1945 was the year WWII came to a close. The United States was confronted with the problem of having too much of a good thing, a situation that most countries would have envied. Essentially, the country was loaded with surplus war equipment, especially aircraft, as a result of the extended period of war work. The U.S. factories churned out almost 300,000 warplanes of all types—fighters, bombers, and so on—between the outbreak of the war in 1939 and its termination. The production was not only of large scale, but it was also at full throttle. As General Motors’ William Knudsen once declared, 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 with victory came a new type of challenge. What do you do with hundreds of thousands of airplanes when the world no longer needs them?
When peace was restored, the U.S. government was confronted with this problem directly. It would cost a small fortune simply to store half of the planes—approximately $20 per plane per month, quickly adding up. The government would not pay that bill long-term. And so the agencies, such as the War Assets Administration and Reconstruction Finance Corporation, were called in to address the problem. They established depots and point-of-sale facilities around the nation, and the massive postwar drawdown commenced. By 1945’s end, more than 117,000 aircraft had already been marked surplus.
Some of the planes, such as the dependable DC-3s and C-54 transports, ended up with commercial airlines or allied countries. Civilian consumers also flocked to acquire military trainers and utility aircraft in bargain-basement prices—a BT-13 Valiant for a couple of hundred dollars, or even a sophisticated P-51 Mustang for less than $4,000. However, most of the high-performance combat aircraft had a limited future beyond the military. The advent of jet aircraft rendered piston-engine classics such as the B-17 Flying Fortress and the P-38 Lightning obsolete overnight. Even the once-predominant B-24 Liberator, which had covered Europe’s skies, was now regarded as excess junk.
Few models, however—like the B-29 Superfortress, the A-26 Invader, and the unshakeable C-47 Skytrain—were held in reserve. These were parked in desert areas to retard corrosion, saving them just in case the world should ever need them again.
The rest got cleared out. Every good part, like engines, radios, and guns, was taken out and sold. The bodies of the planes, made of metal, were cut, melted, and sold to help the big boom in money after World War II. It was a rough but smart way to work. Men like Paul Mantz, a big name in Hollywood for stunts, grabbed lots of old planes for very little money. He took out the gas, pulled out worth parts, and sold the leftovers. For a bit, Mantz joked that he had one of the biggest air armies in the world—before he took it apart to make money.
The visual heritage of this demobilization remains in the American Southwest. Colossal aircraft graveyards—”boneyards”—emerged at locations such as Kingman, Arizona; Walnut Ridge, Arkansas; and Tucson’s Davis-Monthan Field. Stack upon stack of retired warbirds stretched out in the sun, waiting either to sell or to be broken down. In Kingman alone, thousands of planes were disassembled and smelted on the spot. But cleanup wasn’t always as tidy as it ought to have been. The recycling left heaps of aluminum dross, a poisonous mixture sweetened with lead and cadmium. Years later, this buried waste became an environmental problem that cost millions to clean up and gave rise to lawsuits.
Naturally, the problem of what to do with excess equipment didn’t end with planes. Post-war, the U.S. was inundated with excess military equipment—tanks, field tents, rifles, and radar systems. The Surplus Property Act of 1944 and eventually the Federal Property and Administrative Services Act of 1949 attempted to impose some sanity on the mess.
Through experience, these were gradually transformed into a more systematized process, ultimately under the control of the Defense Logistics Agency Disposition Services. That transformation was forced by trial and error—lessons learned regarding oversight, environmental hazard, and the necessity for accountability in handling sensitive or dangerous military surplus.
Despite the enormous quantities that were disassembled and sent to the junkyard, some fortunate warplanes managed to avoid the flames. Owing to devoted fans, some were saved, kept in barns, donated to museums, or painstakingly restored to airworthiness. Now, witnessing a P-51 Mustang or a B-25 Mitchell fly by is an infrequent but not forgotten pleasure. These planes are not mere machines—they are flying reminders of a generation’s sacrifice and a nation’s gigantic war effort.
Ultimately, the tale of America’s World War II aircraft is not merely a war story of machinery. It’s a snapshot of a nation at change—transgressing from total war to uncertain peace, from mass production to surplus management. Whether sitting in museums, flying at airshows, or melted long ago into new shapes, these airplanes marked history, the landscape, and the generations that were to come.