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A big (6 ft. 1 in., 192 Ibs.) gruff Texan, Smith has become a living legend in U.S. aviation. With the shrewd calculation of a gambler, the financial sagacity of a banker and the dedication of a monk, he has propelled American Airlines into first place in the industry—and in the process has done more than any other man to improve the service and standards of U.S. airlines. Says United Air Lines President W. A. Patterson: "There's no man in the industry I respect more—and you usually don't say nice things about competitors."
Smith has some of the oddest working habits of any man in top industry. His typewriter is the most important piece of equipment American owns, and Smith pecks away at it for hours on end. He writes all his own speeches, many of American's institutional ads and stockholders' reports. Though he had the same secretary for 25 years (until she retired recently), he never let her write more than a handful of letters a year.
But the chief product of Smith's typewriter is his short, sharp memos, which rarely exceed a page. They cover everything from ideas on a new plane American is considering buying to complaints about an airliner's coffee, are dispatched in a steady stream to every corner of American's operations. Wrote Smith, after noticing that souvenirs were distributed on a crack Captain's Flagship flight: "How long are you going to have them, and why have you got them at all?"
"I Liked Her." Nothing goes on along the 14,000 miles of American's routes or among its 21,000 employees that does not interest Smith. He often rides the line alone on weekends, keeping tab on everything. His seamed, jowly face has become a familiar sight to stewardesses, pilots and mechanics, as he samples the food, checks the service, asks questions—all the while jotting notes on pieces of scrap paper. A rough and tough man's man, he often peppers his speech with four-letter words, can shoot out orders like a gunslinger on the loose. Recently he saw an American Airlines sign on a road leading to Detroit's Metropolitan airport, snapped: "Who the hell put that up?" He had noticed that the hand of the stewardess in the sign was grotesquely large. It was quickly changed. I n a corporate world often dominated by slow-moving boards and committees, C. R. Smith acts with bewildering speed.
"C. R. is one of the few businessmen left in America," says Convair President Jack Naish, "with whom you can close a $100 million deal on his word alone." After Smith decided to order the Convair 600 jet, he called on Naish, chatted briefly about fishing and baseball, then suddenly blurted: "Hey, my guys tell me this 600 is a pretty good airplane." Naish agreed. Said Smith: "We want 25. How much will it be?" Naish told him $100 million. "O.K.," said C. R.—and walked out.
Smith is equally terse in social conversation. A visitor who recently had lunch with him asked what kind of work his father had done. Answered Smith: "As little as possible." Asked what sort of person his mother was, he replied: "Well, I liked her."