In a letter dated November 2, 1934, an unnamed writer remarked, “Glad to see La Guardia in again at last Monday’s dinner. His job does not give him many evenings off.” The letter was signed “Cordially Yours, HOUSE COMMITTEE,” and found its way into Mayor LaGuardia’s subject files, now at the Municipal Archives. At first glance, the letter seems ordinary. At the end of 1934, Fiorello H. LaGuardia was finishing up his first year as New York City’s mayor, following a notable two-term stint in Congress. He certainly would have been invited to many dinners, and indeed, did not have many evenings off. Yet the letter becomes more interesting in context. It follows up on an earlier one sent to Mayor LaGuardia’s assistant, Lester B. Stone, which requests:

Some Monday evening, when the Major is not too much crowded and would like to slip away for an hour or two where he will not be under restraint, observation, and can feel free to do what he likes, route him up to the Quiet Birdmen. Better not send him up on the first Monday night of the month because it is pretty well crowded that night. Other nights...would, I think, probably be more agreeable to him; he sees enough of crowds.

Please express our kindest regards and best wishes to the Mayor, and tell him that we all think he is doing a swell job.[1]

The letter was signed by Guy Kelcey, Chairman of the House Committee, and was carefully typed on letterhead of the Anciente and Secret Order of the Quiet Birdmen. These missives are just two among a total of twenty-seven letters Mayor LaGuardia received from the Quiet Birdmen. Yet the Order is not mentioned in biographies of the Mayor.

That LaGuardia was a member of fraternal organizations is no secret. Fraternalism was hugely popular among American men in the early twentieth century, and many prominent individuals were members of fraternal societies. LaGuardia himself was a Freemason for most of his adult life, having joined Garibaldi Lodge No. 542 in New York City.[2] The Freemasons are well known, and have included many noteworthy figures, yet the Quiet Birdmen are almost unheard of. From the letters of 1934, it seems the Birdmen were either courting the Mayor as a prospective member, or already included him among their ranks. A look at the history of the fraternity and LaGuardia’s earlier life reveals why.

The Anciente and Secret Order of Quiet Birdmen was, according to its own letterhead, founded in 1921, and headquartered at 220 West 42nd Street. Newsletters received by the mayor over the course of two years shed light on the nature of the group. A two-page description of the order received in December 1935 states, “QB is a wholly social fraternity composed of men who have soloed at least one type of powered aircraft and who have demonstrated exceptional qualities of good sportsmanship and fellowship.” The order was organized into local “Hangars” and claimed to be “without constitution, by laws [sic], officers, dues, or other formal organization.” One of the main customs of the group, mentioned in almost every newsletter, was the Silent Toast to honor those members who had “gone West,” i.e. died.

As LaGuardia well knew, aviation was in its infancy and deaths of pilots were common. In 1915, La Guardia had taken flying lessons on Long Island, and then enlisted the following year in the US Army Air Service. He served in Europe during World War I, surviving two plane crashes. He did all of this while serving as a US Congressman.[3] LaGuardia loved the danger of flying, even after retiring from the Air Service and becoming mayor. In a letter to Charles Burlingham while in office, LaGuardia wrote of wanting to fly to Floyd Bennett Field for a celebration but being warned of a storm by the Coast Guard. The mayor said he had replied “in my usual boastful manner... that I was willing to take the chance.” The Coast Guard admiral responded, “We don’t mind you taking a chance, Mr. Mayor, for mayors are plentiful, but... good planes are scarce and hard to get in the Coast Guard.”[4] The Mayor was well-qualified for membership in the Quiet Birdmen, who referred to him by his Air Service rank of Major.

However, the Quiet Birdmen were not simply a group of daring pilots toasting the memory of their fallen compatriots—and indeed, they were anything but quiet. Their newsletters abound with complaints about unruly members:

The night of August 10th at the Gotham—just another Great Big Headache for us sober (or at least fairly well behaved) fellows. A 2-½ foot Lion (not Bob) was taken from the Lobby of the Hotel.... We are fairly sure who did this rotten, lousy job, one a QB and one a guest (we don’t know whose). Your hard-working House Committee is on the spot for this. WE WANT THAT LION RETURNED—NUFF said.[5]

That their meetings were raucous affairs with copious libations is obvious in the letters. Prohibition had been repealed in 1933, and the QBs, like the rest of the nation, were thirsty. Multiple times, the cost of dinner and drinks is mentioned, and the members are reminded that the hotel would charge for broken items.  

In May 1934 the address of the QBs was 220 West 42nd Street, Suite 2007. By August, it was given as “Hotel Gotham, Fifth at Fifty Fifth.” Then in September 1936, the House Committee announced a move to the Hotel Algonquin at 59 West 44th Street, Suite 211, stating,

What with excellent facilities, a sympathetic and understanding management, very satisfactory arrangements, and an atmosphere much better adapted to gentlemen who are not yet on crutches, we will be much better off in our new quarters than we have been.

However, it became apparent in the next letter that the QBs had been kicked out of the Gotham for breaking furniture and discarding cigarette butts on the floor. Several members of the House Committee had to pack up the order’s belongings in one long night and had consumed a whole bottle of scotch and another of rye while they worked.[6] 

The QBs may have had a particular interest in the Mayor given his history with alcohol. LaGuardia had been a vocal opponent of Prohibition while in Congress, even going so far as to mix alcoholic beverages openly as a publicity stunt in 1926. Much to LaGuardia’s disappointment, he could not get a passing police officer to arrest him for this act of civil disobedience.[7] Less than a decade later, he became the mayor of a happily post-Prohibition New York.[8]

Yet, LaGuardia’s relationship with alcohol was more nuanced than could be assumed. In a book published during LaGuardia’s term as Mayor, journalist J.F. Carter claimed that LaGuardia, distraught by the death of his first wife in 1921, had turned to heavy drinking. While LaGuardia’s grief over Thea’s death was well-attested by his friends, the drinking was mere rumor, and the books were recalled after the mayor threatened a lawsuit.[9] Further, even while calling for an end to prohibition, he acknowledged the need for some restrictions, particularly for hard liquor.[10] This attitude would continue into the 1940s. As World War II drew the United States into conflict, LaGuardia spoke at the International Association of Chiefs of Police and called for moderation of hard liquor. “There should be less consumption of liquor now than in peace time,” he declared, adding that “decent people will not tolerate debauchery and excess.” Letters poured into the Mayor’s office immediately afterward, with many citizens voicing support and expressing complaints about drunk soldiers and sailors in the city. A public challenge to these statements was written by the chairman of the liquor board and printed in the New York Times on September 22, 1942. The Chairman insisted that rules were being followed and liquor was not a problem. LaGuardia denounced him unequivocally in a letter to the editor the very next day, citing a specific instance of the board violating its own rules in reissuing a revoked liquor license.[11]

Thus, while he was no teetotaler, neither was Mayor LaGuardia a libertine. For example, during his first summer as Mayor, in 1934, he had banned large jazz dances in Central Park. When critics complained, he stated that he did enjoy jazz, as long as it was not too boisterous.[12] Those around him also noted that despite his loud, aggressive persona, he preferred to keep his social circle small, and associate only with people who had been his friends before his election. As it happened, summer of 1934 was the date of the earliest Quiet Birdmen newsletters in his records. It is quite likely that he was invited to join the group at that time. However, his involvement may have been minimal. A newsletter from April 1935 bemoans that “Some of our members are so constantly importuned for autographs that it becomes a very serious annoyance,” and states that it is “bad form” to ask another member for an autograph. It is reasonable to assume Mayor LaGuardia was one of the members who had expressed serious annoyance and was probably keeping his distance. 

In any case, the newsletters from the Quiet Birdmen ceased after December, 1936. Whether LaGuardia was a regular or a rarity at their meetings cannot be determined. What is certain, though, is that the Quiet Birdmen were proud to claim him among their ranks. In an undated membership handbook held at the National Air and Space Museum, Fiorello H. LaGuardia is listed as a member who had “gone West.”[13] His death was reported in the Times on Sunday, September 21, 1947, the day after it occurred. One can only assume that on Monday, the Quiet Birdmen drank a Silent Toast to him.

[1] Letter dated May 29, 1934.

[2] https://www.garibaldilodge.com/garibaldi-lodge

[3] Heckscher, August and Robinson, Phyllis. (1978). When La Guardia was Mayor: New York’s Legendary Years. Norton. 21-22.

[4] Kessner, Thomas. (1989). Fiorello H. La Guardia. McGraw-Hill. 449.

[5] Letter dated September 1, 1936. Capitalization theirs.

[6] Letter dated September 30, 1936.

[7] Kessner, 112-113.

[8] Heckscher, 15.

[9] Kessner, 79.

[10] Kessner, 114.

[11] Mayor Fiorello H. La Guardia Subject files, Box 95.

[12] Heckscher, 69.

[13] https://airandspace.si.edu/collection-objects/booklet-quiet-birdmen/nasm_A19890646000