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The story of how Detroit nearly destroyed the full-sized Dodge, how a young man from Fort Stockton helped save it, and how the whole business eventually went to grass.

There is a particular kind of silence that occurs in the executive offices of an automobile manufacturer when several hundred million dollars have been spent developing something the public doesn’t want. It is not the comfortable silence of men contemplating a job well done, nor the respectful silence that accompanies the announcement of an important decision. It is the silence of men who have suddenly discovered that their careers, their reputations, and possibly their retirement benefits are attached to an automobile that nobody seems particularly interested in buying.

Such was the atmosphere inside Chrysler Corporation headquarters in Highland Park, Michigan, on a cold October morning in 1961. The new 1962 models had barely reached Dodge dealerships, and already the reports coming back from the field suggested that something had gone terribly wrong. The customers were confused, the dealers were furious, and the automotive press was struggling to find diplomatic language to describe automobiles that appeared to have been designed by a committee whose members had never actually met one another.

Outside the conference room windows, a steady rain fell across Detroit. Inside, twelve executives sat around a polished mahogany table, surrounded by cigarette smoke, untouched Danish pastries, and photographs of the newly introduced Dodge lineup. The room smelled of coffee, expensive tobacco, damp wool, and the unmistakable perspiration of men who had begun calculating how much they might earn selling insurance.

The photographs were not encouraging.

The new Dodges were smaller than their predecessors, although not small enough to qualify as compact automobiles. They were shorter, narrower, and possessed of styling that seemed determined to compensate for the missing dimensions by introducing several new forms of visual confusion. The front ends were peculiar, the rear ends were stranger, and the overall effect suggested that someone had started with a perfectly serviceable automobile and then attempted to improve it by removing everything that had made it recognizable.

This unfortunate situation had originated with a rumor. Somewhere within the Chrysler organization, an executive had reportedly overheard a conversation suggesting that General Motors intended to downsize its standard-sized automobiles for 1962. The implications were enormous. If Chevrolet, Pontiac, Oldsmobile, and Buick were preparing to abandon the traditional American full-sized automobile, Chrysler had an opportunity to anticipate the change and seize the initiative.

Unfortunately, the conversation apparently concerned General Motors’ forthcoming intermediate-sized automobiles rather than its established full-sized lines. Chevrolet had no intention of shrinking the Impala into something resembling a well-fed Corvair, and Pontiac wasn’t preparing to tell Bonneville customers that their next automobile would have approximately the same interior dimensions as a telephone booth.

Chrysler, however, had believed the rumor. Worse, it had acted upon it.

The result was now sitting in Dodge and Plymouth showrooms across America, while the competition continued offering precisely the sort of large, comfortable automobiles that Chrysler’s customers had expected to purchase.

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The vice president of Sales had spent the previous forty minutes reading communications from dealers. One in Ohio wanted to know whether the company intended to introduce a real full-sized Dodge later in the model year. Another in Pennsylvania reported that customers believed the new cars had been damaged during transportation. A dealer in Illinois had suggested that Chrysler send someone from headquarters to explain the styling, preferably someone who had been present when the decisions were made and could be persuaded to accept responsibility.

The president of the Dodge Division had listened to these reports with the expression of a man watching his house burn while the fire department debated whether the smoke was actually coming from his property.

The vice president of Marketing suggested that perhaps the public simply needed more time to appreciate the new designs. This was greeted with considerable skepticism by the man from Sales, who observed that customers were already appreciating the new Chevrolets, Pontiacs, and Fords without requiring additional instruction.

Someone suggested a new advertising campaign. Someone else recommended emphasizing the improved maneuverability of the smaller automobiles. The director of Public Relations proposed inviting automotive journalists to a special technical presentation, where engineers could explain the advantages of the new proportions.

The president finally interrupted.

“Gentlemen, we’re not going to solve this problem by explaining to customers why they should want something they don’t want.”

This was a remarkably sensible observation, particularly considering that the corporation had spent the previous eighteen months doing precisely that.

At the far end of the table, the vice president of Product Planning suggested bringing Virgil Exner into the discussion. After all, Exner was the company’s celebrated styling chief, the man whose Forward Look designs had transformed Chrysler’s appearance during the 1950s. Surely he could suggest some modifications that might make the new automobiles more acceptable.

The president looked at him with an expression that suggested the man had just recommended consulting the captain of the Titanic about iceberg avoidance.

“Virgil is no longer responsible for our styling operations.”

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This produced an uncomfortable silence. Everyone knew that Exner had opposed the downsizing program, although his own increasingly extravagant styling proposals had also contributed to management’s growing dissatisfaction. The corporation had decided to replace him with Elwood Engel, the talented Ford designer whose work had helped create the remarkably handsome 1961 Lincoln Continental.

Unfortunately, Engel had not yet arrived to rescue anything.

Exner, meanwhile, had already been shown the door, or at least informed where the door was located and encouraged to become familiar with its operation.

The irony was considerable. Chrysler had overridden the objections of its styling chief, produced an automobile that customers didn’t want, and then removed the man who had warned against the decision. In Detroit, this was generally considered an acceptable method of resolving disagreements, provided the person being removed did not possess sufficient stock to object.

For the next twenty minutes, the discussion wandered through the familiar corporate territory of assigning responsibility without accepting any. Product Planning blamed Styling. Styling blamed management. Marketing blamed the dealers. Sales blamed everybody. Finance wanted to know whether the Danish pastries had already been charged to the department.

At the far end of the table sat a young executive named Kip Kempner.

Kip had been recruited into Chrysler management only recently, following a succession of increasingly successful assignments in manufacturing and industrial development. He was younger than most of the men in the room, possessed considerably less seniority, and had not yet acquired the corporate instinct for speaking at great length without actually saying anything.

He had grown up in Fort Stockton, Texas, where he had learned that machinery generally responded better to practical solutions than theoretical discussions. His first automobile had been an elderly Dodge assembled from parts of several different Chrysler Corporation products, with a radiator whose previous owner insisted had come from a Studebaker. The automobile had operated reliably for three years, although the heater had never worked properly and the speedometer had possessed an unusually optimistic opinion of the car’s capabilities.

Kip had also learned that a man could accomplish a remarkable amount of work with a cutting torch, a welding machine, and the contents of a reasonably well-stocked salvage yard. This experience had left him with a lifelong appreciation for interchangeable components and a corresponding impatience with people who believed every problem required an entirely new solution.

He had been listening quietly for nearly an hour when he finally laid his fountain pen on the table.

“Gentlemen, I believe we’re going about this backward.”

The president turned toward him. Several older executives appeared mildly irritated that the newest member of the group had decided to participate in a discussion that had thus far been proceeding according to established corporate custom, which meant producing considerable heat without much light.

Kip explained that the problem was not the styling, although he freely admitted that the styling was a problem. Nor was it advertising, public relations, or the inability of Dodge dealers to explain the virtues of an automobile whose principal virtue appeared to be that it was smaller than the one it replaced.

The problem was that Dodge no longer offered a traditional full-sized automobile.

Customers who wanted one were going elsewhere.

And Chrysler already manufactured exactly the sort of automobile those customers wanted.

Kip rose from his chair, walked to the display board, and removed a photograph of the new Chrysler Newport from his briefcase. He placed it beside a photograph of the 1961 Dodge.

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“Boys, the answer is right in front of us. We don’t need a new automobile. We need to use the automobiles we’ve already got.”

He pointed to the Newport, explaining that its basic body structure was closely related to the previous Dodge package. The existing tooling could be adapted, the assembly facilities were available, and most of the engineering had already been accomplished. All that remained was to create a Dodge identity for the Chrysler body.

The president asked exactly what he had in mind.

Kip pointed to the photograph of the 1961 Dodge.

“Take the front end of last year’s Dodge and put it on the ass end of this year’s Chrysler Newport. Make whatever modifications are necessary to get the sheet metal together, change the trim, and sell the damned thing as a Dodge.”

For several seconds, nobody spoke.

Then the room erupted.

The vice president of Engineering protested that the sheet metal wasn’t directly interchangeable. The man from Manufacturing pointed out that stamping dies would have to be modified. Marketing questioned whether customers would accept an automobile assembled from components belonging to two different model years and two different divisions.

Kip listened patiently, then reminded them that Chrysler Corporation had been sharing engineering, components, and manufacturing facilities among its divisions for decades. The proposed automobile wasn’t a technological revolution. It was simply a particularly obvious application of something the company already knew how to do.

The vice president of Marketing remained unconvinced.

“But the front end of the 1961 Dodge was one of the ugliest things we’ve produced in twenty years.”

Kip nodded.

“Yes, sir. And the only thing uglier was the ass end. That’s why I’m suggesting we use the Chrysler from the windshield back.”

Even the president laughed at that.

Kip continued, explaining that the company could use the Newport’s basic interior, adapt the previous Dodge instrument panel, and install the dependable 361-cubic-inch V8. There was no reason to create new seats, new door panels, or an entirely new powertrain. The resulting automobile would possess the dimensions, comfort, and road presence that traditional Dodge customers expected.

More importantly, it could be accomplished quickly.

“Give me sixty to ninety days,” Kip said. “We’ll have a real full-sized Dodge in the showrooms before spring. We can improve the front end for ’63, clean up the rear for ’64, and by ’65 we’ll have an entirely new automobile anyway.”

The president studied the drawingss. He had been quietly composing his resignation letter during the previous discussion, and now began to wonder whether it might be possible to postpone handing it in.

The vice president of Finance asked how much the project would cost. Kip replied that the investment would be modest compared with developing a new automobile, particularly if Engineering resisted the temptation to redesign components that already worked perfectly well.

There remained the question of what to call it.

Kip considered the existing Dodge lineup, including the new 440 designation. He suggested that the larger automobile be called the 880.

“Twice the car,” he explained.

The president liked it immediately.

Kip cautioned against making too much of the number, however. Customers didn’t need another unfamiliar designation to decipher. They needed a Dodge that looked and felt like a Dodge. The car could carry the 880 designation in advertising and sales literature while wearing simple Dodge identification on its body.

By the time the meeting adjourned, the atmosphere had changed considerably. Men who had arrived expecting to discuss layoffs and emergency advertising campaigns were now talking about production schedules, tooling modifications, and the possibility of salvaging the model year.

Half the executives were impressed by Kip’s proposal.

The other half were furious that they hadn’t thought of it themselves.

And somewhere in the building, a secretary was instructed to schedule a meeting involving actual engineers, which meant that something useful might finally get accomplished.

The resulting automobile was introduced as the 1962 Dodge Custom 880.

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Production began on January 22, 1962, barely three months after the emergency program had been initiated. It was essentially a Chrysler Newport wearing modified 1961 Dodge front sheet metal, although the actual engineering required considerably more than simply bolting one automobile’s nose onto another. Stamping dies had to be altered, trim pieces adapted, and numerous small differences reconciled before the finished product could proceed down the assembly line.

The interior was largely borrowed from the Newport, including its fabrics, seating arrangements, and general appointments. The instrument panel came from the previous Dodge and DeSoto design. Under the hood was Chrysler’s dependable 361-cubic-inch B-series V8, rated at 265 horsepower, providing the kind of effortless performance expected of a substantial American automobile.

The Custom 880 was offered in familiar body styles, including sedans, hardtops, and a convertible. It was long, comfortable, conventionally proportioned, and possessed a trunk large enough to accommodate a family’s vacation luggage without requiring anybody to remain at home.

It was not a styling masterpiece.

But it was a Dodge.

A proper, full-sized Dodge.

And for customers who had spent the previous several months wondering what had happened to their favorite automobile, that was sufficient.

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The tooling expenditure for the emergency program amounted to approximately $400,000, a remarkably modest sum considering the circumstances. Over the 1962 through 1964 model years, more than 77,000 examples of the 880 series were produced, bringing the original tooling investment to roughly $5.20 per automobile.

In Detroit, five dollars and twenty cents would barely cover the coffee consumed during a meeting to determine whether a dashboard knob should be black or dark gray.

The 1963 models received distinctive new front-end sheet metal, finally freeing the automobile from its obvious resemblance to the 1961 Dodge. The line also expanded to include both regular 880 and more luxurious Custom 880 models. For 1964, the rear styling was revised, producing a considerably more cohesive design that no longer appeared to have been assembled from the leftovers of two different automobiles.

By then, the 880 had become a respectable full-sized Dodge in its own right. The hurriedly conceived stopgap had performed its intended function, allowing the division to maintain a presence in the traditional large-car market while engineers prepared the completely redesigned full-sized models for 1965.

That year, the 880 designation became part of the new Polara lineup. It disappeared after the 1965 model year, leaving behind a small but significant chapter in Chrysler history.

The emergency had passed.

The corporation had survived.

And Kip Kempner had acquired a reputation as the man who could solve a multimillion-dollar problem by looking through the parts department.

Unfortunately, this reputation made him extremely popular with senior management, which meant he was invited to an increasing number of meetings.

Kip considered that a mixed blessing.

Kip had saved the Dodge Division from one of the most spectacular mistakes in its history. He had accomplished it by combining parts of two automobiles that nobody had ever intended to put together.

It was a talent that would serve him well in the years ahead.

Although nobody at Chrysler could possibly have imagined that his next great contribution to American industry would involve manufacturing something that most people spent their weekends trying to keep alive.

Grass.

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