The year 1945 brought an end to World War II, and with it, the United States was left in a peculiar situation—overwhelmed by war machinery that it no longer required. The country’s factories had worked at top gear for years, churning out almost 300,000 planes of every description, from fast, agile fighters to gigantic bombers, between 1939 and 1945. The production quantum was mind-boggling. As one of General Motors’ William Knudsen famously described it, America “produced so massively that it practically suffocated the enemy under the heap of production, a kind he had never encountered or imagined before.” But victory raised a new challenge. What do you do when suddenly you’ve got hundreds of thousands of planes with nowhere to fly, no war to fight?
The U.S. government did not shirk the issue. It would have cost a fortune to store all those planes—some $20 per plane per month, which added up very fast. It was not something they wanted to pay for an eternity. Organizations such as the War Assets Administration and the Reconstruction Finance Corporation took over the surplus. They established depots and points of sale across the country, initiating a great postwar cleanup. By late 1945, over 117,000 aircraft had been declared surplus.
A few planes got a new lease on life. Durable transports such as the DC-3s and C-54s were turned over to commercial airlines or friendly nations. Civilians purchased military trainers and utility planes at bargain-basement prices—a BT-13 Valiant could be had for a few hundred dollars, and even a high-performance P-51 Mustang for under $4,000.
But for most fighter planes, their post-war future was bleak. The age of the jet was upon them, rendering piston-engine icons such as the B-17 Flying Fortress and P-38 Lightning obsolete overnight. Even the ubiquitous former warlord B-24 Liberator, which had overseen European skies, was now in large surplus.
A handful of chosen models, however, were held in reserve. B-29 Superfortresses, A-26 Invaders, and C-47 Skytrains were stored away in desert lots to slow corrosion, kept in the hope that the world would one day need them again.
The others were broken up. Engines, radios, and guns were saved, but the airframes, constructed primarily of metal, were broken up, melted down, and sold, driving the postwar industry. Hollywood stunt pilot Paul Mantz made a profit, buying formerly used planes at low cost, scavenging useful parts, and selling the rest. At one time, Mantz jokingly boasted he had one of the world’s largest air fleets—until he broke it up piece by piece.
The physical legacy of this demobilization persists throughout the American Southwest. Giant airplane graveyards, or “boneyards,” sprouted up, such as Kingman, Arizona; Walnut Ridge, Arkansas; and Tucson’s Davis-Monthan Field. Row after row of retired warbirds sun-baked in the desert, awaiting sale or scrapping. In Kingman alone, thousands were disassembled and smelted on the premises. Cleanup wasn’t always efficient—recycling spewed forth mountains of aluminum dross adulterated with lead and cadmium, which later proved to be expensive environmental liabilities and the fodder of lawsuits.
Aircraft were only a portion of the postwar excess. Tanks, tents, rifles, and radar equipment also poured into the nation. The Surplus Property Act of 1944 and later the Federal Property and Administrative Services Act of 1949 tried to impose some sense on the shuffle.
With time, what was learned from the postwar experience developed a more structured process for dealing with military surplus, ultimately overseen by the Defense Logistics Agency Disposition Services. There was control, concern over the environment, and accountability involved in dealing with equipment that was valuable but potentially hazardous.
Though the sheer magnitude of scrapping resulted in many losses, some warbirds managed to survive. Devoted enthusiasts salvaged aircraft, kept them in barns, donated them to museums, or spent years carefully restoring them to flying status. These days, catching a glimpse of a P-51 Mustang or B-25 Mitchell in flight is a rare but unforgettable sight. These planes are more than engines and metal—they are flying memorials to the sacrifice, skill, and ingenuity of an entire generation.
In the end, America’s WWII aircraft represent more than a narrative of machines and war. They represent a nation shifting away from total war and toward uneasy peace, from industrial overdrive to coping with the overflow. Whether on display at museums, highlighted at airshows, or long since melted down, these planes made their mark on history, the landscape, and subsequent generations.
