Howard Hughes’ XF-11: The Deadly High-Speed Plane That Almost Killed Him

In the annals of aviation history, some aircraft stand out for their innovation, speed, or combat prowess. Others, however, are remembered for something far more personal: sheer danger. For me, the story of Howard Hughes’ XF-11 is one of those cases — a tale of ambition, recklessness, and a near-death experience that almost ended one of the most legendary figures in aviation forever.

I’ve always had a fascination with World War II aircraft. My personal favorite has always been the P-38 Lightning — that twin-boom marvel that danced through the skies with deadly grace. But when I discovered that Howard Hughes, the eccentric billionaire aviator, had attempted to design a high-speed, overpowered reconnaissance plane that looked eerily similar to a P-38 yet promised far greater speed, I knew I had to dig deeper. This wasn’t just an aircraft story — this was a tale of human obsession, technological ambition, and near-tragic catastrophe.

The story begins in the thick of World War II, a time when virtually every airplane manufacturer in the United States — and some that probably should have stayed out of the business — were trying to grab a piece of Uncle Sam’s money. Orders for bombers, fighters, and reconnaissance planes were plentiful, and innovation was king. Hughes, never one to shy away from ambition, decided he wanted in on the game.

His target? A high-speed reconnaissance aircraft that could outperform even the legendary P-51 Mustang. The original design, known as the D2, was intended to be a marvel of speed and engineering, constructed mostly from wood using a process called Duramold. Layers of resin-impregnated wood were molded under heat and pressure to form a lightweight but strong fuselage. The Army Air Force, however, showed little interest — wood just didn’t inspire confidence when it came to a plane expected to operate at extreme speeds.

Hughes, undeterred, redesigned the plane into what became the D5. This new version was mostly metal, satisfying military requirements, while retaining some Duramold components. Size-wise, the D5 was massive — a behemoth by fighter standards. With a wingspan of 92 feet and a length of 58 feet, it was only slightly smaller than a B-17 bomber, though far lighter. It was equipped with two Pratt & Whitney R-4360 radial engines, each producing a staggering 3,000 horsepower, promising speeds of 450 to 488 miles per hour. For perspective, that’s faster than most fighters of the time — a true missile on wings.

The D5 was initially pitched as a multi-role aircraft, capable of reconnaissance, photo mapping, and even carrying up to 4,000 pounds of bombs internally if required. But its true niche became clear: high-speed photographic reconnaissance. It was the perfect candidate for flying over enemy territory, snapping vital intelligence photos, and outrunning enemy interceptors.

Hughes’ personal touch came into play when Colonel Elliott Roosevelt, son of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, visited Los Angeles to survey potential reconnaissance aircraft. Hughes, ever the showman, invited him to his facility. Although Roosevelt was only shown the existing D2 model — the D5 was incomplete — he left impressed. Soon after, General Henry “Hap” Arnold, pressured by the White House, ordered the D5 into production. Despite internal objections from his staff, Arnold authorized 100 aircraft on October 6, 1943. The plane was officially renamed the XF-11, marking its transition from prototype to military project.

In terms of layout, the XF-11 bore a striking resemblance to the P-38 Lightning. Twin booms, a central fuselage, and a distinctive twin-tail configuration gave it that familiar look. But instead of the P-38’s nose-mounted guns, the XF-11’s nose was packed with cameras for high-altitude reconnaissance. The cockpit was pressurized, allowing the pilot to maintain a cabin altitude of 10,500 feet even while cruising at 33,500 feet — a technical marvel for its time. Accessing the cockpit required an extendable ladder, and the pilot’s seat was intentionally offset to the left, making room for a navigator/photographer who would crawl forward to operate the equipment in the cramped nose cone.

The XF-11 was packed with innovation. Nearly the full span of its wings featured flaps, and it relied on spoilers for roll control rather than conventional ailerons. It could carry massive fuel loads — up to 700 gallons in wing-mounted drop tanks, with additional 600-gallon tip tanks proposed. Despite this, the XF-11 had a phenomenal range of 5,000 miles, making it one of the longest-endurance aircraft of the era.

The engines were monstrous. The twin R-4360 radials were 28-cylinder beasts, each producing 3,000 horsepower. Twin General Electric BH1 turbochargers added to the complexity — one could even be shut down during cruise to optimize performance. The landing gear retracted into the tail booms, which also housed camera equipment, and each tail fin stretched nearly 12 feet into the sky. At maximum weight, the XF-11 tipped the scales at over 58,000 pounds — lighter than a B-17, but still enormous for a reconnaissance aircraft.

Everything seemed poised for success — until Howard Hughes himself took the controls. Hughes was famously hands-on with his designs and insisted on piloting the prototypes personally. This is where ambition became recklessness. For the first prototype’s flight in April 1946, Hughes ignored safety protocols. The aircraft had a known propeller seal leak and radio failure, but Hughes ignored instructions to keep the first flight brief and to keep the landing gear extended. He loaded the plane with twice the recommended fuel, bypassed briefings from his engineers, and took off in a plane that had never flown before.

The result was catastrophic. Shortly after takeoff, Hughes encountered problems retracting the landing gear, leading him to troubleshoot mid-air. The propeller seal leak soon caused oil loss, forcing the propeller blades into a flat configuration. The drag was immense, and Hughes struggled to maintain control, barely keeping the plane in the air. He attempted a glide to a nearby golf course — an already dangerous maneuver — but the drag caused him to overshoot. The XF-11 crashed into four houses, breaking apart and catching fire.

Amazingly, Hughes survived. He pulled himself from the wreckage, but the injuries were severe: 11 broken ribs, a punctured lung, a displaced heart, and severe burns. Remarkably, he survived, though he would struggle with codeine addiction for the rest of his life due to the pain. The XF-11’s first prototype was destroyed, but Hughes’ obsession with the project was undeterred.

The second prototype received safer four-bladed Curtis Electric propellers, and Hughes again insisted on piloting. He even offered a $5 million bond to the Army Air Force as a guarantee should he crash. On April 4, 1947, Hughes successfully flew the second XF-11. The aircraft performed well, demonstrating exceptional flying characteristics and incredible speed. However, practical issues remained: reliability was poor, and in-flight access to the cameras frustrated navigators.

Despite the plane’s potential, history would not favor the XF-11. By the late 1940s, many B-29 and B-50 bombers had already been converted for reconnaissance roles, offering cheaper and more practical alternatives. Budget constraints and shifting priorities rendered the XF-11 obsolete. The aircraft was eventually transferred to Shepherd Air Force Base in Wichita Falls in 1949, where it remained unflown until it was finally scrapped.

The story of the XF-11 is not just about engineering and innovation — it is a story of human ambition, hubris, and survival. Hughes’ obsession pushed the boundaries of technology, but it also nearly cost him his life. The XF-11 combined cutting-edge aerodynamics, monstrous engines, and advanced reconnaissance capabilities, but it was a plane that demanded respect — and far more caution than Hughes exercised.

In retrospect, the XF-11 could have been one of the most formidable reconnaissance aircraft ever built. Its speed, range, and payload capacity outclassed most contemporaries, and the ingenuity of its design — including pressurized cabins, extended-range fuel tanks, and innovative flight controls — was decades ahead of its time. But it also serves as a cautionary tale: no matter how brilliant the design, human error and overconfidence can turn technological marvels into deadly traps.

Howard Hughes’ life was defined by extremes: ambition, danger, innovation, and excess. The XF-11 was a perfect encapsulation of that life — brilliant on paper, deadly in practice, and almost fatal in execution. Today, aviation enthusiasts remember it as a testament to one man’s vision and the extraordinary risks he was willing to take. It’s a story that shocks, fascinates, and reminds us that the line between genius and recklessness is razor-thin.

In the end, the XF-11 never saw mass production, never engaged in wartime reconnaissance, and never fulfilled the potential Hughes envisioned. But it remains an enduring symbol of human daring, technological ambition, and the perilous edge where brilliance meets danger. For those who study aviation history, the XF-11 is a story that never fails to capture attention — not just for its technical achievements, but for the near-death experiences that surrounded it.

Howard Hughes survived the crash, but the XF-11’s legacy is a haunting reminder that even the most innovative machines can become instruments of catastrophe in the wrong hands. It’s a story of speed, power, and ambition — and of how one man’s desire to fly faster, higher, and further almost killed him in spectacular fashion.