 Cavalcade of America. For more than 130 years, almost as long as this nation has lived, the name of DuPont has been associated with this country's progress. So it seems appropriate that DuPont should have the privilege of presenting this series of episodes, taken truthfully from American history, to remind us that from the earliest days to the present time, the American people have stood for the staunch and simple qualities that form our heritage. A group of distinguished educators prominent in the American Historical Association is working with DuPont to achieve the spirit of historical accuracy. Today as ever, America has filled the face in the future and courage to move ahead. You see it all around you, in homes, shops, factories, laboratories. DuPont sees it in the tireless research of its chemists, working to discover and create useful materials and products that make life happier and safer. It is the hope of DuPont that these stories from the pages of our country's history will awaken in the Americans of today a renewed ride in the Americans who went before us, in the Cavalcade of America. We are happy to announce that the leading parts in this evening's performance will be played by one of Hollywood's most brilliant young stars, Francho Tone. Several distinguished visitors are with him here in the studio. One of them is Ms. Joan Crawford, who's marriage to Mr. Tone was announced the day before yesterday. Other members of his family are here, including Mr. Tone's father, Dr. Frank J. Tone. It is especially fitting that Dr. Tone should be present at this program dedicated to the achievements of chemistry, because only a few days ago he received the Atchison Medal and Prize awarded by the Electrochemical Society for his outstanding accomplishments in electrothermic. Tonight you will hear the voice of Francho Tone in each of our two episodes. In the first is the young engineer who found the path for the first transcontinental railway over the Sierra and in the second as the air mail pilot who blazed the first guy trail high above those mountains. As the American Cavalcade passes in review tonight, we set our stage for the year 1860 with some melodies that were familiar to the unsung heroes who won for us the glamorous way. Let us turn back history's pages to the year 1860. From Salt Lake City, Utah, the overland stage starts westward across the desert. Among the passengers are a young Connecticut ganky Theodore Duda and his wife. You're cold, aren't you, Anna? Well, a little. Let me wrap the blanket around you. Thank you, dear. Yeah, how's that? Oh, much better. I had no idea the desert would be so cold. Now you know why they warn passengers to carry extra blankets and wear thick socks and heavy underwear. Oh, it's disgraceful to be traveling like this in the year 1860. Yes, but think what it must have been like in 1849. I'd rather look ahead and imagine what it'll be in 1869. No more rattling stages drawn by mule teams. Of course, camping by the roadside, cooking your own meals, expecting any minute to be attacked by Indians. A shining iron rail stretching from coast to coast. You'll really think there'll be a transcontinental railroad by that time, Theodore. There's got to be. Yes, but the desert and the mountains. Mountains are no mountains. The east and west have got to be joined together. The only way this country of ours will ever develop. You've already proved that the Rockies can be crossed. But the Sierras. Are the Sierras really so terrible? Terrible and magnificent. A jagged, snow-covered barrier that rises to the sky and defies all men. And still, you say? The Sierras are not impassable, I'm sure of it. I'm sure that somewhere over those mountains is a path where a railroad could be laid. Only I can find it. We will. We? You and I, together. But, Anna... Oh, I'm not an engineer, but I am a good cook. I can even help with survey rods and blinds. Anna, just go with me. Up into the Sierras? Oh, if you'll let me, Sierda. I'd like to feel that I'd had a little part. I don't care how little in making this dream of yours come true. If everybody had your phrase, Anna, we wouldn't have to cross the Sierras. We'd move them! Ah, yes. In the city of Sacramento, in that same year of 1860, was a hardware store run by two merchants, Thomas B. Huntington and Mark Hopkins. A prosperous store it was, too. For after all, whether gold-seekers succeed or fail, they must have picks and spades and pans. Into the store one day, come Sierda or Judah. Mr. Huntington? Yes. My name's Judah. Sierda or Judah. He talks like a Yankee. I am, from Connecticut. Well, don't go trying to sell me any wooden nutmegs. I come from Connecticut myself. I know better than to try anything like that on you no matter where you came from. They tell me you're the smartest storekeeper in California, Mr. Huntington. Stop shopping, ma'am. Well, what is it you want? Slub steak? Yes. A little late, joining up with the gold rush, aren't you? I'm not out here looking for gold. No? I'm out here making a survey for the transcontinental railroad. What? Oh, no, it hasn't gone through yet. It's still just a dream in men's minds. But if we can cross the Sierras... Yes, just try and cross the Sierras. That's just what we're going to do. Huh? We're going up into those tough old mountains where my wife and I look for a path. A path where iron rails can be laid and trains can travel. Any train that crosses the Sierras will have to climb up to the stars and down again. You can look, but you'll never find a path. Well, that's what everyone else says. But I didn't think you would. I thought you were the kind of man who'd realize that we've got to have a railroad connecting California with the east. The iron is head can see that we are two, but anybody with an iron is head can see the Sierras, too. And if you'd ever been up in them... I have been. When I was out here before. Oh. Oh, this isn't your first trip west. Oh, I came out in 54. I was in charge of construction on the line from Folsom up to the Sacramento. Before that, I was construction man on the Troy and Buffalo branches of the New York Central. I didn't know you were an engineer. Now, they tell me you're a hard man, Mr. Huntington. If you don't part with your money easily, you'll gamble it away. That's right. But I'm going to ask you to gamble this one. Gambling some money on its Sierras into the Sierras. We have no money. We've got to get somebody to stake it. It's a wild goose case. A goose that may lay golden eggs someday. Well, I can't give you any money. But I'll tell you what I will do. I'll give you a barrel of flour. Oh, thank you. That'll help keep you alive anyhow while you're camping up there. You think he'd be willing to configure something? Mark, he might. He might stop down the street, too, at Stanford and Crocker's. They run the general store. They live in Stanford and Charlie Crocker. They ought to be good for $10 apiece. Oh, thanks. You're very kind. And when you come back from this ship of yours, come around and see us. Because if there is a pass over the Sierras... There he is. And we are going to find it. Huntington was as good as his word. Stanford, Hopkins, and Crocker each contributed. Third by the vision of a young engineer. Eastward and upward, the Connecticut Yankee and his gallant little wife worked their way. Higher and higher into the Grimm Sierras. 1,945. Almost 7,000 feet. We... I guess we've reached the summit, haven't we? The summit. Over the next rise, only a few hundred feet more. And... and then... Then, we'll know. Yeah. Now, let's stop here. Just for a minute. You're feeling sick? No, I... I just can't seem to breathe. Oh, it's the altitude. No, it's here. I'm afraid, then. I'm afraid to climb that rise and see what's beyond. I suppose it should be the end of this passage we've been following all these weeks. A sheer drop, maybe. No, no. Now, don't even speak of such a thing. All after all, we've been through. Or it would be too cruel. Since when have the Sierras ever been kind? Have they done that best to defeat us? To block us? With walls aloft? Sweep us back with rushing rivers? Barriers a hundred feet deep in snow? The impassable Sierras. No, they're not impassable. For men can build bridges across those rivers and blast rocks away, call off barriers against snow. You've said so yourself. A railroad that climbs to the stars. To the stars? To this place where we're standing? And from here? Let's go and look. When you make it, Anna? You go ahead. No, I want you with me. Beside me. The wind. It's so strong. Now hold onto my arms. Is that better? We're almost to the top, Anna. I can begin to see over the rise and beyond. Tell me. What do you see? A railroad climbs to the stars, starting down again. Down an easy grave, winding around that mountain ahead, traveling down through the past. For it is the past, Anna. We've found what we were looking for. The past, through the sea hours. The past for the first railroad across America. And so it was because of the determination of a man whose name is no longer remembered, that the east and west were wedded with a band of ire. But as the American cavalcade moved onward, the people became restless for greater speed, for faster communication between the Atlantic and Pacific. The temple of America quicker and its faster pace is reflected in the music of our modern days. Landing commerce demanded quicker means of transacting business. The mails are too slow with the cry of the days. In Washington, D.C., one morning in January 1918, Otto Prager, assistant to Postmaster General Albert S. Burleson, stands with his superior, looking out of the window, at Spargy Winter Day. Had a chance to grow the newspaper clippings today, Chief? Yes, I've seen them. More attacks from mail service. Speed, speed, they all want speed. Well, we'll give it to them. As soon as we find a way to develop the air mail, that'll be the answer. I've been thinking about it constantly. But I'm always stopped by one thought. Could we make the air mail regular, day by day, without interruption? Well, it's a big order, I know, Chief. I don't think it's beyond the realm of possibility. Come over here to the window a minute. Look at that fog. Hmm, pretty thick. You suppose those aviators could fly in weather like this? I wouldn't be surprised. Why? Well, if they could make regularly scheduled flights with mail no matter what the weather, I think I could get Congress to appropriate $50,000 for an experimental line. I've been thinking about that, too, Chief. Suppose we get in touch with Colonel Deed. He has charge of Army training and air service. All right. Call him. Operator, I want to talk to Colonel E.A.D. at Army Headquarters. Colonel Deed, yes, Mr. Prager. Thank you. I think this idea might appeal to Deed, Mr. Browson. If you'll support us, after battle is over. Colonel Deed speaking. Well, hello. This is Art of Prager, Colonel. Hello, Mr. Prager. I'm here with the Postmaster General. We've been talking about the matter if your boys could fly the mail in weather like this. Why not? Well, if they can, Postmaster General believes Congress will approve an air mail service. Fine idea. We'll do it for you. We'll supply the planes and spines. Thank you, Colonel. Mr. Browson, I'll come over and see you this afternoon. Goodbye. Chief, there's the answer. Deed says the Army can do it. Thus, in 1918, the air mail service was scheduled to begin the first route between Washington and New York. One day in May, Washington correspondents and cameraman hurried to the Thomas Park. All officials on this air, the band displaying hails for chief, President Woodrow Wilson is there with various other dignitaries, and an Army lieutenant chosen to fly the first sack of mail which weighed only four and a half pounds. You all set, Lieutenant? Any time the work is given, Mr. Prager. Lieutenant, in delivering this letter to the post office of New York City, you officially inaugurate the first flight of our government air mail service. I wish you luck, and Godspeed. May we have a picture, Mr. Browson? Hold it a moment, please. All right, boys, all right. Don't keep it too long, please. Just remember that the mail is supposed to be delivered on time. Okay, thank you. We've got it. All right, Lieutenant. Time to go. Very well, sir. I'm on my way. Zooming into the air, the pilot arches and dips in respect to the dignitaries below. Wheeling again, he heads for the distant horizon. The crowd disperses. The officials return to their offices, congratulating themselves on a new era in the transportation of the mail. Meanwhile, the pilot is winging his way. Suddenly, his engine begins to miss. In a moment, he knows he must make a force landing. Frighting a field, he knows it's a plane downward. What in the world is this fellow doing in my field? Hi! What should I do landing in my field? Sorry, it couldn't be helped. That engine's trouble. Well, what are you doing over this way? I don't see many of you fellows over my place. All right, this is the first official air mail flight from Washington to New York. New York, eh? Are you going by way of the South Pole? What do you mean, South Pole? Well, I'm sorry to tell you, mister, but you're in Maryland. It is 25 miles southeast of Washington. In spite of this inauspicious beginning, Burleson and Prager proceeded to develop the air mail service. In August 1918, the post office decided it was ready to take over the job. It encountered trouble at every turn. The climax came one day in Belmont Park, New York, when pilots looking at storm clouds refused to leave crowds. It appealed to get the mail through falling on deaf ears. The superintendent wired Prager in Washington. The office of postmaster general, Washington. Mail's not leaving today. Weather bad. No visibility. Signed superintendent, Belmont Park. Belmont Park, New York. Visibility unnecessary. Fly by compass. The mail must go. Signed Prager. And go with this, slowly and section by section. It took a year to get the service as far west as Omaha, where, on the morning of September 8th, 1920, a plane stands in readiness in the airport. A mail truck moves up behind the waiting plane. Its driver leaks out, opens the back, and drags out a pack of mail bound for the Pacific coast. Okay, Jack, is that everything? We'd like a look to the weather, Mike. Well, the ceiling is down a bit. The port could be a lot worse. All the days worked, Jack. The port is raining all the way to the coast. I'll try my butt out. What's the good old mail slogan say? No snow, no rain, no heat, no night. Stay these carriers. Well, that means on land and sea. That means on land and sea, and now the air. I'll get through. Okay. See what you do. I got a postcard to a gallon frisco in that bag. I'll give you a loving person. Okay. Into the dark skies, the plane zooms toward the western horizon. Tire its thaws until it disappears into the clouds. Far ahead, the rugged peaks of the rocky, suddenly horizon. The pilot noses his ship upward 12,000 feet above the earth. Now the great salt desert stretches out below. The pilot sears his plane down the pass to Salt Lake City and sets it down on the airport field. How much? 15 minutes. I was flying around looking for a hole in the ceiling. A strong headwind. How's the weather? Oh, not bad. What's the report from the west? Not so good from here on. Fog, rain, snow, and the fierce. You just got a call from headquarters. You don't need to go on. What do you mean? No definite orders for you to continue. It's a volunteer job. Oh. Well, I've gone this far. Oh, now go the rest of the way. Hurry up with the refueling while I spec a little. Mechanics fuel and test plane. In a few minutes it is ready. Upset sores again into the western sky. Fog and clouds close in. Only the compass is nearby now. Darkness settles down as the pilot pushes on. Alone. Come on, you old crate. Climb. Climb. 12. 15. Oh, 15,000, Arson. I was amazed. Oh, but I'm sleepy. It was if I'd been up here for a day. I wonder what time it is. Hey, is this what's up? Must be later than that. You can't fall asleep. Keep talking to yourself. Talk to yourself. I never thought so cold in my life. But if I fall into the wings, I'm through. Maybe I'm through anyway. I'm not just going. I ought to be somewhere near Frisco. Maybe I've passed an amount over the ocean. Well, they warned me. I'm volunteer. Can't blame anyone but myself. I go west as my own funeral. It's no way to talk. No snow, no rain, no heat, no fog. I've got to get down. See where I am. It's my only chance. I've got to get down. I've got to get up. I've got to get up. I've got to get up. Wake up! Wake up! I've got to get down. At the San Francisco airport, a crowd of citizens, city officials, and officers at the post office, anxiously scan the sky. Impatience for the sight of the plane. Minutes dragged seamlessly as they searched the horizon. He should have been here half an hour ago. What happened? Flying a bad course over the mountains and the desert. The clouds seem to be breaking. There ought to be a moon. Listen, is that a plane? I hear a thing. No, I hear a two. Look there, coming through that cloud. Still dark to see. Light up the field. That's a pretty dim light for a man. The plane's a plane. I see him now. He must have sighted the field. Here's your mail. The continent has been spanned by the air mail. Just as east and west we are united by the first San's Continental Railroad 51 years before. And today, this can happen in the New York office, where a business executive is dictating a letter to his secretary. And please have these contracts executed and sent to me by a return air mail. It is imperative that signed copies reach New York, not later than day after tomorrow. That's very true. That's all. Thank you. Be sure to put an air mail stamp on that, Miss Brown. Yes, sir, I will. It's got to be in Frisco tomorrow. How simple it all seems today, when 3,000 miles is only an overnight journey. To those who made it possible, who blazed our trails on land and in the air. We salute them, unsung heroes of the cavalcade of America. What a picture one gets from these stories of the fundamental characteristics of the American people. People who have the courage to look always forward, never to turn back, never to be defeated even in the face of seemingly insurmountable circumstances. Those stalwart Americans passed on to us their traditions, their spirit and courage. And in every walk of life in this year, 1935, Americans are doing their part to carry on. But today, instead of striving to span the continent, new achievements are being won in agriculture, engineering, medicine, chemistry, and another pursuit of life. It's said that we live in the age of chemistry. And it's true that life is being made easier and happier from year to year because research chemists, like the pioneers of American history, are constantly looking ahead, solving the riddles of nature. Chemists are improving nature's materials, even creating things that nature fails to supply. To mention one example, consider the varied uses created out of coal tar, an ugly substance for which no use was formerly known. From this unattractive raw material, DuPont produces useful dyes that help make American textile industries independent of foreign supplies, perfumes for soap, and the bases for antiseptic, chemicals that improve gasoline. Also, in cooperation with the rubber industry, other chemicals have been produced from coal tar to give rubber longer wear, whether it be in a hot water bottle or in an auto tire. The story of coal tar is only one example of the way DuPont chemists create better things for better living through chemistry. Next Wednesday evening at this same time, DuPont will again present the Cavalcade of America. This is the Columbia Broadcasting System.