When Americans discuss the airpower of the United States during World War II, there is one plane that figures prominently for both size and contribution: the Republic P-47 Thunderbolt. “The Jug” was a behemoth fighter plane that was more than just an apparatus—it was a moving demonstration of what American industrial might and innovation could do in war. Years before it ever flew off loaded with fuel, ammunition, and bombs, the P-47 was already a five-ton monster of aluminum, steel, magnesium, and rubber. It was the most powerful, heaviest single-engine fighter America built during the war—and it was a logistical wonder from snout to tail.
To power up the Thunderbolt was a serious business. Between 1941 and 1945, Republic Aviation produced over 15,200 of them at a breakneck pace. During the peak production, factories were producing 28 new Thunderbolts per day. Curtiss-Wright contributed another 354 to the tally. It was one of the greatest production runs in fighter aircraft history, brought about by a tremendous, nationwide coordinated effort. In the words of aviation historians, P-47’s mass production wasn’t merely a matter of constructing planes—it was an indication of how much America could stretch its industrial might when it needed to.
Naturally, the assembly lines we envision today—columns of newly painted planes within gigantic hangars—only reveal half of what is there. What truly enabled the Thunderbolt was all the behind-the-scenes action. This was no straightforward machine. A typical pre-war vehicle contained some 5,000 components. The P-47 contained an estimated 36,000. That was 25,000 rivets that kept it all intact. Republic worked on airframes, the rest being divided between dozens, hundreds of specialized subcontractors all over the United States. There wasn’t one company that could do it all. There was little time, and there was a huge demand, so the work was divided to keep production rolling.
Some of the suppliers were household names. ALCOA, in Pennsylvania, supplied a lot of aluminum sheet metal, tubing, and the skin that covered the Thunderbolt. American Magnesium Corporation, also Pennsylvania-based, supplied goods for such items as engine casings and wheels. The plane’s powerhouse, the Pratt & Whitney R-2800 Double Wasp engine, was manufactured in Connecticut. But even they had to farm out. Depending on demand, their engines could be assembled by Ford, Nash, Buick, Continental, or even Chevrolet.
Tires arrived from B.F. Goodrich in Akron—those legendary Silvertown tires. United States Rubber Company filled the gap when orders increased. Firepower was provided by eight .50-caliber machine guns, made by Colt Firearms in Connecticut. The list of manufacturers reads like a roll call of American industry: Timken bearings, Ideal clamps, Littel fuses, and Torrington bearings. Even non-traditional players had a role—S.S. White, a dental supply firm, adapted flexible drill shafts to fit airplane components.
It all was coordinated by a handful of people that few today can even picture. Material had to be transported by truck and rail from all over the nation. Items as tiny as clamps from California company Marman Products, or as specialized as sealing chemicals and tapes from Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing (now known as 3M), all needed to get there on schedule. After arriving in the proper location, they were painstakingly assembled into subassemblies by workers in hundreds of satellite facilities. After weeks or months of this activity, everything finally coalesced on the big factory floor, where pieces became fully-fledged warplanes.
One of the best examples of this manufacturing might was in Evansville, Indiana. Before the war, Evansville was primarily recognized for refrigeration and small-scale manufacturing. But when the call went out, the city itself changed almost overnight. Chrysler retooled its factories to produce ammunition. Republic Aviation built a large plant next to the city airport to assemble Thunderbolts. Servel, another local company, began manufacturing the planes’ wings. Evansville produced over 67,000 industrial jobs at the peak of production—amazing for a town in the middle of farmland.
The individuals responsible for this industrial achievement were equally impressive. The employees included many women who took on jobs they’d never envisioned. Ada McClurkin, for example, was recruited by Republic, shipped through a crash course in reading blueprints and operating drills, and then placed on the assembly floor. She was to rivet pieces precisely accurate—each rivet had to be flush, or the plane’s handling might be affected. Inspectors, who were often womenalso had to approve each piece. Even a tiny defect might endanger a pilot’s life in battle.
There was pride in every task. McClurkin remembered seeing new Thunderbolts soar at dusk, knowing she’d helped them take to the skies. For women like her, this wasn’t merely a salary—it was personal. It was a means of supporting the war effort, assisting relatives abroad, and in many instances, attaining independence. Agnes White, a Chrysler Ordnance plant employee, recalled how her new salary was higher than her previous one at a cigar factory, nd assisted her in paying off the family home.
In battle, the P-47 demonstrated it was as powerful as the workforce that produced it. The plane flew more than 500,000 missions in the war and dropped 132,000 tons of bombs. It accumulated an air-to-air kill rate of almost 5 to 1 and accounted for the destruction of more than 7,000 enemy aircraft in Europe alone. On the ground, no one was better—between D-Day and the close of the war in Europe, P-47s destroyed thousands of trains, trucks, tanks, and other enemy vehicles. Its toughness, firepower, and rugged design made it America’s best ground-attack plane, a distinction it held solidly throughout the last days of the war.
When finally peace arrived and jet fighters started replacing them, the Thunderbolt was gradually retired. But its legend was already cemented. The P-47 wasn’t merely a warplane. It was the result of a joint effort of factories, towns, and individuals all working together toward the same purpose. It was a demonstration of what America could accomplish when everyone cooperated with a common objective. Many years after the final Thunderbolt had flown, its legacy lived on in the lives it influenced and the benchmark it had set: that when the stakes are highest, determination and creativity can move mountains—or construct the most powerful fighter of their era.