Willys and Bantam Prototypes

1 1940 Willys Quad Original Pilot 1941 - Bantam BRC Prototyp
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2 1941 Willys 1941 - Bantam
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Typical is an article by Paul Hackenberg in the 1953 "True's Automobile Yearbook" entitled "It Doesn't Pay to Invent a Jeep" where the jeep story is told in detail focusing mainly on Harold Crist, the man who did in fact build the jeep and probably designed it too. There is no mention at all of Karl Probst. Neither is he mentioned in the almost contemporary article (1942) "The Story Behind the Army Jeep" By John W. Chapman in the "Illustrated Gazette"(Nationally Distributed it says). Here Col. Bill Lee, Chief of Infantry George Lynch and Bantam Lobbyist Harry Payne are the point of view characters.
Old timers at the factory who have considerable recall of the various players and events hardly mention Probst at all in their accounts. Somehow history has decided to "remember" Probst repeatedly, with an occasional assist to the Quartermaster's Corps (QMC) but to totally forget Harold Crist, Harry Payne, Bob Brown, Frank Fenn and others who actually conceived, promoted, largely designed and built the car.
Karl Probst (20 October 1883 – 25 August 1963) was an American freelance engineer and automotive pioneer, credited with the design of the Jeep in 1940.
In 1937 they tested perhaps the most interesting machine—a combination reconnaissance vehicle and machine gun carrier developed that year at the Infantry School at Fort Benning, Georgia. An automotive enthusiast, Capt. Robert G. Howie, working with Master Sgt. Melvin C. Wiley, assembled it largely from scrap parts. It was a simple, low-slung platform with the front wheels powered by a rear-mounted Austin four-cylinder engine. It carried a machine gun and a two-man crew, who lay prone. The driver pushed the clutch and brake with his feet and steered with a hand lever. There were no springs, and it was a hard, punishing ride.
Officially known as the Howie Machine Gun Carrier, the machine quickly earned the obvious nickname: Belly Flopper. Though designers wanted a low silhouette suitable for combat, the Belly Flopper turned out to be slung too close to the ground for cross-country travel and too light for rugged use.
Nonetheless, the army took the idea seriously enough that in early 1940 a demonstration was staged for representatives from the automotive industry. One such witness, Delmar “Barney” Roos, executive vice president and chief engineer at Willys-Overland, said the contraption looked like “a cross between a kid’s scooter and a diving board on wheels.” Still, Roos and others were inspired by the demonstration and went away thinking about how to create a practical reconnaissance car.
The outbreak of war in Europe and the remarkable mobility demonstrated by the German forces brought new urgency to that quest. After France capitulated in June 1940, the Army Quartermaster Corps issued specifications for a lightweight reconnaissance vehicle that could also carry men and equipment across rough terrain.
The specifications included four-wheel drive, a load capacity of 600 pounds, a maximum height of 36 inches, and a folding windshield.
Requests for proposals to make 70 such pilot models went out to no fewer than 135 companies associated in some way with the automotive industry. But the army’s schedule was so tight—this totally new vehicle was to be designed and delivered in just 75 days—that only two companies responded: Willys-Overland and American Bantam Car Company. Both were relatively small, financially troubled automakers that had already tried to interest the army in their lightweight vehicles.
On the face of it, Bantam appeared unlikely to succeed in the competition for a contract. Bantam was the successor to American Austin, which had gone bankrupt, and it made a competent small roadster not unlike the British-made Austin. Bantam was now struggling, however. It had only 15 employees; its plant in Butler, Pennsylvania, had shut down; and it no longer even had an engineering department.
At the same time, Bantam had experience building small, lightweight vehicles that were something like what the army wanted. Three specially modified roadsters provided by Bantam had been tested with success by the Pennsylvania National Guard in summer training in 1938. In fact, the Quartermaster Corps had based its specifications for the proposed new vehicle largely on Bantam’s work and consultations with its engineers.
Hoping a government contract would revive the company, Bantam recruited a well-known and highly respected Detroit engineer named Karl K. Probst to head up its desperation effort. Lacking funds to pay him a salary, the company promised Probst a fee contingent upon winning the contract. Probst showed little interest until, as he later put it, “I was reading of Winston Churchill’s bulldog determination after the debacle at Dunkirk—‘…we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the streets.’”
Thus inspired, Probst drove that very night—July 17, 1940—to Bantam’s Pennsylvania headquarters in Butler. The following day, he sat down at the drafting table. Building on Bantam’s previous work, Probst designed much of what would become the jeep in just five days and delivered the proposal to the army on the deadline.
His design won the contract to produce 70 vehicles. The prototype had to be delivered in a mere 49 days. Probst and his colleagues frantically improvised their first jeep. Most of the major parts were outsourced, with the axles, transmission, transfer case, and even the engine brought in from other manufacturers. To a remarkable degree, their hand-built prototype resembled the later standardized jeep, though its grill was rounded rather than flat.
The Bantam prototype was up and running and on the road by the deadline of September 21, 1940. To break in the engine, Probst and another driving force behind the jeep, Bantam plant manager Harold Crist, decided to drive the 170-odd miles to Camp Holabird, Maryland, the army’s testing center for wheeled vehicles. “We drove slowly at first,” Probst recalled, “telling ourselves it was important to break the vehicle in. But as we wound through the hills of Pennsylvania, the five o’clock deadline we had worked toward for those seven weeks seemed to come closer. To make Holabird come closer too, we were soon pushing the car to the limit, and it really was fun.” They arrived with half an hour to spare.
After Holabird’s purchasing and contracting officer, Maj. Herbert J. Lawes, put the Bantam prototype through its paces, he told Probst: “I have driven every unit the services have purchased for the last twenty years. I can judge them in fifteen minutes. This vehicle is going to be absolutely outstanding. I believe this unit will make history!”
While the Bantam underwent further testing, the other competitor, Willys-Overland of Toledo, Ohio, had not given up. Like Bantam, Willys was foundering despite a tradition of excellence that dated back to its founding in 1903. Willys had lost out in the competition even though its bid came in under the price of Bantam’s. It had needed a time extension of 120 days to produce the 70 pilot units, and the $5-a-day penalty imposed by the government pushed its bid higher than Bantam’s.
Nonetheless, Willys’s chief engineer, Barney Roos, was so determined to build a practical vehicle that he and his staff started work on their version without any guarantee of army funding. Though he had made his mark designing large automobiles for such major carmakers as Pierce-Arrow, Studebaker, and the British Rootes Group, Roos had long harbored an interest in small vehicles, and the Belly Flopper demonstration had stimulated his interest in the army’s problem. Nonetheless, the army took the idea seriously enough that in early 1940 a demonstration was staged for representatives from the automotive industry. One such witness, Delmar “Barney” Roos, executive vice president and chief engineer at Willys-Overland, said the contraption looked like “a cross between a kid’s scooter and a diving board on wheels.” Still, Roos and others were inspired by the demonstration and went away thinking about how to create a practical reconnaissance car.
The outbreak of war in Europe and the remarkable mobility demonstrated by the German forces brought new urgency to that quest. After France capitulated in June 1940, the Army Quartermaster Corps issued specifications for a lightweight reconnaissance vehicle that could also carry men and equipment across rough terrain.
The specifications included four-wheel drive, a load capacity of 600 pounds, a maximum height of 36 inches, and a folding windshield.
Requests for proposals to make 70 such pilot models went out to no fewer than 135 companies associated in some way with the automotive industry. But the army’s schedule was so tight—this totally new vehicle was to be designed and delivered in just 75 days—that only two companies responded: Willys-Overland and American Bantam Car Company. Both were relatively small, financially troubled automakers that had already tried to interest the army in their lightweight vehicles.
On the face of it, Bantam appeared unlikely to succeed in the competition for a contract. Bantam was the successor to American Austin, which had gone bankrupt, and it made a competent small roadster not unlike the British-made Austin. Bantam was now struggling, however. It had only 15 employees; its plant in Butler, Pennsylvania, had shut down; and it no longer even had an engineering department.
At the same time, Bantam had experience building small, lightweight vehicles that were something like what the army wanted. Three specially modified roadsters provided by Bantam had been tested with success by the Pennsylvania National Guard in summer training in 1938. In fact, the Quartermaster Corps had based its specifications for the proposed new vehicle largely on Bantam’s work and consultations with its engineers.
Hoping a government contract would revive the company, Bantam recruited a well-known and highly respected Detroit engineer named Karl K. Probst to head up its desperation effort. Lacking funds to pay him a salary, the company promised Probst a fee contingent upon winning the contract. Probst showed little interest until, as he later put it, “I was reading of Winston Churchill’s bulldog determination after the debacle at Dunkirk—‘…we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the streets.’”
Thus inspired, Probst drove that very night—July 17, 1940—to Bantam’s Pennsylvania headquarters in Butler. The following day, he sat down at the drafting table. Building on Bantam’s previous work, Probst designed much of what would become the jeep in just five days and delivered the proposal to the army on the deadline.
His design won the contract to produce 70 vehicles. The prototype had to be delivered in a mere 49 days. Probst and his colleagues frantically improvised their first jeep. Most of the major parts were outsourced, with the axles, transmission, transfer case, and even the engine brought in from other manufacturers. To a remarkable degree, their hand-built prototype resembled the later standardized jeep, though its grill was rounded rather than flat.
The Bantam prototype was up and running and on the road by the deadline of September 21, 1940. To break in the engine, Probst and another driving force behind the jeep, Bantam plant manager Harold Crist, decided to drive the 170-odd miles to Camp Holabird, Maryland, the army’s testing center for wheeled vehicles. “We drove slowly at first,” Probst recalled, “telling ourselves it was important to break the vehicle in. But as we wound through the hills of Pennsylvania, the five o’clock deadline we had worked toward for those seven weeks seemed to come closer. To make Holabird come closer too, we were soon pushing the car to the limit, and it really was fun.” They arrived with half an hour to spare.
After Holabird’s purchasing and contracting officer, Maj. Herbert J. Lawes, put the Bantam prototype through its paces, he told Probst: “I have driven every unit the services have purchased for the last twenty years. I can judge them in fifteen minutes. This vehicle is going to be absolutely outstanding. I believe this unit will make history!”
While the Bantam underwent further testing, the other competitor, Willys-Overland of Toledo, Ohio, had not given up. Like Bantam, Willys was foundering despite a tradition of excellence that dated back to its founding in 1903. Willys had lost out in the competition even though its bid came in under the price of Bantam’s. It had needed a time extension of 120 days to produce the 70 pilot units, and the $5-a-day penalty imposed by the government pushed its bid higher than Bantam’s.
Nonetheless, Willys’s chief engineer, Barney Roos, was so determined to build a practical vehicle that he and his staff started work on their version without any guarantee of army funding. Though he had made his mark designing large automobiles for such major carmakers as Pierce-Arrow, Studebaker, and the British Rootes Group, Roos had long harbored an interest in small vehicles, and the Belly Flopper demonstration had stimulated his interest in the army’s problem.
Willys’s four-cylinder engine was central to Roos’s thinking. He had been hired in 1938 to revamp the company’s old 45 hp engine, which was notorious for its leaking cylinder heads, excessive use of oil, and for frying its bearings and knocking so hard it shook loose its starter. When the army’s call for a new vehicle came, Roos had already been laboring for nearly two years to perfect the engine. He tunneled out the intake ports and increased the diameter of the intake manifold. He developed closer tolerances, used tougher alloys, changed the pistons from cast iron to tin-plated aluminum, installed graphite micro precision bearings, and modified the cooling system. The resulting 60 hp engine—dubbed the Go-Devil—could run at 4,000 revolutions per minute for 100 hours without failing.
For Willys’s belated entry into a competition that, technically, the company had already lost, Roos installed his high-endurance power plant in a body closely resembling the Bantam prototype. The resemblance was not coincidental: the army had previously shown Willys the Bantam drawings and its test results. The Willys vehicle arrived at the Camp Holabird test center in November 1940, six weeks after the arrival of the Bantam.
Twelve days later, both companies had further competition: a Ford Motor Company prototype showed up for testing. The army, concerned about the relatively modest production capabilities at Bantam and Willys, was attracted by Ford’s huge manufacturing capabilities. As a result, Ford engineers, like those at Willys, had been given access to the Bantam drawings and test information.
There would now be a second round of competition. The army invited all three companies—Bantam, Willys, and Ford—to produce 1,500 vehicles each for further testing. Bantam, which thought it had wrapped up the deal with its timely delivery and positive test results, protested loudly, but to no avail.
For Willys, however, there was a hitch. Even though the maximum weight under army specs had been raised repeatedly and now stood at 2,175 pounds, Willys’s vehicle weighed 2,423 pounds—248 pounds too many. Barney Roos’s heavy Go-Devil engine was the obvious place to start losing weight. But Roos knew that this powerful engine was the strength of his prototype, and he did not want to abandon it in favor of a lighter power plant.
Instead, he and his staff ruthlessly attacked the body and chassis. They shortened bolts and cotter pins, reduced the sizes of nuts and washers, and cut the thickness of steel in the body and fenders. In the frame, they substituted lighter alloys for the heavy carbon steel. They even stripped down to just one coat of olive-drab paint, shedding nearly 10 pounds in the process. When their weight loss program was finished, Willys met the army specification—with just seven ounces to spare.
Vehicles from Willys, Bantam, and Ford were then subjected to millions of miles of tests. Along the way, the army recommended that certain features of the Bantam and Ford be incorporated into a standard based on the Willys’s design. The slimmed-down Willys, its powerful engine intact, was the clear winner—“superior in acceleration, maximum speed, grade climbing and cross country,” as the Infantry Board report concluded. In the final round of bidding ending in July 1941, Willys’s superior engine and low bid of $738.74 per vehicle won the first large production contract of 16,000 jeeps.
But the army then took an unprecedented step. Concerned that Willys might not be able to meet the increasing demand and wanting a backup facility in case of sabotage, it persuaded Ford to build jeeps according to the Willys blueprints. Jeeps produced by both companies would be essentially the same, with interchangeable parts.
Bantam, the company that had helped pioneer the whole concept, lost out. In all, it produced 2,675 jeeps, most for shipment to the Soviet Union and Great Britain in late 1941 under the Lend-Lease Act. The company survived the war economically by fulfilling government contracts for torpedo parts, aircraft components, and special trailers intended to be towed by the jeeps Bantam no longer manufactured.
If credit for the jeep’s development was mired in controversy, the origin of its very name would be debated for decades after the war. Conventional wisdom focused on the name as a slurring of the letters GP, for “General Purpose.” But the army did not use the “General Purpose” designation for the jeep, instead opting for the ponderous “Truck, Quarter-ton, Four-by-four, and Command Reconnaissance.”
The word “jeep” had actually been around since at least World War I—“an old Army grease monkey term,” according to Maj. E. P. Hogan, who in 1941 compiled a brief history of the vehicle’s development. Jeep, he wrote, “was used by shop mechanics in referring to any new motor vehicle received for a test.” Soldiers also employed it as a derogatory reference to new recruits.
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