AVIATION: The Cats of MIG Alley

(4 of 8)

Better Bow. James Howard Kindelberger is the kind of man who thinks there is nothing in the world that cannot be improved. A man with a quick smile and a quicker wit that has made him famous as a teller of ribald stories, he is also a dedicated tinkerer. He once took up surf-boating, gave it up when the boat he designed came apart on its first test and he almost drowned. He also took up archery—not for the sport, but because he "wanted to redesign the bow." He is usually affable—but woe betide the man who gets in Dutch with Dutch. He once gave vent to his terrible temper on the golf course by breaking all his clubs, one by one. Last year, at England's Farnborough Air Show, Kindelberger was asked how he liked it. Said Dutch: "It's okay, but we're putting on a better air show every day—in Korea."

Stomach v. Head. Up at 8 each morning, Kindelberger takes "exactly 15 minutes" to shave, wash and dress (usually in a blue suit). He breakfasts on "orange juice, toast, coffee and the Los Angeles Times," drives himself to work at 9 or 9:30. He runs North American like a wing commander. Says North American's President John L. (for Leland) Atwood: "All my executive authority stems from Mr. Kindelberger."

Into Kindelberger's big paneled office each day troop platoons of admirals, generals, engineers, salesmen, designers; out from it, over the scream of North American jets flying near by, go unnumbered phone calls to Washington and North American's, four plants at Los Angeles, Downey and Fresno, Calif., and Columbus, Ohio. Says Dutch: "My day is nothing but trouble, because the things that are running smoothly don't need my attention."

At lunchtime, Kindelberger joins his department heads in a small dining room to mull over the latest company problems. Then he falls into a contour chair for a 15-minute nap. Says Dutch, who had a serious ulcer operation years ago: "I've decided that at my age, it's wise to be as smart as a pig. There's no point having your head and your stomach fighting over your blood supply. By taking a nap, I let my stomach have the blood for a while."

Kindelberger is such a foe of waste that the story is told of a new employee whom he found cutting scraps of metal into tiny shavings. When Kindelberger asked what he was doing, the employee said: "I don't know. The foreman just told me to chop up this stuff before the Old Man comes around and tries to make a plane out of it."

Ice Mike. In the evening, when Kindelberger heads his Lincoln into the driveway of his Los Angeles home, an ultrasonic whistle on the car alerts an electronic ear, and the garage doors of his eight-room house, which he designed himself, go up automatically. He pours himself a Scotch at a leather-covered bar he built in the living room; if ice is needed, he speaks into a pilot's microphone behind the bar connected to the kitchen. Built-in cabinets hide a living-room slot machine and shelves for his ten cameras and photographic gear.