by Steve Lehto
Gearing Up for Production
As Preston Tucker prepared to bring the Tucker ’48 to the assembly line, he knew that the production model would have to be substantially different from the Tin Goose. His fluid drive transmission was not ready, and the 589 engine needed far too much work. But it wasn’t just the drivetrain issues that needed to be solved. Tucker’s men had not even finished designing the interior of the car. The Tin Goose had been finished with a Studebaker dashboard.
To design the interior, Alex Tremulis reached out to Philip Egan, who had returned to New York after completing his clay model of the Tucker ’48. Egan was recently unemployed, having been let go by Lippincott & Margulies when the firm’s business had slowed. Tremulis offered him a new role on the Tucker ’48: designing everything within the driver’s reach, the “driver control area of the car.”1 He met with Tucker and Tremulis to hear Tucker’s vision of the car interior. Tucker’s primary design cue was safety. The dash was to be padded. The controls should be within easy reach and simple to operate so as not to distract the driver. Tucker reiterated his desire for a “safety compartment” that the passenger could dive into in the event of a crash, certainly one of the stranger features of the Tucker automobile. It was unclear if anyone could actually use it in an accident.
Tucker also took an informal survey to see if he should install seat belts in his car. He consulted some of his racing friends and found that many of them did not use them in their racers. Rex Mays told Tucker he would rather not be strapped into an out-of-control race car, preferring to be free to get out on his own. As Tremulis later noted, Mays would die in a race the following year, thrown from his car while not wearing a seat belt.2 After being ejected, he was run over by another race car. Had he been wearing a seat belt, he probably would have lived.3
Tucker spoke with airline stewardesses and even an airline executive, who told him, “If we put a parachute under each seat, this would imply that an element of danger existed and would so terrify the passengers that they would file out of the airplane and seek the closest railroad terminal in an exodus that would look like the evacuation of Dunkirk.”4 According to Egan and Tremulis, Tucker ultimately agreed with his marketing department that seat belts would imply that the car was unsafe. The Tucker ’48 sedan would not have them.5 Later, Tremulis said that Tucker had been in favor of seat belts but decided against them because “it was very unpopular at that time to talk about safety belts.”6
Nevertheless, Tucker was so passionate about safety that to underscore his concerns, he took his entire engineering staff to a luncheon presentation given by a Detroit-area plastic surgeon who was a crusader for the cause. First, the doctor lectured about the need for auto safety in abstract terms while the audience ate lunch. Then, as dessert was served, he presented a slide show of gruesome color photographs of injuries taken in emergency rooms, as if challenging the audience to eat while viewing the shocking images. Tremulis noted “a lot of uneaten desserts,” but the presentation had its desired effect. The Tucker engineers returned to their offices with a renewed focus on safety.7
Tremulis and Egan were privy to a variety of other issues that touched their department while they worked out the final details of the car. One problem was the cyclops headlight, which many considered the car’s trademark. It only illuminated if the steering was moved more than ten degrees off center and the high beams were turned on. Otherwise, it stayed turned off.8 Tucker had not considered what government bureaucrats might think of this. Fifteen states at that time had laws dictating automotive headlight configuration: each car was to have exactly two headlamps.9 Tucker could lobby to overturn those laws, but that might prove difficult. The stylists came up with two possible solutions. The owners of cars in those states could simply disconnect the middle light. Or the Tucker Corporation could provide a stylish cover to snap over it. Tremulis and Egan designed one with a Tucker logo prominently featured.10 They hoped to be able to offer the covers as a retail option when the cars were eventually sold to the public.
Tremulis often told Tucker that proposed design features were impossible or impractical. Tucker often conceded but reminded Tremulis of his mantra: “Just remember that we have a boss bigger than all of us and that’s the automobile. Do what you have to do, but be sure it’s right for the car.”11
Typically, the designers had to work around the clock to meet fast-approaching deadlines. Tremulis said later that he and his crew often worked 110-hour weeks. To placate his wife, he promised he would take her out for a fancy dinner on Sunday nights. Inevitably, he would tell her to come to the factory and meet him there to save time. And then, after she had sat around on a grimy bench for a few hours, Tremulis would sheepishly ask her to order sandwiches and the two would eat them at the plant.12
As for Egan, his contributions to the Tucker ’48 were understated but important. Automotive interiors were generally complicated; years later, a Tucker expert would note that “dashboards, certainly at that time, tended to be ornate. They tended to be spread out, they tended to be gaudy, they tended to be chromy.”13 The Egan-designed dashboard, on the other hand, was clean and elegant.
* * *
The company sent out another Tucker Topics in early 1948. The cover showed a massive press stamping out body panels with a caption indicating that at least some elements of production had begun; suppliers in Michigan were making parts for the Tucker ’48. Fred Rockelman wrote the introduction, telling how thirteen hundred employees at the Chicago factory were assembling pilot cars. The first piece simply showed an aerial view of the massive Chicago plant, accompanied by an article saying the Tucker Corporation had fully moved into the plant, and although they were currently leasing it from the government, they fully intended to purchase it outright. Typically, Tucker was setting his sights quite high.
Pages were filled with pictures of the plant’s huge interior and forklifts and tractors moving around giant machines. The corporation intended to use 70 percent of the manufacturing equipment that was in the plant when Tucker had taken it over. Further articles showed sales meetings held around the country, attended by hundreds of dealers and distributors in Chicago, Milwaukee, New York, and Los Angeles. A full page showed the thirteen hundred employees at a meeting, getting updates from Preston Tucker and other top management officials. The theme was repeated over and over again: full-scale production was just around the corner.14
Tucker Topics also described staff additions; it welcomed adman Cliff Knoble, along with a few others whose names would become important. Mitchell Dulian had been promoted to head the eight-man sales department. The department members all had impeccable credentials from their work with other big manufacturers like General Motors, Studebaker, and Chrysler.15
The magazine’s final page was lighthearted. It announced the wedding of Preston’s daughter Marilyn—she and her new husband were both attending school in Missouri—and included a picture of the bride and groom. Beneath that story was a photo of Prince Carl Bernadotte of Sweden sitting in a Tucker ’48. According to the caption, he had visited the factory and discussed manufacturing methods with Tucker engineers.16
* * *
Behind the scenes, the growing pains continued. In February 1948 Preston Tucker called the first boss he ever had in the auto industry: D. McCall White. White had long since left Cadillac, where Tucker had been an office boy in 1916, and was now operating his own automotive engineering consultancy. The two had not spoken in thirty-two years.
Tucker invited White to Chicago and said he might be interested in hiring him to consult on getting production up and running. White flew to Chicago, where Tucker gave him a tour of the plant. They looked at the Tin Goose and some partially assembled cars. White asked to see the balance sheets: How much money did Tucker have on hand and how much had he spent so far? In his long career, White had worked in almost every management position possible at several different firms in a variety of countries. He had also worked for an aircraft manufacturer during the w
ar, helping oversee wartime production. He was elderly now, but his mind was sharp. And if anyone knew what it would cost to begin mass-producing cars, it was D. McCall White.
White was not impressed by the car or by the plant. In his mind, the Tucker sedan was not completely engineered or ready for production. Tucker pressed him: What would it take to make it ready? White said it would cost between $50 million and $100 million to finish the design and engineering work and to tool up for the production figures of one thousand cars per day. Tucker was undaunted. In his mind White was saying it was possible. It would just take a lot of money.
Tucker asked if White was willing to come aboard and oversee the effort. White was not as optimistic as Tucker, but he said he would consider joining Tucker if the price was right. Tucker told him to name the price and said he could even draft his own employment agreement. White demanded an advance of $2,500 and a monthly salary of $5,000 along with living and traveling expenses. Tucker agreed.17 Unbeknownst to White, Tucker intended to borrow more money to fund the operation as soon as they solved their engineering and manufacturing problems.
White arrived at the plant and began trying to get a handle on things. He found departments operating inefficiently, often unaware that their work was duplicating the work of others, along with people who were not following any chain of command.
The lack of centralized authority in the engineering organization resulted in an obvious lack of coordination, particularly since Messrs. Parson and Lyman disliked each other and refused to cooperate, which made a bad situation, since they both had some influence with Tucker.18
White complained to Tucker, who issued an order giving White “full and final authority on all matters pertaining to both engineering and manufacturing.”19 White was appeased until he discovered that none of the people in the dysfunctional organization followed Tucker’s orders when he wasn’t present.20 Worse, he later claimed that Tucker would give orders contrary to White’s and simply override White’s ideas if he disagreed with them.
White later said that Floyd Cerf approached him and asked if White might be able to rein in Preston Tucker—that is, get him focused on making the car. White claimed that Cerf was concerned about Tucker’s mismanagement of the company and had asked him if he might be interested in joining the board of directors of the corporation. He said he would not even consider it “unless Mr. Tucker’s overall authority was taken away or substantially reduced.”21 White did not tell anyone these concerns at first, though. He simply did what he could to get the car ready for production.
* * *
Whatever infighting there may have been at the Tucker Corporation, the fourth issue of Tucker Topics painted a rosier picture. But even then, the message was toned down. Rockelman’s letter to the readers noted how the Tucker Corporation had gained its financing only five months earlier and was attempting to do the impossible. While the big car companies put out new models yearly, those were merely updates of previous models. The Tucker Corporation was attempting to put out a whole new model in the same time the big companies would only need to redo perhaps 10 percent of a production model. Still, Rockelman was confident it could be done:
Remember, we’re not merely making a ten per cent change on an old model. We are building a wholly new car, a better car, and on a scale that will enable us to gain the economies of huge volume—and thus to offer the finest value to motordom.22
The magazine described progress securing dealers and distributors, noting that 1,637 retail outlets had now been signed. Six pages were filled with photos of body panels, stacked sheets of steel, and other car parts, along with photos of partially assembled cars rolling down a pilot production line. Other articles showcased more sales meetings and even the numerous letters the corporation had gotten with wacky offers requesting free cars. A woman had written Tucker and offered to drive a Tucker ’48—if it was given to her for free—around the world at the equator in reverse. She did not explain what route she would take, but presumably this would help Tucker combat the negative press the company had gotten about the car’s transmission.23
* * *
It fell to Tucker’s men to actually resolve the issues with the vehicle’s engine and transmission. Tucker had insisted that they iron out the bugs in the 589 engine, but many of its problems appeared to be insurmountable. Nothing they did made it easier to start, and the hydraulic valves never quite worked precisely enough for the engine to run smoothly. Tested on a dynamometer, the engine’s output was horrible. The results were never officially announced, but word around the plant put the figure at a dismal 83 horsepower; Tucker had hoped for twice that. It took the seasoned veteran Gene Haustein to convince Tucker the engine had to be scrapped. He said it accelerated slower than the moon rose and sounded like a “barrel full of monkeys.”24 Tucker agreed to go with a different engine if one could be found in time.
Tucker sent Eddie Offutt to Ypsilanti and provided him a team, one member of which was Dan Leabu, Tucker’s go-to man in times of emergency. Leabu was one of Tucker’s longest-term employees. A University of Michigan graduate with a degree in engineering, he had spent more than ten years designing tools for Ford Motor Company. Tucker routinely gave his most important jobs to Leabu, and when he told the team to conjure a suitable engine, he knew Leabu would see to it that they got it done. Another member was Preston Tucker Jr., an engineering student at the University of Michigan. Tucker Sr. gave his team ninety days and the resources of Ypsilanti Machine and Tool to do it.25 While most auto manufacturers would have considered modifying the engine compartment at this point, or even reconfiguring the car to be front-engine, Tucker told the men the engine had to go in the rear and fit in the space allotted by the Tin Goose’s dimensions.
The men looked at various engine manufacturers that made six-cylinder opposed engines and focused on one in particular. Bell Aircraft in New York used an engine called the Franklin in some of its helicopters. H. H. Franklin had first made automobiles in 1902 with air-cooled engines that were simply constructed. The company struggled in the years immediately before the Depression but had survived by selling the engines to other companies such as Bell. Some were used in automobiles and some in aircraft. The company had changed names a few times—it was now known as Aircooled Motors—but the engine designs lived on.26 One in particular, designed for helicopter use, was the right size to fit in the Tucker sedan. Being made to aircraft standards meant it was costlier but also better made and more dependable. At this point, cost was a lesser concern, so Tucker agreed to purchase four of the engines and had Offutt tear them apart, measuring all the parts and reconfiguring them.27
The Aircooled Franklin engine would need modification. The engine in the Tucker needed to be liquid-cooled. In a helicopter, the engine sat vertically; in the Tucker it would be laid horizontally. Offutt, Leabu, and the team worked night and day in the shop behind the Tucker family home in Ypsilanti reworking the engine. It needed a water pump and a block through which the water would run, a new exhaust manifold, and a different intake. The engine used a magneto, but Tucker would use a less expensive automotive distributor. And with the radiator in the back of the car, the air to cool it would come in through vents in the fenders, pass through the engine compartment, and be pushed by the engine fan out the rear of the car, through the radiator. Some of the work was done quite hastily. Many of the cars built later would have rough holes simply cut with torches into the rear fenders for the air intake grills to cover. The engineers never settled completely on whether the cooling system was adequate as they had set it up.28
After creating all the necessary new parts for the engine, the men put one together to see if it would run. Years later Leabu told a reporter that when they were done, “we hung a fuel tank from the ceiling, and hooked up a battery, and it started. That was the most beautiful noise I ever heard.”29 They brought the first revamped engine to Chicago just fifty-five days after being given the task.30
Tucker had also relented on his desir
e to use the hydraulic drive, so his sedan needed a more conventional transmission as well. While he wanted an automatic, and assigned some men with the task of designing one, the company did not have time to wait for it to be developed and tested. They needed something else in the interim. Again, he sent Offutt to Ypsilanti with the order to come up with something, using whatever resources were necessary. Offutt and the others had realized that the placement of the engine in the rear of the car meant that a typical transmission of the time would not work. The system needed to fit in the rear of the car and deliver the power to the rear wheels. Someone noted that the now-defunct Auburn Cord Duesenberg had developed and marketed an unusual transmission a few years earlier that sat in front of the engine in a front-engine, front-drive car. If Tucker’s men could locate Cord transmissions, they could place them in front of the engine in the sedan, and the whole assembly would fit snugly in the rear of the Tucker ’48.31
Leabu went out and scoured junkyards and used car lots looking for Cords with the transmission they wanted. He found twenty-two, which were scavenged for parts, resulting in eighteen rebuilt Cord transmissions that would be placed in Tucker ’48s.32
The configuration of the transmission in the Tucker ’48s was unusual for its day and appears even stranger today. Shifting was controlled by a short aluminum lever on a small shaft on the right-hand side of the steering column. A shifting pattern cut out of steel showed where the lever would be pushed for each gear. The driver pushed the lever into the desired position and then depressed the clutch, activating electromagnets and a vacuum system to shift the actual gears. This “pre-selector” system was complicated, but it worked.