Aerospace: Mr. Mac & His Team

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"This is Mac calling all the team." The voice crackles with authority as loudspeakers carry it to every corner of the sprawling aerospace plant on the rim of St. Louis' Lambert Field. It sparkles with an enthusiasm that rises above the inescapable racket of jet aviation—the rumble of commercial planes lifting off the long runways, the ear-shattering passage of military fighters climbing aloft on steep, improbable curves.

When Mac calls, the team listens, and the noisiest diversion dwindles into the background. For the voice belongs to James Smith McDonnell, 67, whose paternal pep talks are the hallmark of a remarkably successful modern businessman. "Our work," he is fond of saying, "is part of a great team effort. I congratulate all of you who have worked so long and hard." Invariably, he closes: "This is old Mac signing off."

In the past 27 years, "Mr. Mac," as he is known to his 46,000 teammates, has built and babied his McDonnell Co. from nothing into a $1 billion-a-year corporation. With his performance in the manufacture of Mercury and Gemini space capsules, he gave U.S. astronauts an essential boost into space. His jet planes were among the few ready to carry U.S. airmen into combat in Korea; for Viet Nam he has produced the F-4 Phantom, the hottest fighter yet flown in combat by any air force in the world. By his dedication to technical precision, he has turned his company into a sudden and surprising front runner in one of the most complex and competitive of modern industries. Yet, as its chairman and chief executive, he remains a shy and paradoxical figure, leary of publicity even as he competes for profits. Half introvert and half visionary, McDonnell sometimes seems a crusty, single-minded engineer who exists only for his work. But he is also a mystic missionary bringing word from another world, and all his fighter planes—Phantom, Demon, Banshee, Voodoo—bear names that testify to his long fascination with the abode of spirits.

Like a Barony. Mr. Mac is a man of continuing contradictions. From the start of his highly organized career he has concentrated his genius for aerospace production on a comparatively few products. But next month, by merging his company with Douglas Aircraft, he will become boss of one of the nation's most impressively diversified aerospace manufacturers. In an era of bland corporate management, he insists on ruling his 20th century aeronautical beehive like a 19th century industrial barony. His warm paternalism is flavored with benevolent despotism; he customarily sends a pair of baby shoes when an employee becomes a parent but frowns on an employee leaving the plant for lunch.