal grandfather rode with Forrest’s 11th Tennessee Cavalry, and the family tree also included two governors of Tennessee (brothers Neill S. and John C. Brown).

A decade after he graduated from West Point in 1906, Andrews transferred from the cavalry to the Army's nascent aviation service. There he survived the tumultuous infighting over the development of air power that destroyed the career of his friend Billy Mitchell in the mid-1920s. In 1935, he became the first commander of an autonomous air unit under U.S. Army auspices, known as "GHQ Air Force." With future General of the Air Force H.H. "Hap" Arnold serving as one of his subordinate wing commanders, Andrews championed the development of the B-17 and other heavy bombers at a time when isolationism and the Depression made such advocacy risky for his career.

Andrews became the most trusted air adviser to Marshall, then a rising officer in the Army bureaucracy, but he pushed too hard for the taste of more senior authorities. At the end of his term at GHQ, he was reduced in rank, exiled to a remote air base and expected to retire. Instead, he chose to bide his time.

When Marshall took over as chief of staff on the day of the Blitzkrieg, September 1, 1939, he chose Andrews to handle training and readiness for the entire Army in the run-up to what they knew was America's inevitable involvement in the war. In fifteen months as chief of operations and training, or G-3, Andrews presided over America's mobilization for war. The Army grew from fewer than 200,000 men to more than 600,000 during this time, and Andrews helped lay the groundwork to bring a million more soldiers into service during the year preceding Pearl Harbor.

Andrews had only begun to settle into his London-based European command when he decided to visit its most remote outpost, a transatlantic ferry station in Iceland. Piloting a B-24, he left an English air base on the morning of May 3, 1943. All flights to Iceland were required to stop for a weather briefing at the Prestwick airfield in Scotland, but Andrews — a flyer who "didn't believe in weather," as one associate recalled — merely radioed to Prestwick Flying Control: "Proceeding Reykjavik assuming weather OK unless notified differently reply."

At just that moment, a power failure at Prestwick prevented it from replying. Personnel there scrambled to relay a message, an hour and ten minutes later, via a functioning transmitter further north in the Scottish highlands: "Iceland 10/10, 800 feet, one mile, rain, clear ice 1,000 feet." Translation: Overcast, ceiling 800 feet, visibility one mile, with heavy icing likely at an altitude of 1,000 feet. The message was unambiguous. The weather was not OK.

The aircraft's radioman acknowledged the reply without comment. The flight continued onward.

As he reached Iceland, Andrews descended under the low cloud cover and tried to follow the coast toward Reykjavik. Spotting a small British-run airfield, he flew a low pass over its runway, apparently seeking clearance to land and wait out the weather. An airman on the ground held up an Aldus lamp and sent a signal that the aircraft could land. But those on board may not have seen the signal. The bomber rose back into the clouds and flew away.

Not long afterward, weaving through the cloudbanks, the B-24 struck the top of a rocky outcropping. Andrews and all others aboard died instantly, apart from the tail gunner, who suffered only minor injuries.

Many of the best-known American participants in the Second World War sat for oral history interviews in the decades afterward. Lieut. Gen. James H. Doolittle, winner of the Medal of Honor for leading the U.S. surprise bombing attack on Tokyo in April 1942, echoed the words of several other interviewees when asked about Andrews: "He would have been the Eisenhower, at least, if not more. He was a great man, of great breadth of concept, and he would have been one of the truly great leaders."

Today, however, Andrews is all but forgotten — in the popular imagination, in military history, and in his hometown. Even the historical marker in front of his birthplace is gone, toppled years ago in a traffic accident and never replaced by the state.

True, John J. Hooker had a bit part in the movie Reds, but Maddin Summers lived the real thing. Nashville native Summers was the U.S. Consul General in the capital of Russia as the revolution of 1917 unfolded. But on May 5, 1918, he met a mysterious fate.

Famed Sovietologist George F. Kennan later singled out Summers as one of the most astute diplomatic observers of his time. This diplomat, however, was more than an observer.

In an era when the old objection that "gentlemen don't spy" had eroded, and in the absence of a U.S. civilian intelligence agency to carry out the duties gentlemen had supposedly once avoided, Summers had the job of running at least one American spy in pre-revolutionary Russia (the colorfully named Xenophon Kalamatiano). He also tasked a diplomatic subordinate, DeWitt C. Poole (later a senior official in the CIA's predecessor the Office of Strategic Services) to carry out covert liaisons with counter-revolutionary generals.

No wonder people wondered when, seven months after Lenin seized power in November 1917, Summers turned up dead. An initial physician's report cited poison as the cause, but the final report blamed a brain hemorrhage. Summers was only 41.

Amusements of a springtime evening

And now for the audience participation element of our program. The Nashville Banner account below, from May 8, 1894, recounts the performance of a female showman (show-woman?) who dazzled a crowd of locals as she lured skeptical gentlemen from the crowd and convinced them of her supernatural powers.

Now it's your turn, scions of Old Nashville: How many of you can spot an ancestor among the names mentioned here? Let us know in the comment section at bottom.

WONDERFUL POWER.
Annie Abbott Defies Strong Men at
Various Feats.
She Performs Remarkable Tests Without
The Aid of Muscular Force in
Any Degree.

Last night was a very bad night and the audience gathered in the Vendome to witness the performance of Annie Abbott was not a large one, but if enough people to fill the theatre hear to-day what the performance consists of, there will not be an empty seat at the concluding performance to-night. Miss Abbott calls herself the Georgia Wonder, and a wonder she is to be sure.

She failed to put her audience on the defensive by trying to explain her powers, but began with a few remarks historical and explanatory of what followed. But the majority of the audience were on the defensive of their own accord — they were skeptical of the claims made in her preliminary remarks and in her printed circulars. It is safe to say that not one left the house unconvinced of the presence of something indescribable and almost invincible in this little bit of a woman.

The committee of gentlemen representing the audience contained several pronounced skeptics, but at the conclusion of the entertainment each gladly affixed his signature to a circular justifying her claims. A pleasing feature of the performance and one that made it appear all the freer from doubt was the fact that she appeared completely alone and performed all tests without the aid of a single assistant, the gentlemen on the stage rendering the only assistance necessary.

At the conclusion of her introductory remarks, the little wonder called for a committee from the audience to assist in the tests and the following gentlemen responded: Frank Fogg, Van L. Kirkman, Turner Henderson, Bob Rains, F. J. Cheatham, W. K. Black, Lucius E. Burch, J. P. Drouillard, Dr. William White, B. Kirk Rankin, Louis Rosenheim and Ed Frankenstein, of New York. The majority of these gentlemen are heavy and muscular and each test was repeated often enough with different members of the committee to disprove the theory of muscular power.

One of the first tests was in lifting the little woman from the floor, Any one of the gentlemen could hold her out at arm's length when she wanted him to, but when she laid her hand on his face it was quite different. The strong men tugged and struggled, but not an inch did she budge, but smilingly urged each one to greater effort. Then comes the billiard cue business. With the cue in a perpendicular position and her own hands simply laid against its side, four strong men pushed and struggled, but not an inch did she budge, but smilingly urged each one to greater effort.

Then comes the billiard cue business. With the cue in a perpendicular position and her own hands simply laid against its side, four strong men pushed hard enough trying to force it to the floor to snap it in pieces. She next stood in a chair and when it was removed from under her foot she went straight to the floor in spite of the fact that four strong men were struggling to hold her up. These tests were severe strains on the muscles of the committee, and they had to rest, but the cause of it all smiled serenely always, and only seemed troubled with pains in her head occasionally. The reason for this can easily be imagined when it is known that there is a constant whirring in her head. When she held a glass in her hand and placed it to the ear of each of her committeemen the sound that emanated resembled strongly the grating noise made by a phonograph before the record is reached on the cylinder. Again when she held the glass to her head persons seated in the audience could plainly hear that popping noise familiar to those who have used a telephone on a stormy day.

A line of ten men, in weight and strength resembling very much the rushers of a champion football team, attempted to crush the frail piece of femininity against the proscenium arch with the only result of landing Manager Black, of the Maxwell, in a very uncomfortable heap in the wings.

Now eight little bare-footed fellows were brought down from the top gallery and ranged in a semi-circle on the stage, each with his sleeves rolled above his elbows. A strong man grasped each boy under the elbows, and after Miss Abbott had warned the boy not to let his toes leave the floor all efforts of the gentlemen to raise them were in vain. Mr. Van Kirkman picked out the smallest boy in the batch — and he could not have weighed more than fifty pounds-but the master of Oak Hall might as well have been lifting against the rock of Gibraltar, for all the progress he made.

A wonderful feature of this test was developed when Miss Abbott asked a very small boy to stand up in the aisle half way back to the door. Dr. J. R. Harwell, the well-known physician, then attempted to lift him where he was, but the effort was entirely futile.

A handsome pair of scales were then brought on and Mr. Turner Henderson, as an expert weigher. tested them to his own satisfaction and. that of the committee and audience. Miss Abbott then stepped on the platform and the scales not only would not balance, but showed no regularity in their their variations. Mr. Bob Rains then placed his entire weight on the little woman's shoulders and she weighed no more. He then undertook to lift her and her weight increased. Here is a feat that has baffled all investigation and doubtless will ever remain one of the things that simply are.

The last tests were stunners. Five men piled on one chair and Miss Abbott lifted them first by the under one's neck and then by the sides of the chair all the time holding a fresh egg between her hand and the chair. The Georgia Wonder announced at this juncture that it was getting late and that she would bring her entertainment to a close if the audience was satisfied; if not, she would make tests until daylight before she would let a skeptic go.

There were no complaints, and the performance concluded with one more feat. Six gentlemen grasped a strong pole and held it to the floor. Mr. Lucius Burch, who tips the beam at 200, climbed on top and with one hand that wonderful woman raised that pole and. moved it half-way across the stage, despite the struggles of the strong men.